by Howard Faber
***
Muhshed was where Ali was going. His father gave him the address of one of his friends there. After a night in a teahouse, Ali found a truck heading there. He was getting used to riding on the back of trucks. It almost seemed like part of his daily routine. The truck arrived in the afternoon, and Ali climbed down to see a large city, not as big as Kabul, but still a true city.
He started out asking people how to find the home of his father’s friend. As he got near the address, he found several Afghans living there. It was common for Afghans to live close together, sort of making a small community. One of the Afghans he met knew his father’s friend, whose name was Akbar. He was originally from Sharidure and was his father’s boyhood friend. Akbar came to the door to answer the knock, and Ali introduced himself. “I am Hassan’s son, Ali. I have come by truck from Sharidure, and my father gave me your address.”
“Hello, Ali. You are most welcome in my home. Your father and I were good friends in Sharidure. Please, come in.”
Ali was greatly relieved, both to actually find Akbar and to have him be so welcoming. “Thank you very much. I am sorry to be trouble for you.”
“You must stay with me and my family. Let’s have some bread and tea. We will have a real meal later. Tell me about your father and about you and about Sharidure.” Akbar was guiding Ali into another room where there were other people. Ali assumed they were Akbar’s family. “Ali, this is my wife, Anisa, my son, Mohammad, and my daughter, Sara.” Ali bowed to each and shook hands with Mohammad. “Ali is the son of Hassan, my good friend from Sharidure. He has come to stay with us. He can tell us about Sharidure. Ali, we have had some news, but not for a while. Are there Russians in Sharidure?”
As tea and bread were served, Ali and Akbar’s family sat on the floor around the tablecloth and talked about Sharidure. Ali told them everything except about his hitting the principal’s teapot with a stone and about the bridge and the Russian soldiers. They all assumed he had left Sharidure because of the suspicions about him teaching in his home. They had many questions and listened and talked far into the night. Later, Ali fell asleep for the first time in several nights and felt safe and warm.
In the morning, Akbar took Ali along with him to his job. He sold household items in a small shop. During the day, Akbar introduced Ali to several of his friends, also Hazzara, not from Sharidure but from that province. All of them eagerly asked about the situation in Afghanistan. Many of them had relatives still in the towns they left behind, and Ali tried to answer their questions. They asked him why he had come. He told them about the school in his home and how the principal had come to search it. They nodded their heads and agreed he had to leave his home. When they asked him what he was going to do about a job, he mentioned that his father was a carpenter, and he learned from his father how to be one, too. He didn’t tell them that he really hoped to be a pilot. One of the men, Sayeed, had a carpentry shop and offered him a job there. “Thank you very much. I will work very hard. I could start tomorrow.”
“Akbar knows where my shop is. I am glad to have you join me. Tomorrow is a good day to start, so I will see you at my shop. Try to come at seven.” Sayeed was smiling at Ali and glad to help. Someone had given him a similar chance when he first came to Muhshed.
***
The hardest thing for Ali was not seeing his family. He didn’t know if they were even safe. He was afraid of sending a letter because someone in Sharidure might tell where he was, so he waited and hoped for some news.
Life in Muhshed was not so bad. He gradually learned the differences in the way Farsi was spoken in Iran. Akbar took him to the holy mosque. He heard about it but never thought he might see it. It was huge and beautiful. Having electricity twenty-four hours a day was a new and happy experience, and he liked the music and movies. He soon could afford to buy a bicycle, so he could get all around Muhshed. Akbar’s family made him feel welcome. Life in Muhshed was pretty good.
After two years in Muhshed, Anisa, Akbar’s wife mentioned to Ali that Sayeed had a pretty daughter. “She is beautiful like the moon and can cook and sew. She is educated and has a job as a teacher at one of the local schools. Her mother and I wondered if you would like to meet her.”
At first, Ali just sat without speaking. He was really happy to have friends help him meet someone. He wondered how he could ever meet a girl, since his family was so far away. Usually, the mothers arranged marriages for their children, so he was not sure how he could ever meet someone. He hoped these families kept the custom of refusing the first offer, and he hoped she would ask a second time. He had been taught that you should say “no” to the first request, “yes” to the second request if you wanted to answer affirmatively, and usually a third request would come only if they were insistent. To refuse a third request is always rude, but possible. It might be necessary to say, “No thank you, but I appreciate your asking.”
To Ali’s relief, Akbar’s wife asked a second time. “She is a very pleasant and kind young woman. Everyone thinks she is wonderful. Would you like me to talk to her mother about meeting her?”
Again, Ali thought before speaking. He wondered if the customs here were the same as in Sharidure. He thought it might be more modern here, and he didn’t want to look stupid and uninformed. Already he noticed that many Iranians thought Afghans were “country cousins,” admirable but not very sophisticated or modern. He took a chance and this time said, “Yes, I would be interested in meeting someone. Thank you for asking.”
