by Howard Faber
Shireen could tell that this was a serious matter. She was afraid. “Ali, maybe this is the time for us to leave. Do you have any ideas about where to go?”
“No, I’m hesitant to try to stay with people we know. It would put them in danger. We also have to make the Taliban think we aren’t acting strange. We have to let them see us do our normal things, like having school for the boys, getting water, going shopping, all of the usual things.”
“I think that’s right, but we should also plan our escape.”
They went ahead with classes for the boys that day. That afternoon Shireen went with Ali to the homes of the girls that were attending sewing classes to tell the families there would be no more lessons until further notice.
They also started the plan for their escape. They walked to the eastern end of town, to the bridge over the irrigation canal, down the other side of the canal, to the river in the valley. They collected some driftwood from the river and carried it back to their home. They made sure anyone watching saw them do this. They repeated this every day for a week, establishing a routine that became part of their normal activities. Every evening, they carried with them picnic supplies, blankets to sit on, and even a small grill for cooking.
***
When Naeem, the driver from Bamiyan, came through with his truck, heading west to Iran, Ali invited him into the carpentry shop to see if he would help them. Ali asked if he could take the other route to Jungal, following the river west. That way they could bypass Pahnjwak and several other small towns on the road to Jungal. Ali explained that he and his sister had to leave secretly. They would meet him at sunrise tomorrow morning along the river on the way to Jungal. Without asking lots of questions, Naeem agreed, but said he couldn’t wait long for them, as he had to be halfway to Iran the next night.
The time came for them to leave, and that evening they packed up their usual picnic supplies and headed east of town to the riverbed to have their usual picnic. They turned for a last look at their home. It would be the last time they saw it.
On the way to the bridge, they walked past several Taliban. They tried their best to look like it was the same as every other time. No one stopped them as they went down to the river. Today, unlike before, they walked further along the river, following it back west, until they were out of sight of town. They worried that someone would notice, but no one did.
It was a long night, cold after the sun went down. They wrapped up in the blankets, waiting by the river on the way toward Jungal. They talked for a while, about their parents, about Ali’s new family, about growing up. They didn’t talk about what might happen if they were discovered.
Just after sunrise, they heard the sound of a truck approaching. At first, they hid, unsure of whether it was the truck from Bamiyan. When they could see that it was, they stood up and waved for the driver to stop. He climbed down quickly from the cab, looking back toward town to be sure he had not been followed. He apologized, but asked them to sit in the back of the truck, inside a box he made and hid under his cargo. Inside were two quilts to soften the ride. It was not the most comfortable of places, but they both realized that he was trying to help them and hide them from anyone asking questions. The truck rumbled away, following the river west. That afternoon when they pulled into Jungal, the precautions proved very wise. Several Taliban were stopping each vehicle entering the town. Ali and Shireen could hear the Pushtu speakers asking Naeem if he had seen a man and woman on the road into town. He could truthfully say he hadn’t. They asked if he had seen anyone like that in Pahnjwak. Again, he could truthfully say he hadn’t. Ali and Shireen then heard someone climbing up on the back of the truck to look at what was on board. Their hearts beat faster. Surely, they would be discovered.
The footsteps didn’t climb down into the truck bed, but instead climbed back down to the ground. Naeem was also sweating, trying not to let anyone see. He went into a teahouse and took his time having tea and ordering nawn. He thought about ordering extra but decided against it for fear of raising suspicion about taking some along.
Shireen and Ali kept completely quiet, waiting, waiting. At last, they heard Naeem climb back into the cab, start the truck, and shift into gear. The truck began its journey further west. They spent the rest of the day and the next night inside their cozy box. They weren’t so much cold as hungry and thirsty, but, they and the truck driver realized he couldn’t take the chance of anyone seeing him going back to bring them anything. Finally, about noon of the next day, Naeem stopped between towns, looked back and ahead down the road, and climbed into the back to bring them some nawn and tea. They talked briefly. He said they would be in Iran after dark that evening. He was still worried about the border. He hoped the border guards on the Afghan side would be the usual guards he knew and saw on his trips. Eventually, Ali and Shireen slept.
They woke when the bumping of the truck stopped. They could hear someone talking, though they couldn’t make out what was said. They waited for the sound of someone climbing up the back of the truck. It never came. The truck started out again, then stopped again in a short time. This time the talking was closer. Apparently the driver had not stepped down. Ali recognized the Iranian accent of the speaker. They were in Iran!
***
When Ali knocked on his door that night in Muhshed, Shireen wasn’t sure how she was feeling. She was worried about being accepted by Ali’s family. She felt like she was the cause of him being separated from them for so long. She also felt like an intruder; she had never met his wife or children. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to understand her because of the difference in Iranian and Afghan Farsi. She also knew she wasn’t looking her best, having ridden in the back of a truck for two days. She must look a mess.
