by Atia Abawi
“Do people even bother coming into town anymore?” I ask, kicking an old empty can lying on the dirt path.
“It’s still early,” Sami says while twisting the key in the hanging lock. “As the sun fully rises, the remaining store owners will open up shop. But truthfully, there aren’t many people here who can purchase or trade anything. Everyone is struggling. And the Taliban come and harass the shopkeepers, demanding a tax on their goods. Most people decided it wasn’t worth keeping their shops open because they couldn’t afford the taxes and penalties.”
I clench my fists at my sides. These villagers should be happy to support the Taliban. They owe groups like mine for keeping them safe. If we didn’t, infidels would steal our land and convert our people.
“And what about your father’s land that the Hazaras farm? Are they producing anything?” I ask, changing the subject as I help him open the doors and latch them to the side.
“The land Mohammad Aaka and Karim Aaka are farming is producing the most wheat of all the grounds,” Sami says. “The remainder after they keep their share is sufficient but not as much as it used to be.”
“How do you know they’re not holding out on you and keeping more for themselves?” I am disgusted by the fact he calls them aaka. They’re not his uncles, and they don’t deserve to be treated with such respect!
“You know them better than that.” Sami looks at me with disapproval.
“I do know them, Sami, and I also know their kind,” I respond. “You can’t trust those people. They’ll smile to your face and tell you what you want to hear, but they’ll be the first to stab you when you turn around. They don’t have the honor of a Pashtun. They’re the descendants of barbarous monsters, and they haven’t changed, no matter what they want you to believe.”
Sami drops the sack of wheat he was pulling out of the store. I stare at him as he slaps the dust off his hands.
“That’s not fair, Rashid,” Sami the traitor says to me. “If we judge them on their ancestors, what about ours? Don’t we have criminals and barbarians in our blood as well? Haven’t we killed for reasons as stupid as an insulting word? Or how about our land? The land that belongs to us probably belonged to their forefathers first.” He’s raising his voice in obvious defiance, the little ant. I should crush him now. “Generations ago, before this land was stolen by the king and given to us, we were just simple kuchis, nomads going from one place to the next. Who’s to say it isn’t already their land?”
I’m disgusted at how he can so easily defend people who aren’t even family, who aren’t even from our ethnicity, let alone our tribe! But I’m not surprised. He’s too weak to see what’s right and what’s wrong. “This land was given to us by King Abdur Rahman Khan, who wanted to spread the Pashtun power throughout our country! He kept Afghanistan from breaking up into separate states! Besides, the land wasn’t even being used when it was given to our tribe!” I retort.
Sami ignores me as he begins to pull at the sacks of wheat.
“Can you help me carry these bags and put them outside the store?” he asks, pointing his grubby finger at a small stack of wheat bundles. He’s obviously avoiding an argument because he knows I would win. “So, how is the madrassa?” I’m shocked at the nerve of his question.
“It’s good,” I say, helping him with the sack he is tugging. Truth is I don’t really know, because I have barely been at the madrassa lately. “My skills are now being utilized to help the young boys. I’ve mastered the Holy Quran to the point where I am able to teach others the meaning behind the words.” I try not to let my pride show on my face. He must be so jealous.
“That’s great,” he says. “I hope you’re able to teach them the true word of God, not the way it’s been manipulated.” Sami and I drop one of the bundles on the ground, and he heads in for another, but this time I don’t follow him. All I can do is stare at the back of his stubby head.
Manipulated? The nerve of this imbecile. You may have the rest of our family fooled, but I’m on to you, little cousin. I’m the honest one! I’m the good one! I’m the one who believes in God, the only one here who knows what God wants from all of us. I’m the one who doesn’t dishonor women in the woods. For you to act like you know better is insulting!
“How would you know what’s manipulated or not?” I say to him through the door. “You left, remember?” Sami looks out of the door, his eyes lock on to mine, and I know my words are daggers to his pride. “You dropped out. You couldn’t handle the fact that I was better at something.”
