A Long Way from Home (2 page)

Chapter 2

“Did anyone follow you?”

Omar, their neighbor, sat across from Amir, a frown on his broad face. Mama had called on him after Amir and Karim returned from the market. Breathlessly, Amir told them what had happened. They were crossing the street when two Talibs approached, demanding to know why Amir had not joined the militia. Luckily, a ruckus on the other side of the street diverted their attention, and the boys were able to get away.

“Did anyone follow you?” Omar repeated, peering at Amir with concern.

Amir shook his head. “I don't know,” he said. “I grabbed Karim's hand and ran.”

Omar's frown deepened. Turning to Mama, he said, “Amir may be in immediate danger. He must leave tonight. I will help arrange it.”

“Tonight?” Mama's face filled with anguish. “Must I lose Amir too?” she cried. “Is it not enough that Yousef was killed? That my husband was taken from me?” She glanced at Karim. “Is it not enough that my youngest child is so traumatized he can no longer speak? I have lost all my children.”

I am still here, Mama
, Rabia wanted to remind her.
I am only a daughter, but I am still your child.

Amir kissed his mother's cheek. “Mama, we both knew this day would come,” he said gently.

Rabia nodded. It had not been entirely unexpected. Amir was fourteen. For months now, the Taliban had been sweeping through the streets, drafting boys as young as eleven and twelve.

“I have to escape now, Mama,” Amir said. “Surely you do not want me to join the Taliban militia.”

“Never!” Mama shook her head fiercely. “Those brutes killed your brother. Arrested your father. I would rather die than see my a son of mine fight for them.”

Rabia's eyes brimmed. She was going to miss her big brother. Amir was smart and funny; he cheered her up whenever she was feeling down. Another unsettling thought struck her.
What will we do without Amir's salary?
He worked as an apprentice for Latif the tailor. The small wage he earned went to pay rent and buy food and necessities for the family. It was the only income they had. The Taliban forbade women to work, so Rabia and Mama could never find jobs.

Omar stood up, his gaze on Mama. “I have relatives in Iran, Ayeesha,” he said. “I will arrange for Amir to stay with them until he is settled.” Turning to Amir, he said: “Pack a change of clothes and some food. I will return after dark.”

Mama let out a long mournful sob.

“Amir is a good son.” Omar laid a steadying hand on Mama's arm. “You are blessed,” he said as he headed for the door.

Rabia heard the sadness in Omar's voice and knew he was thinking of his own son, Mahmood, who had greatly disappointed him. After his wife had died, Omar sent Mahmood to a
madrassa,
a religious school in Pakistan. He learned the Koran by heart, studied Shari'a and Islamic law, and was taught the beliefs of the prophet Mohammed. But Omar often complained that his only son had turned into a stranger overnight. He showed disrespect for his father and refused to obey him. It was out of the madrassa that the Taliban emerged. The last time Rabia saw Mahmood, she almost did not recognize him. He was patrolling the streets, a whip in his hand. With his turban and bushy beard, he looked bigger and meaner. For once, Rabia was glad she was hidden under the burqa.

Somewhere in the distance, a rocket crashed, jolting Rabia out of her thoughts.

Mama jumped nervously. “When is it going to end?” she cried. “Bombs and rockets have been falling for more than twenty years now.”

Amir put a comforting arm around his mother's shoulder. “Shhh, Mama. It is going to be okay.”

“Will they not stop until every man, woman, and child in Afghanistan is killed?” Mama continued.

Poor Mama,
Rabia thought.
After all these years, she still isn't used to the bombs and rockets.

Amir picked up a knapsack and began filling it with his clothes and belongings. Mama boiled eggs and rice for him to take on the journey. She took naan and cheese from the cupboard and filled a flask with water. All the while she cried openly, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

Amir left the house a few minutes before midnight. Karim had fallen asleep, but Rabia stayed awake to see him off. By now, Mama's eyes were red and swollen. However, she accepted Amir's leaving with a quiet calm. “May Allah be with you, my son, and keep you safe,” she said.

Rabia felt the sting of tears behind her eyelids, and bit down hard on her lip.

Amir held her close. “Take care of Mama, little sister,” he whispered. “She will be depending on you.”

Rabia hugged him fiercely.

“Latif the tailor still owes me wages,” he told her. “They will help for a while.” A shadow crossed his face. “Rabia, I think it would be best if you got out of Afghanistan. Try to convince Mama to leave.” He frowned. “I should have taken care of it myself months ago.”

Rabia squeezed his hand. She knew that as the oldest surviving son, Amir felt responsible for the family. “Don't worry, Amir. I will take care of things,” she told her brother as he stepped out into the dark night.