Her fears were alleviated when the door opened to silhouette three surprised but joyous greeters. After hugging Ali, they turned their attention to Shireen. Ali introduced each. “Shireen, this is my wonderful wife, Nafisa.”
“Welcome to our home. We have been hoping you could come. You must be very tired. Come in. Let’s have some tea and talk.” This was Nafisa putting the doubts of Shireen about being welcome to rest.
“Shireen, this is my son Hassan. Don’t you think he looks a lot like dad?”
Hassan was smiling. “Dad told us about you. I know you’re a teacher. Could you help me with my homework?” Shireen smiled and nodded.
“And, Shireen, this is Shireen.”
“Aunt Shireen, I’ve been waiting a long time to say that. You’re my very first aunt.”
Now Shireen (aunt Shireen) was crying. She had been alone for such a long time. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cry. I’m not sad. Ali, Nafisa, Hassan, and Shireen, thank you, thank you for bringing me into your home.”
They had some green tea, some aush, some cookies, and lots of talk and laughter. Ali was home with his family, and Shireen was safe. Sharidure seemed far away.
Chapter Thirteen
Americans in Afghanistan and Ali
Brings His Family Back Home
That fall they heard on the radio the news of the Americans arriving in Afghanistan. The men of the Northern Alliance and the Americans swept toward Kabul. They didn’t hear any news about Bamiyan and whether the Taliban were still there. It was Naeem, the truck driver, who told them about the Taliban f
leeing back to Pakistan. Bamiyan and Sharidure were free of them. People were playing music and flying kites. Life was returning to normal in the Hazarajat.
“Did you see our home in Sharidure?”
“Not really. The town seemed quiet and I didn’t see a lot of destruction. I think the Taliban left in a hurry. I only stopped at the teahouse for lunch.”
That evening Ali and Shireen began to plan their return to their faraway home.
***
At first, Shireen insisted she should go with Ali. “It’s my home, too. The girls will need a teacher.”
“Shireen, let me go first to be sure it’s safe. There still might be Taliban around. If it is safe, I’ll let you know, and you can come. It would also make me feel better about leaving Nafisa here with our children. You could be a big help to her.”
In the end, they agreed that Ali should go to see what exactly the situation was in Sharidure and Shireen would stay in Muhshed to help Nafisa with the home, possibly even teach to earn money for the family. When Ali went to tell Nafisa about the plan, she was the first to speak. “Ali, I know you need to go back to Sharidure. Don’t worry about us. My family is here to help us.”
Ali was so relieved to hear her say this. He told her about what he and Shireen planned, and Nafisa was pleased that Shireen was going to stay. She told him how much she would miss him. She didn’t say anything about what they would do if Sharidure was safe and whether they would go there to live.
When Ali left that morning with Naeem in the truck back to Afghanistan, it was a sad farewell to his children. They cried and asked when he would be back. “You know about how the snow comes in the winter. I promise to be back before it gets here. Your job is to learn everything you can in school and to take care of your mom and aunt Shireen. I think I can send you letters again. I’ll be back soon.”
When they got to the Afghan-Iranian border, the change was noticeable. There was no one there. There were no Taliban checking the trucks. Ali’s hopes grew as they went east, toward Sharidure. When they came around the last curve in the road into Sharidure, Ali couldn’t wait to get back to his home, maybe for the final time. He was thinking about what to do first. The truck stopped at the teahouse, where he saw several familiar faces, and no bearded black-turbaned Taliban. The people there greeted him warmly. They asked about his family. He asked about their family. “Are you well? Your family?”
“Fine, we’re all well.”
He didn’t ask about the Taliban.
He left the teahouse and said goodbye to Naeem, the truck driver. “Thank you very much. May peace be with you.” Ali walked toward his home. When he got there, it was only a pile of broken bricks and wooden beams. Even the compound walls had been smashed. There was nothing left of his home. He could guess what happened. When the Taliban couldn’t find Shireen and him, they must have been very angry, so they took it out on their home. He walked around, looking for their well and garden. Thankfully, they hadn’t destroyed either. Tomorrow, he would start to rebuild his home. For tonight, he could sleep in his father’s shop, if it was still standing.
It was. Maybe the Taliban hadn’t realized it belonged to his family. Maybe they did and were watching it to see if he would come back, so he stopped across the street and looked carefully at the shop. There was no sign of anyone in or around the shop. He climbed up on a rooftop to see the whole area better. He lay down, so no one on the street would see him on the roof. There were no black-bearded men with turbans that he could see. He decided to quietly walk by a back street to the government building to see if there were Taliban guards there. The open area in front of the building was empty. Usually there would have been children playing, rolling hoops or playing games. Tonight, it was only still, only empty, only quiet. He thought of the times he and his friends played there. That seemed long ago. He decided to spend the night at the airfield, in the little shed he helped build. In the morning, he would look again for the Taliban.
