A Far Away Home

by Howard Faber

  Ali was torn about what to do. “Let’s go see if there even is a way to go back to Iran.” They heard the sound of a vehicle in the distance, heading for Sharidure. “It might be the Taliban,” Ali said out loud. They didn’t want to be seen if it was. Ali led Homyoon up above the town to wait and see what it was that came into town. It turned out to be a truck, loaded with bags of wheat and a few passengers. Ali motioned for Homyoon to stay there and went down toward the truck to get a closer look. Some of the older women of Sharidure went out to see the truck. Ali waited inside his father’s shop, staying out of sight.

  The truck stopped on the main street, and Ali could hear the driver talking to the women. The women were asking about buying wheat. The driver looked and sounded Tajik, speaking Dari. Ali felt safer. Taliban would be speaking Pushtu. He wished he had a weapon. He looked around the shop. In the back he found something he used a long time ago, his slingshot. It was one he had used, one his father made for him. It felt good in his hand. Placing it in his waistband inside his long shirt, he went out to talk to the driver.

  The women stepped back when he approached. Ali knew them. He wasn’t sure they would know him. “Hello, how are you? May you not be tired.”

  The driver returned the greeting. He asked if Ali lived here, and what his name was.

  “Ali, son of Hassan.” Ali noticed the women move a bit closer when he said his name. “Would you sell me some wheat? How much is a bag?” After some bargaining, the driver told one of his assistants to throw down a bag, a big one. Ali tested its weight. It seemed the right weight, the one they had agreed on, so he gave the driver the money. The driver looked at the Iranian notes. Ali wondered if he would take them, but the driver nodded and accepted them. He said he was going to Herat and could exchange the money there, or just use it. There was plenty of Iranian money in Herat. Ali ventured, “Would you take a passenger to Herat?”

  “Maybe. Are you going all the way to Herat?”

  Ali didn’t want to tell him too much. “Yes. Actually, it’s my Iranian friend who wants to go. Your truck looks new and in great shape. I think he would be glad to ride with you. How much to have him ride in the cab?” The bargaining began again. Ali didn’t know how much it should cost, but he was sure this was the best way for Homyoon to get to Iran. Buses went daily from Herat to Muhshed. Ali hinted that there might be a bonus if the driver got Homyoon to Herat safely. The driver said he was leaving in ten minutes.

  Ali bought one more bag of wheat, then went to get Homyoon, who was a bit worried about going on the truck. Ali assured him it was a safe way to get to Herat, and that buses went every day to Muhshed from Herat. They hurried down to the truck. Ali made his own decision. He was staying. This was his real home so he had to stay. As the truck rumbled up the road west, he knew he made the right decision. He sent a hurriedly written note to Nafisa and his children, explaining why he had to stay, at least for now.

  He carried one of the wheat bags to his house, after carrying the other into his father’s shop. When he carried the bag inside, Shireen started crying. He could tell she was very happy to see him stay. There was a lot to do in Sharidure.

  ***

  First, there was the garden to plant so they would have vegetables in the summer and winter, but where could he get seeds? It turned out Shireen had kept some hidden in the house. She had corn, tomatoes, eggplant, carrots, potatoes, and lettuce. Ali went to work planting them in their field. He thought about wheat, but they didn’t have enough land to grow enough to feed them. He asked Shireen if anyone she knew had land to plant wheat. She did. One of her friends who lived on the edge of town had several jereebs (about four acres) of land. Two other friends had cows to pull the plow to soften the ground for planting. That is how, the first week he was back home, Ali became a farmer during the day.

  Plowing With Oxen • By Unknown

  Shireen negotiated a deal with the landowner and the owners of the cows to share the wheat crop.

  At night, Ali was a carpenter, first repairing, later making furniture for the women in Sharidure. He wouldn’t take money but agreed to take eggs, vegetables, milk, and other food for pay.

  ***

  About two weeks later, a truck coming from the west arrived with a letter for Ali from Nafisa, his wife. The letter was full of joy and news about their children. Everything was fine. He didn’t have to worry about them, but they would like to see him when he could come.

  The letter was delivered by Reza, the Iranian pilot. “Ali, the Iranian government wants me to fly the plane back to Muhshed. They are worried the Taliban might hear about the plane and claim Iran is interfering in Afghanistan. Actually, they aren’t worried about them thinking that. The Taliban know Iran is helping the Shia in Afghanistan. It’s just that they can’t prove it. There is also some concern that your town might be punished if the plane is found here.”

  “I am worried about that, too. Our town has suffered enough, and I don’t want to bring danger to Shireen or anyone else. Can we fly the plane out?”

  “Let’s go see it. Homyoon told me to bring a propeller and a wing-tip. I also brought fuel and some tools.” Reza sounded encouraging. They walked up to the airfield to see the plane. Except for the propeller and wing-tip, the plane seemed completely damage free. Reza climbed down from the cockpit and nodded his approval to Ali. “It seems like it could fly. This airfield seems a little short, though. How long is it?”