“Rashid—” Sami begins to say something but stops. He then walks out of his cubbyhole and faces me. “Do you really believe that’s why I left?” he says. He looks like he’s examining me. His eyes are making me uncomfortable and even angrier. “If that’s what you believe, you’re mistaken.”
“Why else, then?” I respond. “Tell me why you left. You act like you’re so much better than all of us, but you are nothing. You don’t know the meaning of God and Islam. I know who you really are: a Godless sinner who runs around with those horrible Mongols. Have you forgotten how they killed my parents? They were your family too!”
“My brother, they weren’t the ones who killed your parents,” he says, fake sympathy in his eyes. What a condescending bastard.
“It may not have been Mohammad or Karim, but it was their people! The same filthy blood runs through all of their bodies!” I kick the bag of wheat and see particles fly up in the air. “The nerve you have to act like you’re so special while you run around with that peasant whore in the woods! Soon everyone will know what a disgusting little vermin you are. And if they don’t punish you, I will!”
“What? What do you mean?” he asks, clearly frightened. “What will you do?”
“Are you more afraid of what I will do than what God will do?” I ask. I can’t believe how far away from God he has fallen.
“Rashid—”
“Don’t worry, dear cousin, I don’t have any plans to tell anyone. It will be God who will punish you with the most might—not our family. You’ll see!”
I turn my back on the scum and walk away.
Nine
SAMIULLAH
As soon as my father arrives, I leave. Luckily, he doesn’t take much notice of my swift departure. I’m walking fast, but I have no idea where I need to go. That’s not true—I know I need to go see Fatima and warn her, but there is no way of going there without someone spotting me, and we both agreed to be careful about seeing each other after the incident in the woods. I stop and turn toward her house, but I feel paralyzed as I stare at the empty fields before me.
What if Rashid is already there telling her family? Oh, God. What if he’s telling mine? No, he can’t be, at least not yet. He said he wouldn’t. And I believe him. For now.
But how can he hate me so much? We’re like brothers. At least I thought we were. It must be that horrible madrassa—it has to be because of that madrassa. I know we thought differently about the school, and I know he was upset when I left, but I had no idea he was so mad at me.
Oh, God, those must have been his footsteps we heard cracking in the woods. What did he hear? What did he see? Poor Fatima—this could ruin her. I have to protect her. But how do I do that?
I close my eyes, but all I can see is Fatima’s gentle smile with her perfect teeth and that little beauty mark just above her lip. When we were younger, she called it her ugly mole, but I think God placed it there by design to complete his beautiful piece of art.
Fatima, what have I gotten you into? If her parents find out, would they marry her to that boy in the other village right away? Thinking of this makes me drop to my knees. I know a sharp piece of stone has just ripped through my tumbon; my knee is likely bleeding, but I can barely feel it. I am numb, except on the inside. My heart has fallen into my stomach, and I’m overcome by nausea. I lean one arm in front of me and hold my head down. I
can feel the sun striking the back of my neck as sweat drips into my clothing. I dry heave, hoping to get whatever is in my stomach out, but it isn’t working. Instead I find my vision obstructed by tears filling my eyes. I turn and drop my entire body to the ground, feeling defeated. The sun’s piercing rays heat my face, arms and feet. It’s God’s blanket of warmth, and I suddenly begin to feel, at least for a few moments, at peace. Right now it is just God, the earth and me.
Please, oh Gracious one, help me. I can’t let anything happen to Fatima. I must protect her. You are the all-knowing and most merciful. You and only you, my Lord, can help us. Please, God, give me the strength to fix this and, most important, to keep Fatima safe.
I close my eyes again and see her before me. I feel my face creasing into a smile, cracking my chapped lips. I can’t believe just the thought of her can make my heart swell and my skin tingle. Such a foreign feeling—so joyous that it’s almost painful. The thought of touching her face sends a jolt of excitement through my body. I want to feel the smoothness of her skin on my fingertips. I wonder if her lips are as soft as they appear.
