Refugees

by Catherine Stine

  XOX Johar

  Sander borrowed a car and drove Susie and Dawn to the airport. He helped them haul bags and escorted them to security. He pecked Dawn on the cheek, and kissed Susie too. Sander had probably kissed every girl in Manhattan on the cheek. That's how it felt to Dawn, at least. But hey, Sander had taught her how to stand up and jam. More than anything, he was the guy to call when it came time for landing professional gigs. They sat and gulped caffeine and talked about the madness of the last few months. Then, while Susie and Sander scurried off for newspapers, Dawn wrote Jude a postcard.

  Dear Jude,

  Truth is surely stranger than fiction. My life is living proof. I will be returning home with Louise after a little side trip to Afghanistan. Hee hee! Details to follow. Manhattan says hi. Can't wait to see you in the Haight.

  Love and spacey jigs, Dawn

  Dawn gazed at the people streaming by. Probably many were New Yorkers braving flights for the first time since 9/11. So much had changed in Manhattan. Ground zero's fire was finally extinguished. The mountains of metal debris had finally been cleared, transported on barges to other resting places. An observation deck had been built so that people could pay their respects. Weeks of anthrax scares seemed to have passed but some rescue workers had fallen ill with lung ailments from working in the toxic air.

  Many downtown businesses had gone bankrupt, and landlords were still spending a fortune to repair damaged buildings, yet most people had settled into holiday shopping. Plans for a memorial were batted about. Tourists ventured warily back.

  Dawn's thoughts were pleasantly interrupted when Sander and Susie returned with armfuls of snacks, magazines, and newspapers.

  It was hard to leave Sander as she and Susie rode down the escalator. He'd taught her so much and protected her. Dawn looked back once, and he was waving, blond mane encircling his face.

  They were over the Atlantic, almost to England. It was night, and the sky outside the plane was black and impenetrable. Most of the passengers were out cold, their snores rumbling down the aisles. Only a few business types on laptops and a guy playing a video game were still awake with Dawn and Susie. Susie elbowed Dawn. She pulled out two gorgeous blue scarves from her oversized shoulder bag. “Pashmina wool,” she explained. “Normally they cost a fortune, but I got them as a present from someone in London. It's to show our respect in a Muslim country. Try one on.”

  “Thanks, Susie!” Dawn tried to arrange hers like a veil. It wasn't quite working.

  “Wind it like this.” Susie demonstrated. “This journalist for the London Times who's been to India and Iran and everyplace showed me how. So, what does he look like?” she added slyly.

  “Who?” Dawn asked.

  “Who? Who do you think?”

  “I don't have a photo of Johar,” Dawn replied, shifting for the umpteenth time in her cramped seat. They had been on this plane for an eternity, and her nerves jangled every time she pictured facing Johar and Louise in the flesh.

  “I can't believe you have no idea what he looks like,” Susie said. “What does he sound like? You can tell a lot from the voice.” Susie had already asked versions of this question a million times. Still, it was an endless source of entertainment for both of them.

  “Well,” Dawn mused, “it's soft, but not in a feminine way. It's a rich tenor, if you think of it in terms of where he'd be placed in a choir.” Dawn felt herself blush.

  “Ah, the sensitive type. He sounds adorable,” Susie gushed.

  “Susie! You're embarrassing me.” Dawn covered her head with the skimpy fleece blanket the flight attendant had handed out.

  Susie jiggled Dawn's arm. “So, what did you guys talk about most?” she asked, also for the umpteenth time.

  “Johar recites poetry,” Dawn remarked, peeking out from under the blanket. “He's turned me on to some incredible poems.” Dawn's cheeks were still hot.

  “You've got it bad,” Susie said.

  “He's a friend,” Dawn protested.

  “You've got it really bad,” Susie repeated, shaking her head.

  The flight attendant began to roll down the aisle with the food cart, and when Susie ducked out for a pit stop, Dawn's gaze fell on a father, a mother and their two sons, two rows up. She'd studied them whenever she could. She watched how the little boy clasped his mother's neck with his chubby arms. She saw him lean his mop of curls on his mother's shoulder. Dawn noticed the older boy gazing up at his father as his father explained a book they pored over together. The family leaned toward one another, as if gaining sustenance from the huddle. Dawn wanted that. She wanted that a lot.