So it was that Ali met Nafisa. She was just as Anisa said, and Ali was enchanted. Nafisa also was enchanted with Ali. They met several times, always with relatives present. The marriage was arranged, the wedding held, with Akbar standing in for Ali’s family. Ali now had a real family, something he missed dearly. He told her about Sharidure, about his family, but not yet about why he really left. He planned to tell her but didn’t want her to worry about anything. He was proud about her being a teacher, and they often talked about ways to teach. She was surprised that he taught some. He laughed and told her that the real teacher was his sister. She asked about Shireen and hoped to meet her. She sounded a lot like her.
Chapter Eight
Flying Supplies to Sharidure
It was his father-in-law, Sayeed, who paved the way for Ali to return to Sharidure, or at least get very close. One of their customers was a pilot in the Iranian Air Force. In talking about what he was doing in the military, he mentioned that he was flying relief missions to Afghanistan. Sayeed, knowing that the Iranians were particularly interested in supporting the Shiites in Afghanistan, asked if any of the missions were going to Bamiyan. The pilot said, “That’s exactly where we mostly fly. We drop food and other supplies to safe areas near Bamiyan. We don’t have very good maps of the area, so we aren’t always sure where to make the drops. Do you know that area, or do you know of anyone who does?”
Sayeed was quick to answer. “My son-in-law came from that area not so long ago. He might be able to help you. Ali, come here, please.”
“Yes, did you need my help?”
“Yes, no, well, my friend might. This is my son-in-law, Ali. This is Reza, my friend and a pilot in the Iranian Air Force. He is flying relief missions to Bamiyan and would like some help from someone who might know that area.”
“Salomalay
kum, Ali. Sayeed has told me how good of a person you are and how happy he is to have you as his son-in-law. He also said you might know something about the Bamiyan area. We are having some trouble because our maps are old and not very accurate. Even if you haven’t flown, if you know the area, you would be a great help to us.”
Ali’s heart started to beat a little faster. He could help, probably more than a little. “I do know the area, and I have flown.” Ali told Reza about his flying and landing the plane at Sharidure and Kabul. He also mentioned knowing the area because the American pilot showed him maps of Bamiyan province.
Reza was astounded at this young Afghan. He hadn’t imagined that someone from rural Afghanistan might have flown, especially not piloted a plane himself. “You are the perfect person to help us. Could you come tomorrow to my office and take a look at what we plan for next week? We would be glad to pay you.”
Ali looked briefly at Sayeed, who gave a slight nod of approval. “If my father-in-law agrees, I would be very happy to help. The people who live there are my people, and some of them are my family.”
Sayeed chimed in, “Of course, he must help. He can still work many days here and be of great help to the Afghan people. You know, Reza, I also grew up near Bamiyan. It is my duty, as well as Ali’s, to help our people.”
So it was settled. Tomorrow Ali would meet with the Iranian Air Force to help find places to drop food and supplies in Afghanistan. That night, he breathlessly told Nafisa about this great chance. He worried some that she might be afraid to let him go, possibly to be in danger from Russian planes. He told her about his chances to fly with Dan, even landing the small plane at Sharidure. She could sense his excitement, so she smiled and nodded, “Of course, you must go. Those are your people, your family far away. Ali, they were my father’s family, too. I am so proud that you will be helping.”
***
The next morning Ali went with Reza to the air base in Muhshed. He climbed into one of the seats behind the pilots, across from the navigator. As the cargo plane taxied onto the runway, he thought of the first time he flew with Dan. It seemed like a long time ago. When they entered Afghan air space, the pilot descended to a low altitude to make the plane less easy of a target for the radar, and so Russian fighters might not so easily find them. About an hour later, they were over territory that looked more familiar to Ali. He began telling the pilot which valleys to follow to Bamiyan. They soon entered the valley leading to Sharidure. He pointed it out as they flew past. The pilot asked Ali where a good place might be to make the food drop. Ali had him turn around to fly over the little airfield where he had taken off and landed. That was probably the best place. The residents of Sharidure could get there easily and haul the supplies downhill to their homes.
Ali noticed some people walking on the main street. He also noticed that the bridge was back up. He couldn’t see if any Russian vehicles or personnel were around. He wondered how his family was and if they even still lived there. He had received no news about Sharidure.
The pilot decided the airfield was a good place to drop the supplies. He flew over it once, then returned to make the drop. The small parachutes opened perfectly as they left the plane, and Ali watched them float down to the airfield. He attached a note on one of the packages. It just said he hoped the people of Sharidure were well, particularly the children attending the school. This was a reference to the secret school, because the other school would not be in session during the winter. He signed the note, “Slingshot,” hoping someone would know it was from him.