Chapter 3

Spring 2001

Weeks went by. Summer gave way to fall. Before long, snow covered the streets and rooftops of Kabul. By the time spring rains washed away the snow, Mama had sold most of her jewelry. Although they were careful with their money, Rabia knew it would not last forever. She stayed awake at night worrying about what would happen when they had nothing left to sell. If they couldn't pay the rent, the landlord would turn them out.

Women and girls could not survive on the streets of Kabul. Amir was right; they had to leave. Rabia was terrified at the thought of the refugee camps in Pakistan — nothing more than tents in the open air, so close together they touched. She had heard stories of how people died from starvation or perished from the cold in such places. But what choice did they have? She was a girl, not yet fourteen, with a sick mother and a brother who could not speak.

After Father was arrested, Mama often cried in secret. After Yousef died, she made no attempt to hide her tears. But now she sat for hours, her face a frozen mask. At times, she didn't seem to realize Rabia and Karim were in the same room. Rabia brought her cups of tea and urged her to eat. She made sure Karim was fed and cared for.

Would Mama mind so much if I had left?
Rabia wondered. She knew Mama loved her, but not the way she loved her sons. Rabia recalled her first week at school. “Your daughter is the brightest, most inquisitive child in the class,” the teacher told Mama when she came to pick her up. Rabia felt so proud, her heart swelled. But Mama had merely shrugged. “It is my sons who will take care of me,” she said. Rabia still couldn't think of that day without feeling a stab of rejection.

Rabia spent hours trying to get her little brother engaged in building things. Before Yousef was killed, Karim used to build bridges with books, stones, shoes — whatever he could find. “That boy is going to be a fine engineer some day,” Father used to brag. But now Karim showed little interest in anything.
Both Mama and Karim are lost to me,
Rabia thought sadly.

It was late May when a letter arrived from Mama's sister. For years there had been no real mail service in Kabul, and this was hand-delivered by some traveler. “A letter from Aunt Roxanne!” Rabia cried excitedly, as she tore open the envelope. Her aunt lived in Quetta, a city near the Pakistan border. After Uncle was killed, Aunt Roxanne moved there with her daughter, Sima. There had been no contact with her since.

The letter said that a relief organization was coming to Pakistan. They were sending refugee widows and their children to live in the United States. Roxanne urged her sister to come to Pakistan and apply for the program.

Rabia clasped the letter to her chest. It was the answer to her prayers. “Mama,” she said. “This is our chance to escape.”

“We are not refugees, child.”

“But Mama, don't you see? If we go to Pakistan, we
will
be refugees,” Rabia reasoned. “We will have to leave Afghanistan sooner or later. Now is the time.”

“My child, what will we do in America?” Mama asked wearily. “I am
not
a widow. Your father will come back someday looking for us.”

It was true. Mama was not officially a widow. Like a lot of women whose husbands had been arrested, she had no idea if Father was dead or alive. But as much as Rabia hoped and prayed for his return, she knew they could not wait for him. She couldn't let an opportunity like this pass. “Mama,” she said patiently, “We
have
to do this. We cannot stay in Afghanistan any longer. It is too dangerous.”

“What about Amir?”

Rabia peered into her mother's anxious face. “We will let everyone know where we're going,” she said. “When Amir and Father return, the neighbors will tell them where we are.”

Mama looked doubtful.

Rabia gestured toward the tiny window, the only one in the house that did not have boards nailed across its frame. Women in burqas moved through the narrow, dusty street like ghosts. Dirty, barefoot children in tattered clothing trailed after them, their arms as thin as sticks. They were widows and orphans begging for food and money. The women were not allowed to work, yet they would be severely punished if the Taliban caught them begging. “Look. That could be us months from now,” Rabia told Mama.

Rabia had seen how the Taliban punished women. Shortly after they had seized Kabul, she was out walking with Father when they chanced upon two Talibs beating a woman. Rabia couldn't imagine what crime the poor woman had committed to be beaten so savagely. Father had whisked his daughter away. She remembered sobbing against his chest while he carried her through the streets. Even now, she trembled at the memory.

But Mama came up with one excuse after another not to leave. For weeks, Rabia pleaded, argued, tried to reason. “Father would want it,” she told her mother time and time again. Finally, Mama relented.

Mama sold the last of her jewelry to pay the bus and train fare. Omar agreed to exchange the money for roupees, and offered to escort them to the bus station.

Rabia lifted the floorboard, and dug out their boxes of possessions. They could take very little with them, and books, magazines, and CDs would have to be left behind. Carefully, she took out the bracelet her father had given her. It would be easy to hide. But what about all the beautiful pictures Mama had taken over the years? Rabia could not bear to leave them behind. All she had left to remember Yousef, Amir, and Father were photographs. She found a cotton drawstring pouch and placed the envelope of photographs in it. She would carry the bag inside her burqa, she decided. The Taliban never looked under a woman's burqa.