I move my own lips in prayer: Please guide me in what I should do, most merciful and generous God. I know what I’m feeling can’t be wrong. I know it in my heart and in my mind. I don’t believe you would have me feel this way, so deeply and so purely, if it wasn’t right. Thank you for blessing me with this feeling that I can only describe as love. And if it is love, this means I have always loved her. All I ask, dear God, is don’t let me lose it. Don’t let me lose this feeling and don’t let me lose her. I know her family and my family will be against any kind of union, but I believe it is possible with your help and will. I just need time to figure it out.
Please, God, help Rashid. Protect him from himself and the evils that surround him. Please stop him from the evil thoughts that darken his soul and please give him the strength to find the goodness I know is in him. Oh most merciful God, stop him before it is too late, before his soul can no longer be saved.
The brightness of the sun through my closed eyelids disappears, and I feel my face cooled by a shadow above me. For a second I’m afraid to open my eyes but then I realize if it were Rashid, he would have already said something. I open my eyes. It takes a moment for my vision to adjust to the bright world in front of me. I hear the giggles before I can even make out who it is. It must be little Afifa, Fatima’s sister. She looks just like Fatima when she was younger, except with red hair. Afifa falls next to me, laughing. The bangles on her right wrist jingle as she hits her hand on the ground, laughing harder. This makes me smile too. The innocence, the amusement.
“What’s so funny, silly girl?” I ask.
She can’t answer because she’s too busy gasping for breath. “You’re . . . sleeping . . . on the ground” is all she can muster before dissolving into a fit of giggles again.
I begin to cluck my tongue and shake my head. “Do your parents know you’ve roamed this far out?” Her little face suddenly looks terrified. “Do I need to tell them?”
“Nay!” she screams in defiance.
“Okay, okay. But you shouldn’t run so far from your house. There are scary animals that eat little girls like you,” I say. She doesn’t look as scared as she did before. Instead she seems intrigued, as if she might want to meet those animals. She rolls her body off the dirt, picks up a small stick, and grins at me before she toddles off. Her smile tugs at my heart; it’s so similar to her sister’s.
But if Rashid follows through with his threat, I don’t know if Fatima will ever smile again.
I stand up.
• • •
I know there is only one place I can go and only one person I can ask for advice. He is the only one, besides Fatima, I can trust. I ask God one last thing—to keep Rashid quiet until I can get back, until I have a plan. I know Rashid said that God would punish me, not him, but I don’t trust him to stay silent for too long. He’s never been able to keep a secret—especially not one that makes me look bad.
I don’t even bother lying to my family about where I’m going. I tell them I’m heading to a nearby village to see Mullah Sarwar. But I don’t tell them why. I just say I want to check in on him and make sure he is okay. They don’t question me. They know Mullah Sarwar is getting older and is in dismal health and that we became close when I left the madrassa and stayed with him for a little while. My mother won’t let me leave until I finish my bread and tea, so I quickly stuff it all in my mouth as she disapprovingly clucks her tongue.
“You’ll get a stomachache by eating that fast,” she says. I smile and kiss her hand before leaving the house. I pull out my father’s bicycle, and before I can start pedaling away, my mother rushes over with a bag full of bread, cookies and fruit. “Here, take this with you. You might get hungry along the way.” I try to explain that I couldn’t even finish what she is giving me in a week. “Good, that means you won’t run out, then! Send our salaams.” I allow her to kiss my forehead, and I begin my bumpy journey.