  Susie hurried back just as the flight attendant came by with the food tray. He served rice and lamb kebabs. Dawn savored the spicy concoction. Johar had said this was what people ate in Afghanistan! Her back prickled with excitement. She could taste how close they were.

  home

  Peshawar, Pakistan,

  late December 2001

  Johar

  Johar bristled with anticipation as he stood by the arrival gate in Peshawar's airport. He hardly felt the jostling crowd or heard their loud chatter. Dr. Garland stood by his side; they both waited for the same girl. Johar wondered if this was against the laws of sharia. The sharia allowed human communication, spiritual love beyond desire. He'd gone over this problem of logic hundreds of times, each time piecing together a different justification. But he refused to feel shame. It's just dawn music. Under his breath, he composed poetry: “I am building a novel world in which to walk. This is no fantasy, but fact. My universe has many voices born from one cradle, one altar, and buried in one grave. The voices sing the music of all tribes. I welcome you to join me.”

  A steady stream of passengers flowed toward the gate.

  “People are coming out!” Bija squealed in Dari, jumping up and down.

  “This must be Dawn's flight!” Louise exclaimed.

  Johar's heart beat wildly. He searched the multinational crowd for a woman with hair the color of desert sand, pale skin, and pink cheeks.

  “I'm so nervous,” he heard Dr. Garland say, as if from across the room. “I wonder if she looks the same.”

  “Look! A tall white lady,” Bija remarked in Dari, pulling on Johar's arm. “Is that her?” The woman was tall, but the hair poking out of her scarf was brown.

  “It's not Dawn,” answered Johar. This woman did not match the photo.

  But wait, right behind that woman strode Dawn. Johar was sure of it! She was even more radiant in person— boyish, yet delicate. Strands of blond escaped her blue scarf, and she had the same brown-eyed gaze that had jumped from the photo, though in person it was livelier. Dawn wore the cowboy jeans and sneakers he'd seen in newspaper photos of westerners. The passengers advanced like a formation of boisterous revelers. She looked at him. He saw her blush.

  “Dawn, over here!” called Dr. Garland.

  Bija took one of Johar's hands and one of Louise's. She jumped up and down between them. Inside, Johar did the same. “Dawn! Dawn!” squealed Bija.

  “She's almost here,” Louise said to Bija. Bija nodded eagerly as the crowd fanned out, connected with friends, hugged lovers, hurried to the escalators, and departed in great clumps. Dawn was fifty paces away and getting closer. Johar rehearsed words in his mind. I am pleased to meet you. I have looked forward to this occasion. How was your flight? It sounded so stiff. He'd known this girl's essence—how could he stumble back to formalities after that? I have just a few seconds to compose myself, he thought. She will greet Dr. Garland first.

  Dawn

  Was that Louise past the door of the waiting area? Dawn hurried along the narrow hallway with Susie leading the way. “Oh, my God, there she is!” she exclaimed.

  “The one with the wire-rimmed glasses?” asked Susie. Dawn nodded. Susie took her friend's hand and squeezed it. “Don't worry. It's going to be great.”

  There was something so different about Louise. Was it that she had lost lots of weight, or that her gray head scar
f accentuated her pallid face? She did look run-down, but there was something else. She looked exuberant, and her military stance had yielded to a softer, less certain one. For the first time ever Dawn wanted to hug her. Louise's mouth opened slightly, while her brows creased, as if she were trying to puzzle something out. Dawn recalled seeing that look the first day on Santa Marisa, when they had been washing dishes in the kitchen. They'd both tried so hard that day.

  Now, as Louise drew closer, that memory faded and Dawn's old apprehension clenched her throat. “Susie, I'm panicking. Hold my hand?”

  “Sure, honey.” Susie took it and kept it gently in hers.

  The guy next to Louise wore loose pants, a cobalt shirt, and a black vest, which accentuated his raven hair. A tiny girl in a long yellow dress peeked out from behind him. It must be Johar and his little cousin! To utter the first hello would be indescribably sweet. And Dawn had Bija's doll tucked in her pocket. But she needed Louise first.