***
Several people saw the parachutes floating down. They told others, and soon about thirty people were on their way up to the airfield. They shouted with joy when they saw what was in the packages, because there was a shortage of food in the village. One of the children found the note from Ali and passed it around for others to read. No one seemed to know who “Slingshot” was. Eventually, the note found its way to Askgar, the leader of the Sharidure resistance. He smiled when he saw the name, because he was pretty sure who “Slingshot” was. He walked into Hassan’s carpentry shop that afternoon, carrying the note in his hand. Hassan knew about Ali’s skill with a slingshot, but he didn’t know Askgar knew. “How do you know about Ali and his slingshot?” he asked Askgar.
Askgar was reluctant to tell Hassan about the principal’s office and the bridge. “Several of his friends told me about his accuracy with a slingshot, but I never really saw him use it.” He didn’t want Hassan to even know about how Ali helped ambush the Russian soldiers, so if the Russians ever tried to get Hassan to tell what he knew about it, Hassan would never know to tell. “Do you think it might be from him?” Askgar asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe his sister could recognize the handwriting.” So the note went to Shireen. She heard about the food and how it came to Sharidure. She heard about the note and now she saw it. Her father asked her to look at the note, to see if it might be from Ali.
She read it, examining the handwriting. It was Ali’s handwriting, she was sure. She helped him learn to write and could be sure it was his. She looked at her father and at Askgar. She wasn’t sure if it was dangerous for Ali or them to say it was his.
“It’s all right to say. Askgar is not an agent of the Russians.” Hassan nodded to her.
“Yes, I am sure it is from him. I know especially from how he writes his final letters. He always adds a flourish on them. How did he get on a plane and how did he get food for us? Do you think he will come back?”
“We think he went to Iran, but I don’t know how he got on a plane. He did always want to be a pilot.” Hassan spoke proudly of his son.
“The Iranians have been dropping supplies in the Bamiyan area. We have not received any until today.” Askgar told them about other towns that received food. He also told them the Russians were on the lookout for such drops and that Russian fighters were patrolling to shoot down any Iranian planes. “The Russians want villagers to move to bigger cities where they can watch them and control them. They want to make us dependent on them.”
They talked late into the night, drinking tea and enjoying the thought of someone from their village being able to help them.
***
Back in Muhshed, Ali told his father-in-law, Sayeed, about the flight to Sharidure. Ali and Reza had first gone to Sayeed’s shop. Ali wished he knew more details about his family and friends in Sharidure. He had only seen it from the air.
Sayeed asked if the drop was successful. “Yes, we saw the packages drop to the ground. I think the airfield was a good place to drop them because it’s a downhill short trip from there to the town. It won’t be hard for the people to get them to their homes. We saw people, but we were too high to recognize anyone.” Ali didn’t tell them about his note. He didn’t quite know if there could be any way for the people in Sharidure to respond to him or even if anyone would know it was him.
When he got home, Nafisa had more questions. “Did it look the same? Could you see your home? Did you see anyone you recognized?” Ali answered each question as best he could. Then Nafisa surprised him with two questions he hadn’t thought about. “Were there any Russians there?”
He said he hadn’t seen any, but he couldn’t be sure.
“Do you think there might be any Russian planes around Sharidure?”
He paused, then said, “We didn’t see any.” That was the truth. “There haven’t been any in the area.” That was only the truth for the last week. There had been flights when the Iranian pilots had to dodge and fly low and scramble back to Iran, but Ali didn’t want to worry Nafisa.
Every week, Ali flew to Afghanistan, mostly to Sharidure. The Iranians had been told that no Russians had come to Sharidure, and the towns around there were safely getting supplies from their airfield. Someone in the area was getting out the word that people could get food and supplies safely there. There seemed to be an organized system for receiving and distributing the supplies. Ali suspected he knew who that someone was, probably Askgar, his father’s friend who was in charge of the resistance. Each flight, Ali dropped a note, always signing it “Slingshot.” He also asked Reza to wave the plane’s wings when flying over Sharidure, just the way he and Dan used to do when flying there from Kabul. When Shireen saw the plane waving at them, she now knew it was Ali, and told her family. They never told anyone else, not wanting any unfriendly ears to know who it was.
***
Ali’s family grew in Muhshed when he and Nafisa had a daughter. Ali asked if her name could be Shireen. He was at first worried that Shireen might have a knee that wouldn’t bend, like he had, so he was relieved to see her wiggling and bending both of her knees. Several years later, they had a son, who they named Hassan. Again, Ali hoped and prayed Hassan wouldn’t have a problem with his knees, and again, he was relieved to see both legs kicking and moving. As they grew, he told them stories about Afghanistan and Sharidure. He taught them to fly kites and how to play tope donda. They heard many stories about Mullah Nasrudeen, especially liking the one about how the Mullah outwitted the children, when they bet him they were better chickens than they were.