He slept fitfully, his sleep full of dreams, or maybe just thoughts of what had been in Sharidure. The morning sun lit up the frame around the door to the shed. Ali sat up, stretched, yawned, then stood up to walk down to the town below. He took a back route, avoiding any people who might be up and about. The Taliban were a worry. He watched the streets from above the town, seeing people leave their homes, seeing a town awaken, seeing the teahouse open, the street in front of it sprinkled with water, then swept, owposhee. There were no signs of any Taliban, so he decided they were no longer there.
Ali spent that first morning in the shop. Several people stopped by, welcoming him back, asking about his family. One asked if he would be doing carpentry. He decided he would, needing money to live. He brought some from Iran, but if he intended to stay, he would need a way to live.
The teahouse was open, so he went there for lunch. There was some talk of the Taliban, but no one had seen them. Was it possible they were gone? After lunch, he went again to his home, now destroyed. To bring his family, he would have to rebuild it and he started to do just that. He laid out the outlines, using stones to mark the outside walls, then went back to the shop to begin the frame. He decided to build his new home a little bigger than the old one. His new family was larger than the one he grew up in. Shireen would need a bedroom and perhaps a study for her books, with a table to use to do her homework from school. Surely, she would want to teach again. Someone at the teahouse asked about that. It was a good feeling to be planning his family’s future. It was also good to be working.
He sent a letter with Naeem, the truck driver from Bamiyan, when the truck came through on its way to Iran. He told Nafisa about the shop and how he was rebuilding the home. He even asked her about how to design the house. Naeem would be back next week with a letter in return. Meanwhile, he kept an eye out for Taliban. No one had seen them for a week. A normal life was slowly returning to Sharidure. Children were playing with hoops, flying kites, and even talking about school.
When the letter from Nafisa came on the truck, Ali’s hopes got even higher. She asked him when he wanted her and the children to come to Sharidure. He worked late on the house that night. Several people asked if they could help. After a week, the compound walls were up. After two weeks, the walls of the house were finished. After three weeks, the roof was on. He started on the inside walls, following Nafisa’s wishes. He ordered glass for the windows from Bamiyan. Naeem brought them, wrapped carefully in cloth and cotton. Ali set the window glass into the frames he built, and he started living in the house. He carefully wrote about the new home to Nafisa and asked if she and the children could come see it. When her letter came back, she told him that she and their children, Shireen his sister, and her father would come on the next trip Naeem made from Muhshed to Sharidure.
***
The next three years were like heaven. Ali had his family back with him. Nafisa and Shireen restarted a school for the children of Sharidure. Ali and his father-in-law made the carpentry shop the biggest business in town. There were many things to be rebuilt. Other families came back to restart their family businesses. The farmers had good crops.
Oxen Team • By Rex Blumhagen
The winters weren’t too severe, but there was enough snow to make the rivers run and let Ali teach Shireen and Hassan the joys of sliding down hills on sleds he made.
There was a new governor in Bamiyan, Afghanistan’s first woman governor. She wanted schools and electricity for Bamiyan’s people. One of the roads from Kabul was being hard-surfaced. Even the Buddhas the Taliban destroyed were getting attention, as there were plans to restore them. A hotel and restaurant were built to make tourists feel they could again come to Bamiyan. There was even talk of an ancient reclining Buddha somewhere in the Bamiyan valley. There had always been stories about this giant Buddha that disappeared.
There was, however, talk of the Taliban gaining footholds not so far away in Wardak and Oruzgon. The Kabul government wanted all the provinces to give up their weapons, so there could not again be militias to fight for control of Afghanistan.
***
At the carpentry shop Ali told Nafisa’s father, Sayeed, about what he heard that morning. “The Taliban are stopping trucks on the road from Wardak. They demand money and take what they want from the trucks. That road comes into Bamiyan over a pass. My guess is that they will try to again take over Bamiyan.”
“Are these people likely to get into Bamiyan?”
“Some of the men have been saying we have to again get weapons to defend ourselves, because the government may not be able to protect us. I have been meeting with some of the men of Sharidure to plan how to protect us if we have to. My father was killed by the Taliban. I ran from them when I was younger, but I won’t run away again. This is my home. We have all agreed to fight if we have to. Before, when the Taliban were in control of most of Afghanistan, the last two places they didn’t have control were the Panjsheer and the Hazarajat. They never did get control of the Panjsheer and the only reason they took over here was the help they got from Pakistan. It will be much harder for Pakistan to directly help them now. The Americans and Europeans will keep them from doing that up here, but we need weapons to protect ourselves from the Taliban in Wardak and Oruzgon. The people there don’t have any way to protect themselves, and the Afghan army and police aren’t able to.”