The Taliban were definitely in cahoots with Al Qaeda! And they had assassinated the great Alliance general Massoud. Johar felt cold. His grip on the samovar tightened. If only Massoud were alive, Johar would not be fleeing. If only Massoud's Alliance had overrun the Taliban, Daq would not have been captured.
“But why?” persisted Aman. “Why did Al Qaeda want to kill Americans who were not even soldiers?”
“Is your mind ill, sahib?” Graybeard muttered disapprovingly. “It is clearly in disrepair tonight.”
“Why does a mouse like to see a dead vulture?” asked Barrel Chest. “Qaeda's jihad is for interference in our affairs, for Americans' obsession in controlling the oilfields in Muslim lands, for the humiliation westerners have brought on us.”
Barrel Chest went on. “They install their puppet leaders in Islamic lands, dictators who oppress the people. Remember the shah of Iran?” A murmur went up. “And Hussein—there was a time when they were shaking his hand in order to quell the Iranian uprisings. Later, when he didn't follow their every order they decided he was the enemy. They switch directions as quickly as the wind.” They're not the only ones, thought Johar, remembering the local commanders of the mujahidin.
The man with the dark brows said, “America has no understanding of Islam. They see our men as dogs.” The men buzzed in agreement.
Johar busied himself clearing cups so that they would not notice his disgust. Maryam had insisted that Johar think as an individual. The American government might be corrupt, but to blame all of its citizens—that was just too easy. No government was innocent. Afghan commanders took bribes and sold opium poppies on the black market. These Taliban weren't dogs, but they passed judgment in the lazy rule of the pack.
“And what about our Muslim brothers in Palestine?” roared Barrel Chest. “Little boys throwing rocks at metal tanks are shot and killed. It's not a fair fight when only one side has the tanks.” The men nodded together, their black turbans rising and falling.
Johar saw Aman's mouth curve down in a frown and open, ready to argue, but then he fell silent. Even in his disgust, Johar considered their points. There were injustices. And it was true the West was at odds with Islam. Aunt Maryam had spoken of how westerners thought Muslims were religious fanatics, simple carpet sellers, or bloodthirsty banshees—
But violence seemed only to lead to more violence. What had been accomplished by the murder of his father and mother? Johar was glad he had never joined an army, even General Massoud's. Johar had to speak. “Can't you all see? Killing hundreds of westerners will only strengthen their prejudice against Islam.” Aman's mouth dropped open, then curled into a faint smile, but the clamor from the Taliban was furious. The dirty cups trembled in Johar's hand.
Barrel Chest turned to Aman. “Teach your impudent servant a lesson!”
“I'd beat him if I were you.” Graybeard paused to scowl at Johar before hobbling out the door.
No matter that the suicide pilots were Arab, not Afghan—westerners would send their bombs here to kill. Daq might be on the front lines by now. Johar pictured Daq fighting in a stranger's army and was filled with despair. His brother's life could end in a hail of explosives as easily as a candle extinguished by a sigh.
Later that night, when Aman gave Johar gifts of kohl to line his eyes and bright polish for his nails, Johar felt only a nostalgic affection for him. He had already decided to leave Kabul. “Aman, you must flee,” he urged. “Kabul will not be spared!”
“It is my home, dear Johar. I cannot leave it.”
Johar dared not tell Aman his plans.
The moment his friend's breathing was even in the next room, Johar scooped up Bija and crept out. He apologized silently for stealing the donkey and a satchel of provisions. Bless my friend, he prayed. Keep him safe.
Johar led their beast toward the outskirts of Aman's neighborhood. He looked up at the night sky and imagined the ominous outlines of American warplanes against the moon. How soon would this sky glow from the butchery of bombs? Clutching Bija, he rode into darkness.
squat
New York,
September 12, 2001
Up on the balcony of St. Peter's, Dawn set up the sat phone and dialed.
She'd barely uttered hello when Jude burst out with questions. “Where were you? What happened? Why didn't you come back last night?”
“I tried to call, but you were out.”
“Oh, yeah? Did you leave a message?”
“Jude, if you really want to know, something drew me outside. I just couldn't sit around with everything going on, and the longer I stayed out, the more I got swept into it. The memorial at Union Square was incredible.”