Rabia looked sadly at Father's cherished books. Her father loved books, and at one time had shelves filled with them. He read them stories from Rudyard Kipling and poems by Afghan poets.

Father used to teach poetry at the University of Kabul. After the university closed down, he held a poetry workshop in their home. Every Tuesday afternoon women came with books and notepads hidden inside their burqas. At first Mama was against it. “If the Taliban find out, they will put us in prison,” she protested.

“I have to give the women hope,” Father said. “Without hope they will fall into despair. Besides,” he added, “we cannot let those thugs take away
all
our freedom.”

In time, Mama came to enjoy the workshops as much as the students did. Rabia too, listened with interest as they discussed various poets and their work. She especially liked the poetry of Rabia Balkhi, the first female Persian poet, and Rabia's namesake. A princess who lived in the ninth century, Rabia Balkhi fell in love with a slave named Baktash and wrote beautiful poetry for him. When her brother found out about her love for the slave, he cut her jugular vein and left her to die. As her life ebbed away, she wrote her last love poem for Baktash in her own blood. Father often said Rabia symbolized the perseverance of the Afghan women.

It is an honor to have the name of such a brave woman,
Rabia thought as she lifted the lid of another box from under the floor. On top, was the old doll she had carried everywhere before the Taliban came. In the same box, she found a video encased in plastic. It was the film
Titanic
that had been smuggled across the border from Iran. At one time, the movie was celebrated in Kabul, and her parents used to organize “Titanic parties.” Groups of friends would go to a house that had a forbidden television and watch the movie. Rabia often heard her mother discussing the film with friends. It was about the huge ocean liner that sank when it ran into an iceberg. But it was the love story between the characters Jack and Rose that held everyone's attention.

Titanic
became so popular in Kabul that in the marketplace, merchants named clothes, furniture, even fruit and vegetables after the ship. Stallholders would call out, “Get your Titanic melons here.” Bakers would shout, “We have Titanic baklava baked fresh this morning.” Boys who had seen the movie would go into barber shops and ask for a “Titanic hair cut,” so they could look like Leonardo DiCaprio, the actor who played Jack.

Smiling, Rabia shook her head. She was about to put the film back in the box, but on impulse, slipped it into her pouch.

Chapter 4

June 2001

“This is it,” the driver said, pulling the bus over to the side of the road. “The Pakistan border is just up ahead.”

“How far?” someone asked.

“About half a mile down this road.”

Clutching their bundles, Rabia and her family followed the other passengers off the bus. Rabia looked at the long stretch of road ahead of her. Exhausted by the heat and the long bus ride, she wanted only to find a place to sit. Her leg ached, and her head was starting to throb. She took her brother's hand. “Are you tired, Karim?”

He did not respond.

“How are you, Mama?” Rabia asked, turning to her mother. Mama looked too weary to take another step.

“It has been a long trip, daughter.” Her face was furrowed in pain, and Rabia knew her arthritis was bothering her.

“We are almost there, Mama.”

By now, they had slipped off their burqas and covered their hair and shoulders with
chadors
. This was still risky because the Taliban controlled the area around the Pakistan border. But the long scarves were so light compared to the burqas that Rabia couldn't help feeling better.

As they walked farther down the road, the crowd thickened. There were young people and old people, mothers with babies on their back. Like Rabia, many people had arms, legs, hands, or feet missing. Everyone looked exhausted.

“We are almost there,” Rabia whispered, as much to encourage herself as the others. The two-day bus ride over steep mountains and through rocky gorges had been brutal. At times, she expected the bus to go off a cliff and land in the valley below. She trembled whenever they came to a Taliban checkpoint and couldn't bear to think of what would happen if her pouch with the forbidden film and photographs was discovered. Hoisting her bundle, she tried not to think of that as they made their way down the dusty desert road toward the border.

Eventually, they came to a gate flanked by two buildings. Rabia's mouth dropped open. Hundreds of people were clamoring to get inside. She had not expected it to be so crowded.

Uniformed guards stood at the gate. “Stand back!” one of them ordered. He was a big man who swung a baton whenever the crowd surged toward the gate.

Rabia watched, feeling a wave of hopelessness. What chance did they stand of getting past the guards? How were they to enter Pakistan if they could not even approach the gate? The country had closed its borders in 1978 after millions of Afghans fled to escape the Soviets. Still, people went there all the time, didn't they? Aunt Roxanne must have thought it was still possible.

What do we do now?
Rabia wondered. Already the sun was starting to go down, filling the desert with shadows. Around her, people had spread mats, shawls, and blankets on the ground. Rabia found a place next to a family who had two children, a boy and a girl. The girl looked to be a little younger than Rabia; the boy was about Karim's age. “We will have to spend the night here,” she told Mama.

