THREE
On the last day of winter and the final day of the Afghan calendar year, Masih and Nadia woke up at five in the morning as the sun was still crawling up on the other side of the mountains. An hour later, they left their house in Kart-e Parwan and headed for Deh Darya, The River Village about forty miles to the northwest of Kabul. To reach the village, they boarded one bus to Maiwand Boulevard in downtown, and took another toward Deh Darya. The second bus was owned and operated by Khalifa, the master, Zaman, a longtime family friend.
Dents and scratches on every side marked the insipid white paint of the battered vehicle. As she began to roar and roll, her windows shivered and metal collided against metal, plastic, or glass. With each gear that Khalifa Zaman shifted, her aged diesel engine growled louder, like a wounded beast.
Driving on the dirt road outside the city’s parameters, Khalifa constantly turned and twisted the steering wheel, less than an inch away from his protruding stomach. He avoided potholes, rocks, and puddles, mushrooming one after the other on the way to the village. Despite the fact that he had traveled along this road back and forth six days a week for many years, from time to time he would miss an obstacle. One of the tires would fall into a pothole or roll over a rock. The “Palang,” Tiger, as Khalifa Zaman called it, would bounce up and down and swing from side to side; a kayak caught in a turbulent ocean. The passengers, sitting or standing, would then have to hold on to any piece of metal or plastic they could reach to avoid banging heads with each other or against the ceiling.
Nadia and her son were used to the ride and its hills and valleys. While Masih had made dozens of journeys to Deh Darya in this vehicle, Nadia has been riding in it since the time she was a student at Kabul University’s School of Literature. Back then, Masih wasn’t even born. Khalifa had struck a friendship with Nadia and her husband. In fact, over the years, he had made friends with most of Deh Darya’s households, including Baba Sekandar’s family. Therefore, now and then, villagers would invite him and his family to participate in special events and attend parties.
***
Deh Darya settled near the riverbank and on the foothills of the Hindu Kush. From those mountains, streams of melted snow flowed and poured into the river, passing through the village with its wineries, orchards, vegetable gardens, and lush fields of wheat and maize. It gave life to the village and its surroundings.
On the side of the road that led to the village, Sori’s mother, Mahro laid to rest in the cemetery. Nadia and Masih paused in front of her grave, prayed, and continued to stride toward the first mud house on the outskirts of Deh Darya, where Mahro once lived with her husband, Sekandar, and their sons, Jawad and Aziz. On the opposite side, the unruly river galloped down the mountains, crashing against rocks and boulders of different sizes and shapes.
Apple, cherry, pear, and peach trees stood naked in Baba Sekandar’s orchard and vegetable garden. Attached to it was the house that he had built with his own hands and with help from the chief, Qayoum Khan, the man who owned most of the land in the area.
***
Nadia and Masih crossed the road and continued to walk under the aged mulberry and kingberry, blackberry trees—all lined up along the riverbank. Judging by the thickness and rugged look of their wrinkled trunks, someone must have planted them a long time ago—someone considerate, who had placed them in equal distances from each other. The ample space allowed them to spread their roots, stretch their arms, and fill them with as many leaves and berries as they wished. No one knew whose ancestor had done such a great service to the community. Nevertheless, many believed that this person must have been one of the first individuals who had settled near the banks of the river, hence laying the foundation for Deh Darya.
***
As they arrived at Baba Sekandar’s house, Masih picked up the heavy knocker and tapped it against the thick metal plate attached to the gate. A few seconds later, he heard the jingle of Sori’s bangles on the other side of the nine feet mud-wall as she approached to open the gate.
“Who is it?” Sori asked.
Nadia answered, “It is your aunt.”
Sori unhooked the chain in a hurry, and opened the gate, “Salam, hello, what a surprise!” her eyes glittering with excitement.
Trying to conceal at least some of his own delight, Masih mumbled a simple greeting, “Salam.”
The women hugged and planted several kisses on each other’s cheeks. Next, it was Masih’s turn. As usual, Sori bent a notch and clenched his face with her scrawny right hand, burying her thumb in one cheek, and four fingers in the other. She then deposited two loud and juicy kisses on each side of his face, the kind people of Deh Darya referred to as pachi, with sound effect and all. At first, Masih’s face changed color to a bright pink. But by the time he had stepped inside, it blazed with red, not only because he was embarrassed, but also because he was irritated.
When was she going to treat him like an adult? When was anybody going to treat him like a man? After all, in less than nine months, Masih would turn sixteen. Still he had to get permission from his mother for everything he did, and be treated like a little boy by Sori, who by the way, was only four years older than he was. So what if he had not begun to shave yet? So what if he was an inch or two shorter than she was? One of these days, he would strike back: Don’t treat me like a kid. I am FOURTEEN years old!
Regretfully, once again he had lost that opportunity.
Masih, Nadia, and their cheerful host crossed the front yard. They passed by Sori’s little rose garden. Preparing to thaw, about a dozen frozen branches huddled in the center of the yard. In about four to six weeks, red, yellow, pink, and white buds would begin to bloom, surrounded by burgeoning baby leaves. Then, the front yard would turn into a blossoming mini garden.