“That's nice.” Jude's tone was bitter. “Sander was asking about you, and I couldn't even tell him anything. We both went out searching for you.”
“I'm sorry. Are you okay?”
“I guess. Pax must have taken my parents' call while Sander and I went out. Edith was crying and asking if Pax knew where I was. He was beyond furious for having to lie for me again. So I had to call them. I tried the number ten times before it went through.”
“You spoke to them?” Dawn's heart leaped to her throat.
“Not directly. I left them a message.”
“Have they called back?” Dawn already felt the terror of being alone.
“No. I used Sander's friend's cell phone so they couldn't track me down. I told them I was fine, that I was somewhere in Michigan, and that I needed my space. I said I'd be back soon.” Jude's voice wavered as if he were on the verge of tears. “I don't know how much longer I can string them along, Dawn.”
“I know,” Dawn said softly. “But…Michigan?”
Jude chuckled sourly. “That's where my drama teacher from camp lives.” He paused. “I've been worried about you. Where are you?”
“I'm staying at St. Peter's Church. Last night I had to sneak into the area south of Canal Street, but I peeked out this morning and they're building a barrier just beyond the church. It's as close as I could get.”
“What? What are you thinking? That's crazy. Come back to the apartment.”
“Come down and stay at the church with me, Jude.”
His tone sharpened. “I'm just not interested in studying for the ministry.”
“You don't have to be so flip.”
“Well, don't be such a martyr.”
“I'll call you later.” Dawn hung up.
Jude was unpredictable. If he freaked and spoke to Edith, their whole plan would be ruined. Even if he didn't spill the beans, Pax would. No way she was going back to Victor. She had to find somewhere else to stay. She stepped outside the church, and acrid smoke caught in her chest. In the gutter she saw evidence of lives—scorched resum's, a business card and a flattened keychain. The area was crawling with National Guard soldiers, cops, and workers erecting a plywood fence just past St. Peter's. A guard came over and suggested she move on. Before she turned to go, she took a long look over the fence at the metal pile and recalled the wonder of her first night in New York—the magical towers, their clean marble concourse. Now, metal poles and tree-sized columns veered at lunatic angles, some eight stories high. A large federal building stood, but its windows had exploded out of their blackened frames. So this is what war looks like.
Dawn wandered uptown to Union Square. All the fences were plastered with posters, and so many candles had been lit on the courtyard that they formed a waxen sea. Scrolls of brown paper were rolled out with messages written in dozens of languages. A peace sign was painted on the left flank of George Washington's metal horse. On the grass, bouquets of lilies dedicated to a fire brigade were arranged in a coffin shape. A horde of difficult emotions— pity, loneliness, and grief—pressed up against Dawn's throat. She had to play to release them. Dawn crept behind a hedge, took out her flute, gathered her nerve, and trilled out the first pure notes of a serenade while folks walked back and forth in front of the hedge.
A guy about her age came toward
her and sat on the grass. He took off his backpack and set it beside him. “That's pretty music,” he said.
“Thanks.” Dawn replied. She continued to play, gazing straight ahead.
“It's, like, haunting,” said the kid. “What is it?”
Dawn felt the familiar clenching of muscles. “It's Dvok's serenade for flute.” She went on playing, waiting for the guy to get impatient and move on. When the song ended and he didn't leave, Dawn felt panicky. What now? she wondered, putting her flute in her lap. She could try to talk to him, but she couldn't think of the right question—any question. Why was it always so hard with anyone but Jude?
The kid beat her to it. “Where are you staying?”
Do I look that down and out? she wondered. Without meeting his eyes, she murmured, “Nowhere, really. I'm a refugee, I guess.”
He told her about C Squat, an abandoned tenement on Avenue C where lots of runaways holed up. C Squat seemed like a good solution. If she and Jude stayed there, no one could track them down. They wouldn't have to deal with Pax, and Jude wouldn't be as tempted to run back to his mother. Dawn thanked the kid. Don't be so uptight, she scolded herself as she walked to the squat. Some people actually want to help you.