Mama merely nodded.

They ate the last of their naan and cheese. Mama laid her head on the ground and after a few minutes fell asleep. Karim had gone off to some unreachable place inside himself. Around her, Rabia heard a babble of conversations in various Afghan languages: Pashtu, Dari, Uzbec.
Tomorrow I will have to come up with a plan,
she told herself.
There must be some way to get inside Pakistan.

The family sitting next to them seemed friendly, and after some time they struck up a conversation. The mother and father, Zoya and Sayeed, were Hazara people who had traveled from the province of Bamiyan. The Taliban bore a particular hatred for the Hazares, and often killed them for no good reason. Rabia could understand why Sayeed was anxious to get his family out of Afghanistan.

“I didn't expect it to be this crowded,” Rabia admitted. “I don't know how we are going to get inside.”

“Tonight we are headed for the mountains,” Zoya said. “We will enter Pakistan from there.”

“The mountains?”

Zoya nodded. “It will take about three days and it is very dangerous.”

There were wild animals in the mountains, but most likely Zoya was thinking of the thieves and bandits who roamed the area. Rabia looked down at her artificial foot. It would be difficult, but she could make it if she had to. She never let her “handicap” get in the way of anything she wanted to do. But then she glanced at Mama, who was asleep beside her.
No,
she decided.
It is out of the question. Mama would never make it through the mountains. Not with her arthritis and swollen feet.

“There may be another way,” said Sayeed, who had been quietly listening to their conversation.

Rabia looked up at him hopefully.

“But you will need money,” he continued.

“Money?” Rabia felt the glimmer of hope leak away. What little money they had left would be needed for the train to Quetta, for cab fare, and food.

Sayeed tilted his head toward the gate. Rabia followed his gaze. She noticed a smaller opening, off to one side of the main gate, where people were quietly approaching the guard. It took her a moment to understand he was accepting bribes. Rabia's heart quickened.
How much money would we need?

“It is not cheap,” Sayeed said, as if reading her thoughts. “A friend of mine paid two thousand roupees.”

Rabia shook her head, all hope gone. That was more money than they had.
There has to be another way,
she told herself.

That night, while everyone else was sleeping, Rabia tossed and turned. Had they come this far for nothing? They could not stay at the border forever. What would they do if they couldn't get into Pakistan? Returning to Kabul was out of the question.

Rabia was still awake when Zoya and her family got up for their long trek over the mountains. It was past midnight, and the moon and stars were shrouded with thick clouds. Rabia listened as they moved quietly in the darkness, gathering their belongings.

“May Allah bless you, sister,” Sayeed said before they left.

“Have a safe journey,” Rabia told them. “I will pray to Allah to keep you safe.” Rabia watched with envy as Sayeed put his arm around his daughter's shoulder.

She thought of her own father, her throat tightening with longing. A wave of loneliness swept through her. She needed Father's gentle wisdom to guide her in this difficult time. Not so long ago, she had been a child depending on her parents. Now she felt as if the weight of the world had settled on her shoulders.

All night long, Rabia lay on the hard ground picturing Father's face, imagining the words he might say to her. By the time she drifted into a troubled sleep, she had a plan that might work.
It is our only chance
, she told herself.

When Rabia awoke, it took her a few moments to realize where she was. Mama was still sleeping. Karim sat nearby, staring vacantly at the people around him.

“Mama, wake up.” Rabia shook her mother. “I have a plan.”

Less than ten minutes later, they were standing at the gate. A fat man in a uniform frowned at them. He had a thick neck and small eyes like raisins.

Rabia swallowed back her fear. “My family…we would like to go to Pakistan.”

“Where are your passports?” the guard demanded.

Rabia's mouth went dry, but she forced out the words. “We do not have passports.”

The guard eyed her suspiciously.

With trembling hands, Rabia opened her pouch, and took out her treasured bracelet. “But I do have this.”

The guard took the bracelet. “Are you offering it to me?” He seemed amused.

Rabia's pulse was pounding, her palms sweating. “It is gold and very valuable. It should fetch a good price in the marketplace.”

The guard examined the bracelet closely. Rabia wanted to snatch it from his pudgy fingers. It was her bracelet, her gift from Father. It had her name engraved on it. But she knew Father would say that this was no time to be sentimental.

“We are all alone, and except for my little brother, we do not have males in the family.”

The border guard smiled, a glint in his eye.

Rabia held her breath.

“Okay, little sister,” he said. “I am a kind man with a kind heart. Since you have no males to protect you, I will let you through.”

“Thank you,” Rabia whispered as she gestured for Mama and Karim to follow her. Already, the guard was pocketing her treasured bracelet.

Without another glance back, Rabia walked though the gate that would lead to freedom.