  Ali knew exactly how long it was and went on to tell Reza the story of the little field. He told Reza about Dan and the flying lessons he gave him. He also told Reza about the wind lift at the end of the runway. He and Reza walked down to end of the runway to look over the edge at the valley below. “It helps that the runway is downhill. It helps the plane pick up speed for the takeoff. How much runway does this plane need to take off?”

  “About fifty meters more than this runway.” Reza was calm in his answer. “Did the pilot have any other tricks for takeoff?”

  “He did say you could start out uphill and get up some speed, then make a wide turn to head down the hill. We never had to do that.”

  As they walked back up to the plane, Ali could tell that Reza was trying to figure out what to do. When they got to the plane, Reza seemed to have decided. “Ali, go back to get the fuel. I’ll run some preflight checks to be sure the engines and other systems work. When you get back, we’ll decide about flying out of here.” Ali noticed the word “we.” He felt honored that he was to help make the decision.

  On the way back to his house to get the aviation fuel, Ali thought about how to get the four fuel containers back up to the plane. Maybe two strong men could carry one at a time, but there were no men here. Maybe two strong women could carry the containers. How about a donkey? Were there any? Shireen would know.

  His sister met him at the door. “Ali, someone just came from Bamiyan. There’s been a rumor that a plane landed in Sharidure. They are worried the Taliban might hear. Is it possible to fly the plane away? Everyone is worried what might happen if the Taliban came and found a plane. They would probably start searching homes for whoever flew it here.” Her voice was trying to be calm, but Ali could tell she was afraid.

  “Reza is testing it now, to see if it can fly. We need to replace one propeller and try to fix a wing-tip. We also need to
get the fuel up to the plane. Does anyone have a donkey?”

  Shireen thought a minute. “Yes, I know a family that has two. Their children used to come to our house. I’m sure we could use their donkeys. I’ll go to ask. There’s also a gaudi behind dad’s shop. He was fixing it. See if it is usable.”

  Gaudi • By Howard Faber

  Ali hurried out to the shop. The old gaudi was there, right where Shireen said it would be. He could see his dad had been working on it. It looked like one of the shafts had been broken. It had been replaced, just not painted. A harness was on the seat of the gaudi. He had never driven one, but he could try. He pulled it around to the street and to their house.

  Nobody was around to watch him. He was happy for that, so no one would know about them bringing fuel or anything else to the plane. The Taliban could easily force people to talk. He waited for Shireen.

  In about a half hour, Shireen returned with one donkey. “They asked why I needed two, and I could only think of needing to carry water from the river, so they let me use one.”

  “The gaudi seems to be usable, so one will have to do. The shafts are for a horse. The donkey isn’t as big as a horse, but he looks strong. Let’s see if the harness will fit. Have you ever driven a gaudi or put on a harness?”

  Shireen just looked at him. Obviously, she hadn’t. “It didn’t hurt to ask,” he thought. “Well, it can’t be that hard.” Inside their compound wall, they led the donkey up to the gaudi. Ali got the harness and stretched it out on the ground. They figured out which of the straps were the front, lifted it up and draped it on the back of the donkey. They found one that seemed to want to go over the withers and around the belly of the donkey. It had a buckle that seemed to fit a strap with holes on the other side. It was a little long, so Ali ran to get a tool from the shop to make new holes. It snugged up to hold the whole front of the harness in place. Next, they found a thick strap with two long straps that seemed to be how the donkey would pull the gaudi. It went around the front of his chest and back to the gaudi. Ali could remember seeing this. It was held up by a strap over the neck. It seemed too long, so he made some new holes and it fit high enough on the chest for pulling. At the end of the straps were slits that fit over the ends of a pivoting bar at the front of the gaudi. It was going to work. “The bridle, have you seen one or reins?” Shireen looked again on the gaudi.

  “I don’t see any. What could we use? Could we tie rope on the halter?” Shireen led the donkey with a rope tied on its halter.

  “That’s a good idea, Shireen. I saw rope in dad’s shop. I’ll be right back.” He soon returned with a long rope and a knife. He tied the ends of the rope on both sides of the halter. He wished there was a real bridle with a bit, but there wasn’t, so they would just have to make it work.

  When they loaded the back of the two-wheeled cart with the fuel containers, it tipped back, almost lifting the donkey in the air. They looked at each other and quickly took two containers off. It still tipped back, but not so much.

  “Maybe if one of us sat in the front it would balance the load. Why don’t you try it,” she suggested. Ali got in the front. It was much better. Shireen opened the gate of the compound and led the donkey out. Ali pulled on the right rein to turn up the street. The donkey just stopped. Shireen went up to him and led him in the right direction. She looked at Ali and just shrugged and grinned. “It could be worse. He’s pulling the load.”