A Goth guy draped in a black shawl sort of ran C Squat. He said, “You can stay in my friend's room, but only until he gets back from Santa Fe.” The room stank of mildewed mattress, and she had to clasp back the black polyester curtains with her hair scrunchies so a slice of sun could peek through. But after a vigorous sweep and the old boot-stomp on no less than five monstrous roaches, she settled in.
Two days later it seemed the right time to call Jude and tell him the good news. He answered on the third ring. Dawn didn't go into detail or delve into the scary bits—her sweaty insomnia, how each ambulance siren convinced her the city was under new attack, how alone she felt. “C Squat is good,” she said. “Come stay there with me. There are lots of cool kids, and your parents won't find you.”
“I don't know,” he said. “Is there hot running water and a shower?”
“Communal bathrooms,” Dawn answered. She kept her mouth shut about the black polyester curtains, the mildewed mattress, the bare lightbulbs, and the roaches.
Jude's tone was cool. “Honey, I need a mirror and a private john.”
“Come on, Jude. It's fun to rough it. Remember our ride east?” Dawn hummed some lines from “Rock Candy Mountain.”
“Let's face it, that was hell on wheels, and the squat sounds like grunge city. If I were you, I'd lose the hobo fantasy and come back. I miss the way you entertain me.”
Dawn's giddiness fizzled to flat. Jude had seemed less nice ever since they'd left San Francisco, but maybe she was being too sensitive. “Come for a visit, then.” Maybe if Jude saw it, he'd change his mind.
“Okay, just for a visit,” he promised.
Dawn folded up the sat phone. She got out her flute, propped her music on the dusty sill, and began the mournful Grieg. Her music poured up the rickety staircase, out onto the tar roof, and through the unusually somber streets of her new neighborhood.
camp suryast
Outskirts of Peshawar, Pakistan,
early October 2001
Far past Kabul, Johar and Bija had seen the smoke from distant rocket fire in the city, and Johar could sense the sickening onslaught of war. After 430 kilometers and what seemed like months (but was closer to three weeks), Johar stood, heavy with exhaustion yet relieved, on Camp Suryast's northern ridge. He surveyed the mirage of tents undulating in the afternoon heat. It was a canvas city pitched unsteadily on poles and fringed by hastily dug mud caves with tarpaulin roofs baked to cracking. The camp stretched into the horizon.
Riding closer on Aman's donkey, Johar and Bija saw the refugees. Wizened men stared vacantly, children bit nubs of fingernails, babies' sticklike limbs splayed from their mother's arms, and boys leaped over a ditch that reeked of human waste. Aunt Maryam's friend had come back from this place? It seemed a spot where all roads ended. As Johar continued to look, the dread that he'd felt since he left Kabul agitated to toxic levels, and he fought the urge to scream. He clenched his fists around the reins and began riding toward a wooden building that seemed like an office.
It was Suryast's main office. Johar dismounted, lifted Bija up and onto the ground, and tied the donkey to a post. After an eternity in line, a Pakistani aid worker tipped his head in greeting. “Your business, boy?”
“My name is Johar. My cousin here is Bija. We fled the Taliban and the rumor of war. We ask for shelter here in Suryast.”
“Bad bombs are coming,” Bija whispered, her brown eyes fearful.
“Vikhrim my name,” announced the worker. “Many flee and many come here. Over three thousand peoples at Suryast. No tent available.”
“What can we do, then?” Johar asked, his voice rising. With no tent, Johar and Bija would have to search for another camp.
“Until application will be approved and more tents, you share tent with other family,” Vikhrim answered in clumsy Dari.
At least this man was trying to speak their language. Most Pakistanis spoke Urdu. “Many thanks,” Johar replied as he studied Vikhrim's Western pants and odd felt hat that rounded over one side of his head. Johar followed Vikhrim wordlessly, Bija's hand in his, as Vikhrim pushed his way through the throngs. Even a corner in a tent would be merciful splendor.
Dust blew into Bija's eyes. She began to wail as she rubbed them, which prompted a coughing fit. Her coughs turned to hacking, then retching sounds. Johar steadied Bija's shoulders as she vomited reddish phlegm onto the sand. Her illness had returned with even greater force after leaving Kabul.