It takes a few hours, but I finally make it to his village. Their village is bigger than ours. It even has a small masjid where Mullah Sarwar often gives a sermon on Fridays after prayers. He’s been in charge of that masjid for almost sixty years. He says he can always tell that the situation in Kabul has gotten really bad when whatever force is shaking the capital reaches his little village. The Soviets even bombed the masjid, but the villagers got together and rebuilt it. About a decade later, when the Taliban were in power, they also made it to his masjid. They threatened to beat him and all the men in the village for not being pious enough and not growing their beards to the proper length, but ended up leaving the village alone because the men were Pashtun.
Mullah Sarwar never backed down from his teachings and was very loud about his beliefs, but he’s always gentle and kind. I think that Mullah Sarwar would be able to calm even the devil if they were ever in a room together. He was the one who saved me from myself and that madrassa when I decided to leave. He taught me to love God in my own way and not by the teachings of people who don’t understand Islam.
I knock on the door, and someone slides open the peephole and quickly shuts it. I know it’s one of the women in the family. So I just wait. A few minutes go by, and the door opens slowly. There is a little boy, probably about four, straining as he pushes the metal gate open with one hand while keeping his balance with the other. This has to be Sarwar’s great-grandson from another village. “Singaye?” I greet him, pinching his cheek. He giggles in response. “Where’s your grandfather?” The boy grabs my hand and escorts me outside to the guesthouse, where the men meet.
“Kena,” he says, directing me to sit before he runs out.
I wait in the large room decorated with carpets, curtains and long cushions. The curtains look just like the ones at my home. White cloth stitched by the women of the house with little designs, like green trees and pink birds. I sit down and stare at the patterned, handwoven rug, trying to concentrate on the floral design instead of the thoughts that bothered me on my entire trip out here. The carpet was probably made up north somewhere, maybe in Mazar-i-Sharif, the heart of carpet making in Afghanistan. For the size, it would seem maybe five people worked on this rug, flicking and pulling wool and silk for months, possibly even years. I wish I could tell them that it’s in the home of a good man.
A little more time passes, and I’m imagining what the lives of those carpet makers are like when Mullah Sarwar makes it to the guesthouse. He is weaker than he was the last time I saw him and is being helped on one side by a teenage boy and on the other side by a walking stick. His beard seems even whiter than it was when I left him a few months ago. It took me some time, living with distant family a few villages away, to find the strength to go home. The few darker hairs he had are now as white as the snow-covered mountains in the winter. I jump up to greet him, leaning down to kiss his hand.
“Singaye, zoya? Ken
a, kena bachi!” he greets me but waves me down to have a seat. “Walid, chai rawra.” He tells the teenager, who is apparently named Walid, to bring us tea. I don’t remember him from my time here; he must be visiting along with the child. I give Mullah Sarwar the bag of cookies my mother sent with me, and his patchy eyes light up. “Ah! Khajoor, my favorite! Please send my thanks to your family. May God bless them and the hands that made this.”
He sets the bag down and begins to untie the knot, the plastic crackling as he unravels it. Mullah Sarwar pulls out a khajoor and takes a bite of the thick oval cookie. He moans with delight, unaware of the crumbs that have landed on the slopes of his beard. “This is delicious! My family is trying to limit my cookies, but what they don’t know won’t hurt them.” He gives me a wink, and I respond with a quiet laugh. “So what brings you here, my boy? Are you checking to see if I am dead yet?” He chuckles.
“God forbid, Mullah Saib. Please don’t use such words,” I say. “I came to see how you were and if you needed anything.” Which isn’t technically a lie. I really did want to know how he was doing, and I’ve been meaning to take a trip out here to see him anyway.
“Well, I’m not dead, my boy, and I am happy I’m not dead because I get to see you here and share cookies!” He smiles and pats me on the back. Walid comes in holding a large thermos in one hand and two clear glasses for tea in the other. Trailing behind him is the four-year-old concentrating on a plate full of nuts and candy, obviously afraid of dropping it. Walid begins to push at the top of the thermos, pumping steaming green tea into the glasses. Mullah Sarwar kisses the four-year-old after he successfully sets the plate down in front of us. “Good job, Saleem!”