  It turned out to be fun. They hadn’t worked together on anything for such a long time. When they got up to the airfield, Reza stepped down from the plane and directed them around to the fuel tanks on one wing. Ali handed up the container, and Reza poured it into a tank. He was careful to strain it through a cloth. They didn’t need any fuel problems. Ali handed up the second container, and he and Shireen turned back down to the town to get the other containers. This trip Ali led, and Shireen got to ride. It was only fair.

  There was one more trip needed to bring up the propeller and parts for the wing-tip. Ali and Reza sweated to remove the damaged propeller, and it was even harder to lift up and bolt on the new one. The wing-tip was worse than Reza thought, but they did manage to get on the new parts and make the surface smooth enough for Reza to think it would stay together. As they returned down to the town, with Shireen and Reza riding, they talked about when the best time would be for Reza to fly out. It was decided he would leave in the morning.

  Shireen went to see if anyone knew any more about the Taliban coming.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Taliban Are Coming

  She was back in ten minutes, running, out of breath. “The Taliban are coming.” Her eyes were wide with fright. “One of my friends just came on the bus from Bamiyan. They passed Taliban in pickups at Bondi-Amir. The Taliban stopped to eat there. The bus driver didn’t stop at all for fear the Taliban would search the bus or just harass them. They must be coming here, because there’s no other town on the road. Ali, you have to leave and fly the plane out, now!”

  Ali jumped to his feet and ran outside, then came back in to say goodbye to his sister. Both were crying. It might be the last time they saw each other. Then he ran up the path to the airfield. When he got there, he yelled to Reza that they had to leave now, because the Taliban were coming.

  Reza didn’t say anything; he just climbed up into the plane. He shouted to Ali to remove the chocks that anchored the plane where it sat. Ali did that and was just about to climb up when he thought about something that would be just as deadly to the people of Sharidure as the plane itself, the tracks. The plane would leave tracks as it sped down the runway. Reza waved to him to get aboard, but Ali just waved back and pointed to the town. He would have to stay behind. Reza shrugged and turned the plane uphill, according to their plan to gain as much speed as possible. Ali ran over to the small building at the top of the runway, hoping there might be a broom inside.

  Reza turned the plane around at the top of the runway, trying to maintain as much speed as possible. The engines and propellers roared, pulling the plane down the runway. The plane surged forward. Ali just hoped it would be going fast enough at the end of the runway. Maybe, the light load (no supplies and only one person) would help it get airborne. Meanwhile, he did find a broom, one of the local jaru, handmade, just right for a fast sweep. He started sweeping out the tracks of the plane at the top of the runway.

  He stopped to watch when the plane got to the end of the runway, to the edge of the cliff overlooking the river valley. His heart stopped as it disappeared off the edge, dropping down below the edge of the cliff. He ran to see it smashed into the valley, a terrible sight, one that would not only doom Reza but also the people of Sharidure. The Taliban would know a plane from Iran had been here, and would search and threaten until he and his sister were found. Then he stopped, because just as it had disappeared, it rose into view, first level with the runway, then gradually rising higher, turning west toward Iran, out of sight of the Taliban. He stopped a moment to thank God. He also spoke a brief prayer for his sister’s safety. The Taliban might have already arrived in town, possibly hearing and seeing the plane.

  He ran back to where he left off sweeping away the tracks of the plane. He kept hoping that the Taliban had not come in time, hoping he would have time to sweep away the tracks. He also kept looking over his shoulder toward the
path down to the town. His arms were getting tired, but the thought of the black-turbaned Taliban finding him drove him on. At last, he approached the cliff where the last of the tracks disappeared at the edge. That’s when he heard the sound of engines approaching the airfield from the town. Where could he go? Where could he hide?

  Then he remembered the times he and his friends used to climb the cliff, daring each other to go higher. He crawled over the edge, broom still in hand. He couldn’t leave it behind. He was maybe ten feet down when he heard the engines on the runway. They got closer, maybe halfway down the runway. Then the engines slowed, soon stopping. He heard voices, Pushtu voices. The Taliban. Ali had studied Pushtu in school. All Afghan schoolchildren first study only in their native language, Pushtu or Dari, depending on where they lived. In fourth grade, they begin studying the other language, in his case Pushtu. The voices were talking about where the plane was. It was soon evident they had not seen or heard a plane and were doubting whether it ever existed. They seemed to be mocking one of the group, whose voice spoke Pushtu with an accent like that of someone who didn’t speak it fluently. After more questions, some cursing, and more muttering, the engines started up again, and the vehicles (it sounded like two) left. Ali waited a while, then peered cautiously over the edge onto the airfield. There was no one in sight. He decided to wait until it was dark to go anywhere. He stayed on the face of the cliff, eventually finding a small depression where he could hide from anyone above or below.