  At twenty steps away Dawn sensed Louise's slight hesitation. At ten steps Dawn witnessed the whites of her owlish eyes. She's terrified too, Dawn realized. At four steps away, Dawn ran into the crush of her arms. “I'm so glad to see you!” Louise's plain cotton dress smelled of campfires and sweat.

  “Me too.” Louise's voice was muffled and teary.

  Holding and being held, pressing their hearts close, felt to Dawn like drinking pure, cool water. And she had been so thirsty.

  “My girl,” Louise whispered. “My Dawn.” They swayed as they hugged.

  “You look different.” Louise held Dawn at arm's length. “Grown-up.”

  Dawn laughed and smoothed down her head scarf. “I took an intensive course in that this fall.” She introduced Susie. “Here's the woman who's been helping you with all the arrangements. She's my best friend in New York.” Susie flashed her elfin smile.

  Louise eyed Susie's new paisley pants suit and pashmina head scarf. “Pleased to meet you, Susie. You're right in fashion.”

  “Thanks. I try.” Susie's manicured hand shook Louise's square one. “Your daughter's an awesome flutist and a very cool lady,” Susie said. “And thanks for letting her come on this assignment. I can't wait to interview you and your staff.”

  “Well, we're delighted,” Louise began, and glanced hesitantly at Dawn with that quizzical look again, almost asking permission. Dawn realized that she had liked that gaze that first night in the kitchen but had been too wary to understand it. She'd convinced herself it was disdain. She saw now that all of Louise's awkwardness, her fumbling talk, and confusing expressions were signs not of a cold heart but of a warm one.

  Susie broke the silence. “Excuse me, Dr. Garland.” She leaned toward Dawn and whispered, “Go. I'll keep your mother company.”

  Dawn murmured, “Thanks.” She saw that Johar had stepped back to make way for her reunion. Bija, a tadpole of a girl, clung to Johar's hand. He was mysterious in his shalwar kameez, like some Afghan rock star—unclassifiable and so handsome. Johar seemed radically different from other guys she knew. He was practically a stranger, yet she felt closer to him than anyone else. Johar was her poet. He would soon walk with her. They would talk. He would show her around Afghanistan. It mattered hugely how he saw her, and yet it didn't matter at all, because they already had something real. A connection. Johar's gaze darted from Dawn's shoes to Louise's to Bija's. Dawn realized, He's nervous too.

  Johar

  Dawn was coming his way. He lowered his gaze to the carpet and watched her sneakers move toward him. Bija, as if sensing Johar's alarm, scurried behind him and hid herself in the folds of his tunic. Words left him as Dawn drew close. His face grew hot. I must relax, he advised himself. He peeked and realized that this was most decidedly not dawnmusic@usa.com. This was the woman Dawn. His friend; his musician. Her smile dazzled him, and there was a moment before he found words. “Hello,” he said finally. “I am Johar.”

  Dawn

  Dawn looked up, then down. Johar's was a sinewy, lofty strength, giving him an aristocratic demeanor. Over his black curls he wore a skullcap decorated with sunbeams. He wore a woolen vest over his garments, and sandals on his feet.

  “Hi. I brought you some presents.” She held out the brimming satchel.

  “For me?” asked Johar.

  “Music for your new school. It's the first music book I played from at ground zero.” She regarded his steady hands with their crescent nails, the way his cheekbones sloped out under his almond-shaped eyes as he flipped through the books.

  “Music, Jor!” Bija rolled the English word on her tongue as she stood on her toes to get a look.

  “What honor.” Johar seemed confused as he examined the musical notes.

  “It's American notation. Maybe I can transpose it.”

  “Transpose? Ah, like to translate, but music. Of course.” Johar reached into a sheepskin pack. “I have present for you also.” He held out a woolen cap.

  “Thanks.” Dawn stretched it out. “The moonbeams are fantastic.”

  He smiled back shyly.

  “And who do we have here?” asked Dawn. “Is this the awesome Bija?”

  “I, Bija!” she chirped. Her wide face dimpled, and one dark ringlet fell from her scarf. She hopped over to Dawn like a rabbit.

  “I'm happy to meet you.” Dawn drew out the English words. “If you want to, you can call me Aunt Dawn. Would you like a gift too?”