The guestroom was better exposed to the sunshine, always tidy, and a couple of feet wider than the other room across the small hallway.
“Sori Jan, my soul,” Nadia always called to her with this expression of endearment—the way Sori’s mother would have called her, “come my daughter, sit next to me,” she said, leaning against a spotless white pillow.
From a china teapot, Sori poured green tea, sprinkled with a pinch of cardamom powder into aunt Nadia’s cup, “I just brewed some tea, as if I knew you were coming. Let me prepare for lunch; I’ll be right back.” She stepped out and disappeared into the kitchen across the yard.
Sitting on one of the two mattresses in the room, Nadia turned to Sekandar and asked one of the usual icebreakers, “So, how has the weather been Baba?”
“Wallah, by God, not too bad. With His blessing, we have had many solid weeks of snow and rainfall. Ensha’Allah, God-willing we won’t be left hungry.” He took a long sigh and added, “Only if those Godless government boys leave us alone.” Old age had carved deep creases around the bags hanging under his green eyes, and across his wide forehead. Not even a strand of dark hair had tainted his thick, well-kept beard.
“That’s surprising. You are not even a feudal like Qayoum Khan.”
“The problem is not that they want to bother me. Actually, they want to help me,” Baba chuckled, exposing a handful of unhealthy teeth left intact in his mouth.
“How so?”
“Well, based on government’s number-eight Farman, decree, they are distributing most of Qayoum Khan’s land to landless farmers like me. They are taking it from the king and giving it to the beggar, so to speak,” he sighed, reaching for the hot teacup and holding it in the palm of his craggy wrinkled hand, as if his skin didn’t even feel the heat.
“Did they actually come and tell you that?”
“No, last month they came in the mosque. Mulla Salim didn’t seem happy about it, but they came in anyway. They announced that they’ll begin distributing most of Qayoum Khan’s land to landless farmers before the beginning of the new growing season.”
“What are you going to do now?” Nadia asked, frowning.
“There is nothing I can do. Of course, I want to tell them what they are doing is against God’s rule. Too bad, they are communists. They follow the Lenin’s Law. The land belongs to the person who works it. That’s what they say; that’s what they believe. But that’s not what we believe. We are Muslim, you know. We say the land belongs to whoever is blessed and destined by God to own it. Trouble is, as soon as you mention God, they think you are the enemy.”
“Yes Baba, I have seen their slogans all over the city. But you have always stood behind Qayoum Khan, in his good days and in his bad. You are a man of honor.”
“You know what? Even if it were halal, permissible in Islam, I would never agree to loot Qayoum Khan’s land. My conscience and my ghairat, honor wouldn’t allow me.”
“They don’t know anything about our ways, Baba. They think what they are doing is helping the poor, making people happy. But in reality, they are making everybody’s lives miserable,” Nadia said, shaking her head.
“The good news is that Sarwar has just come back from Pakistan. He is putting together a group of mujahedin, fighters. My sons are the first to sign up. This time, if those apostates return, I am sure we can deal with them,” Baba leaned against the wall with a fixed gaze at the wooden beams running under the ceiling.
Helpless in offering an alternate solution, Nadia said, “God is kind. He will show us some light.”
***
In a small windowless kitchen near the well, Sori lifted her head up from the blazing mouth of the tanor, clay-oven. Then, she stretched another dough ball on the smooth surface of a long wooden board. It was soon to be transformed into a steaming bread loaf. The aroma of smoke mixed with the delicious waft of freshly baked bread filled the air.
“I think you are in trouble. Tomorrow is Nawroz, New Year’s Day,” Sori said.
“What do you mean?” Masih asked. He sat squatting with his back against the blackened wall.
“Well, Baba is going to take you to the mosque, and you don’t even know how to pray. Aren’t you worried about that?”
“I know how to pray,” he answered swiftly.
“Really? And when did you learn to do that?”
“Father taught me. I have prayed in the mosque with him many times. Last Eid, I prayed with Baba too.”
“Yes, but that Eid was months ago. By now, you must have forgotten how to pray,” she said trying not to grin.
“No, I remember. I pray all the time. I am not a kafer, an infidel like you.”
“My God! Shame on you calling me kafer. You are the maktabi, school boy, not me,” she smiled.
“What are you talking about? You have been going to school for the past twenty years.”
“You are insulting me now. I have never been a lazy student,” Sori laughed.
“We’ll see. You might be right only if you graduate.”
“For your information, there won’t be any graduation for me. I used to be a student and a good one too, but no more,” Sori said. Then she leaned down, reached inside the oven, and slammed the elongated dough onto the smoldering wall licked by the blazing fire from the bottom.
“Why not?”
“Well, last week, that Chaqo-kash, knife-fighter who calls himself a mujahed, burned the school down.”
She was referring to none other than Sarwar, Qayoum Khan’s only son. He had earned the nickname by carrying a knife in his pocket and not hesitating to use it in a fight.