“Is there a doctor here?” Johar asked anxiously. “I had hoped my cousin was better, but she is worse than ever.”
“Many sick here. There is one medical compound.” Vikhrim pointed to the outskirts of the tent city. “But lines stretch around the camp. See the red mark on the white wooden building past the tents?”
“I see.” Johar nodded as he kicked sand over Bija's blood-flecked mess. She lifted her palms, begging Johar to pick her up. He swept her up and under his arm.
“Many have disease.” Vikhrim waved toward the cacophony of voices and bodies, the circle of waifs shadowing them. “Ration tickets scarce. Little food. Aid workers promised wheat to Suryast, but delivery delayed by American bombs. First they bomb and then bring food. Can you imagine?” Vikhrim raised his hands in exasperation.
I can, thought Johar, pained at the memory of the droning jets that had appeared overhead some time after they'd left Kabul. Later the yellow packages had fallen from the sky and onto the road like golden kites. Johar had first suspected they were land mines; the Russians had dropped tiny mines years back. He'd heard stories of children who had picked them up, thinking that they were toys. But these yellow packages had English writing—Humanitarian Daily Ration—and pictures of people eating. Food! Johar had been hesitant, but hunger overcame fear when he'd poked a package with a stick and it hadn't exploded. He and Bija had ripped the plastic and gobbled up a sticky mess of peanut-flavored glop with raisins. What odd food the Americans ate. They managed to pick up one other before the rest were grabbed.
“Tent number one-oh-two,” Vikhrim announced as they reached a tent larger than most. Its number was printed in faded ink on the canvas flap. “Wait here.” He lifted the flap and stepped inside. While Johar helped Bija wipe her nose and drink water from their flask he overheard what sounded like a heated argument from inside the tent.
They sat on a nearby ridge and waited for Vikhrim to emerge. Curious bands of children stared from a distance. Johar stroked Bija's feverish head and thought of Aunt Maryam. If she was lucky, the Taliban would have freed her from prison. If she wasn't lucky…Johar didn't dare imagine that now. And Daq, did he fight with the Taliban? Was he injured, or worse? If by some miracle Daq had escaped, Johar prayed he would remember the emergency family plan to meet at Suryast. Johar must write letters as soon
as he managed to procure paper. The hardest part of having the family split was the not knowing. Would Johar never know? The pieces might be thrown so far that their perfect puzzle curves would never again fit together as one.
Vikhrim's sun-baked face finally poked through the tent flaps, and he motioned for them to join him.
Inside the tent, an aged man with a snowy beard sat in a corner clacking prayer beads through his fingers. “Johar, meet Wahir,” Vikhrim said. Johar said hello, and the old man grunted. Two boys crouched in front of Wahir by the cooking fire, warming a pot of rice. One was a boy of six or so, and next to him a boy about Johar's age.
Vikhrim pointed to the large boy. “Johar, this is Romel.” Romel continued to stoke the dung coals without looking up. His scowl seemed to say Go back to where you came from.
“And this is Romel's small brother, Zabit.” Zabit's grin was guarded as he poked a stubby finger over gums where two front teeth had been.
“I am grateful to you for allowing us to stay,” Johar murmured.
“It wasn't our choice,” Romel blurted. “You'll have to get your own food. We've not enough food to feed our own.”
“You must apply for ration booklet.” Vikhrim explained. He adjusted his slanted hat and skittered from the tent.
Johar and Bija faced the old man and his sons. “What did Vikhrim mean by the ration booklet?” Johar asked the old man, Wahir.
Wahir eyeballed Johar as if he were a fool. “No wheat without ration tickets. Apply at the compound for tickets. It takes many days.”
“But what will my cousin and I eat until then?” Johar asked, alarmed.
“Drink from your tears and eat your despair,” laughed Wahir bitterly. Romel chuckled along with him.
“I have some nuts.” Zabit removed the fingers from his mouth and shoved them in his pocket, producing two walnuts. “But I need them.”
“Share,” Bija cried sharply. The last of their keshmesh had been eaten a day ago, and Johar knew she was famished. Bija approached Zabit, who popped the walnuts back into his pocket. She started to howl, which sent her into another coughing fit.
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