  “Gift,” Johar repeated in Dari. Bija nodded. She took two more bunny hops and leaned in eagerly. Dawn reached in her pocket and pulled out the dolly.

  “Jor, gift! Aunt Dawn!” Bija said in halting English. She took it and lifted the doll's coat to examine its skirt, then removed the plastic shoes and put them back on, prattling in Dari all the while.

  “She likes it,” explained Johar. “She says, ‘Funny shoes.' ” They both laughed.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” Dawn pulled out a thick paperback. “I'm not much with poems, except for songs, but I remembered one poetry book from lit class that blew me away.” She handed the book to Johar. On the cover, an old man with a white beard and brimmed hat leaned on his cane. “Hope you don't mind that I marked my favorite passages.”

  Johar read, “Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass.” He flipped open to the place Dawn had marked with pencil, and read slowly:

  I celebrate myself,

  And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom that belongs to me as good belongs to you.

  You shall no longer take things second or third hand,

  You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.

  It is not the violins and the cornets,

  Not the men's chorus nor those of the women's chorus, It is nearer and farther than they.

  The old forever new things…

  The closest and simplest things—this moment with you.

  Johar's hand came away from the book, gesturing with his upturned palm. “Remember when you invited me to be part of your family?”

  “I remember.”

  “I would like that. And you are part of mine. In spirit, yes?”

  “Yes.” She smiled. There was something clean and warm in the way he said things. There was no guessing.

  “Coming?” called Louise.

  Johar, Bija, Dawn, Louise, and Susie zigzagged through the airport lobby and out its wide exit door. “We've got the coolest extended family in Peshawar,” said Dawn.

  “In Afghanistan,” said Johar.

  “In Asia,” said Louise.

  “In the East,” said Susie, “and all the merrier when the crew arrives in a couple hours.”

  “We play!” squeaked Bija.

  Dawn slipped her hand into the crook of Louise's arm. “Want to go for some chai, Mom?”

  “Yes, love.” Louise pressed Dawn's arm with her own, and her gray scarf rustled lightly as she nodded.

  They stepped into the Peshawar streets—streets of mosques and beggars, of spice bazaars and a concerto of conversation.

  GLOSSARY


  of Afghan-Persian Words and Phrases

  AAB, water

  ALLAHU AKBAR, Allah is the greatest

  AFGHANI, Afghan money

  ALLIANCE, United National and Islamic Front for the Salvation of Afghanistan, or UNIFSA, an anti-Taliban resistance movement formerly headed by Ahmad Shah Massoud, comprised mostly of Tajiks, but also Uzbeks and others; Americans mistakenly refer to this group as the Northern Alliance

  AMNIYAT NIST, it's not safe

  ASALAAM ALAIKUM, peace on you

  ALAIKUM ASALAAM, and on you, peace

  CALIPH, a spiritual leader

  CHAIKHANA, teahouse

  CHAI, tea

  DAQIQI OF BALKH, well-known poet of the tenth century

  DARI, Afghan dialect of Persian, one of the two main languages of

  Afghanistan(AHMAD SHAH) DURRANI, Founder of Afghan empire who ruled from 1747 to 1773; was also a poet

  FIRDAUSI, one of the writers of the epic poem Shah-namah,A.D.974

  FARRUKHI, poet and lute player in the court of Mahmud of Ghazni, A.D. 1000

  GABLI PILAU, meat in rice mounds, often cooked with raisins, almonds, pistachios, and carrots

  GHADIS, a horse-drawn cart

  HAZARA, the third largest ethnic group, mostly in the central area of Bamian, persecuted for their Shiite way of worship, may be related to the Mongols

  HIJAB, a woman's head covering

  HIZBI ISLAMI AND JAMIATI ISLAMI, multiclan local political factions particularly active after the Soviet withdrawal

  IMAM, religious leader

  INGLEESI, English

  INSHALLAH, God willing

  JAZAKULLAH, may Allah reward you, thank you

  JIHAD, Holy war; literally means “struggle”

  KAFIR, unbeliever

  KAMEEZ, loose-fitting overshirt

  KESHMESH, mixture of nuts and raisins

  KHARAB, ruined

  KHUB AST, literally means “it's fine,” but said cynically when things are going badly