“What? Why would he do something like that?” Masih shook his head in disbelief.
“Apparently, during a Friday prayer, Mulla Salim had issued a fatwa, decree that those who send their kids to school are committing a sin. He said the government was brainwashing the children to turn them into communists. He gave people a choice: stop sending your kids to school, or it will be scorched.”
“And people didn’t listen?”
“Most didn’t. I didn’t. Education is my God-given right. Plus, I thought he was just bluffing. I didn’t think that anybody, especially a mulla could actually burn a school down. I don’t know, maybe that is how God wants things to be. First, He took my mother away, and now He sent Sarwar to destroy all of my dreams.” It wasn’t just the sting of smoke, rising from the oven, that flooded Sori’s eyes with tears. She wiped her cheeks with the corner of her colorful scarf and bent toward the fire to take out a baked bread.
Was there anything Masih could tell her to alleviate the sadness of a lost dream, the pain of watching a bright future fade away?
“God is kind,” he said the same reassuring phrase that he had heard from adults all his life, “once the Soviets are gone, everything will be okay.”
As a tear rolled down Sori’s cheek, she managed to force a smile, “You sound just like your father.”
Although Masih had no idea how the Afghans could make the Soviet tanks and helicopters disappear, he meant what he said. Battling a superpower was not going to be easy. Yet, if they defeated the Brits, not once but three times, they could beat the Soviets too?
***
On every occasion that Sori went to Kabul, or Dr. Sharif visited Deh Darya, they talked about the health clinic that, one day, together they would establish in the village. She would ask Uncle Doctor a number of questions about becoming a doctor, discuss scientific matters, and seek advice on how to pass the entrance exam for Kabul University. Dr. Sharif would patiently listen to her concerns and answer her questions. Then, they would somehow engage in a debate about an issue concerning women’s rights, health, or education. Dr. Sharif had attended a medical school in the U.S. Therefore, he would offer his comparative analysis of women’s struggles and achievements in America versus those of their counterparts in Afghanistan. Sori, of course, would express her own opinions, many of which did not match those of Dr. Sharif’s.
He insisted that the plight of Afghan women would improve if the economy developed and if the political system, by some miracle, transformed into a democratic one. Often, he would offer the example of democracy in action in the U.S. as he had witnessed it firsthand. “Look at America,” he would say, extending his arm toward the window, as if America was outside in the courtyard, “as democracy took roots there, women and minorities were able to secure their rights. If a democratic system were established in Afghanistan, the same thing could happen here.”
“Uncle, Afghanistan is not America,” she would argue, “Afghan women can’t afford to wait a hundred years for democracy to take roots. If the conditions are not right, they have to change it, make it right.”
As minutes passed by, and the debate boiled on, Sori spoke louder and less clear, using frequent head and hand gestures. Almost every time though, when she returned to Deh Darya, or he went back to Kabul, Sori wondered if she had crossed the line with excessive audacity. Her father’s criticism of her bold, outspoken style with Dr. Sharif didn’t help either. Remorse would burden her mind until she saw Uncle Doctor again, and took the opportunity to apologize for what could have been perceived as rude behavior.
“Sori, you shouldn’t apologize for expressing your views. You know what they say; nobody distributes candy in a fight. Always voice your opinions.” Not once did Dr. Sharif think that she was ill mannered. In fact, he admired Sori’s ability and courage to articulate and express her thoughts with such great passion.
Despite their disagreements, what they always agreed on was the necessity for establishing a health clinic in Deh Darya. Repeatedly, they thought out and talked about how to build and manage this clinic. Once it is established, no other woman would lose her life during childbirth, the way Sori’s mother did. Deh Darya and the surrounding villages needed a health facility where mothers could get their children vaccinated, and where the elderly could seek treatment for their ailments. If there were a health clinic in the area, villagers would no longer have to travel long distances to reach a doctor in Kabul. This clinic would be a place within people’s reach, a place they could rely on to obtain health services. Sori had dared to dream and had the confidence to believe in herself. Therefore, she had won Dr. Sharif’s admiration and support. “God willing, we will build it together. I am as committed to this project as you are,” he had assured Sori.
To transform her dream into reality, Sori had decided to become a doctor, specializing in treating children’s ailments. That meant, according to Dr. Sharif, she would have to become a pediatrician.
“My daughter, you have the eshq, the passion, and the intelligence to achieve your goals. I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t be able to succeed.” Then, he would quote Hafez:
Hargez namirad anke delash zenda shod ba eshq
Sabt ast bar jarida-e alam dawam-e ma
A heart alive with love will never die
Our immortality is inscribed in the journal of the universe
Sori had a destination in mind, and she had mapped out a clear path as to how to get there. Study hard, pass the university entrance exam, become a doctor. Then, open the health clinic. God willing, it will take about six to eight years to execute the plan. She had figured it all out.
Unfortunately, now there was no school from which she could graduate and move on to study medicine. Along with the school, Sarwar had torched her dreams as well, and she could do nothing to change that.