Refuge (29 page)

“Before we begin, I’d just like to say that I missed you all very much,” she says.

A chorus of ‘we missed you too’ rings out.

“And now I’m back we’re going to have to work extra hard to make up for lost time. Now who can tell me what you’ve been doing in my absence?”

A host of hands go up. Noor glances towards the front row and the second desk on the left. She’s surprised to find Sawdah, an intense, snub-nosed Tajik girl sitting there. Noor’s eyes dart across the faces of the other girls.

“Where’s Kamila?” she says.

“No one told you?” Hila says.

“Why would I be asking the question if they had?”

“She’s getting married this Friday.”

Noor puts a hand on her desk to steady herself.

“Who to?”

“A cousin, I think, from Jalozai.”

Noor sees the same worry writ across every one of her student’s faces: ‘There but for the grace of Allah go I.’ Noor picks up her history textbook and finds her hands are shaking.

“Please read the section on Indira Gandhi in chapter four.”

Noor sprints down the corridor, the sound of the Arabic chanting from Miss Layla’s class pounding in her ears. She opens the door to the headmistress’s anteroom. Miss Suha looks up from typing a letter.

“Back so soon.”

“I need to see the headmistress.”

“She’s unavailable.”

The click clack of Miss Suha’s typewriter starts up again.

“Why didn’t you tell me Kamila was being married off? Noor says.

“Oh, that’s why you’re here?”

Noor stares Miss Suha down.

“It was of no importance, she’s no longer a student so she’s no longer our problem.”

“She’s twelve. It’s illegal.”

“Oh come on, I know you’re not that naïve.”

“We can’t stand around and do nothing.”

“No, you’re right, we can get off our self-righteous asses and go back to what we’re paid to do. Now I know what you’re thinking‌—‌Suha’s the devil‌—‌but that’s where you’re wrong, young lady, because the devil deceives and that’s one thing I never do. You, on the other hand, well that’s another matter, throwing out concepts in class like freedom and empowerment as frivolously as rice at a wedding. Are you blind when you walk around the camps? We Afghan women are born in shackles and die with them still attached to our ankles. All you create is greater despair in these girls’ lives for you can’t mourn the loss of something you never knew about in the first place.”

“I think the headmistress will disagree.”

Noor makes for the headmistress’s door.

“Oh my dear, you really are naïve. She may pretend to believe in those things, she couldn’t keep her job if she didn’t, but she lost any hope long ago.”

Noor stops, for once unsure of herself.

“While there’s life, there’s hope,” Noor says.

“Yeah and I bet whoever said that was rich and male. Now away with you.”

Noor gladly leaves. How she makes it through the rest of the day she doesn’t know. There is the discussion on her return regarding Indira Gandhi in which the girls want to focus less on Gandhi as a woman and more on her being a barbarous Hindu; there is the staff meeting where the news of Kamila’s impending marriage is treated as matter of factly as a report of rain on the horizon; then lunch where the chicken seems to have come from hens placed on a starvation diet; there’s ‘play’ to be supervised; and one more session in class, this time English. They’re reading
The Secret Garden
right now, and Noor can’t help but wish there was such a place for her to hide Kamila in.

The school bell rings and Noor looks up. The girls are leaning forward like runners on their starting blocks.

“You can go,” she says.

The girls run out. Noor listens to the wind whistling outside. Winter is late this year but today it’s announcing its imminent arrival. The shutters slam against the side of the building, and Noor goes to fasten them. She looks out the window at the deep red sun setting over the Khyber Mountains. Down below students and teachers are streaming out of the school, dust and trash whirling around them. She notices a black SUV parked across the street. It isn’t a father waiting to pick up a student; none of the girls have fathers rich enough to buy a car let alone a brand new, Japanese 4x4. No, whoever’s inside has to be watching the school for some other reason, and the more Noor thinks about it the only reason that makes any sense is that they’re waiting for her.

Noor yanks the shutters closed and stands there, her breathing shallow. Her first instinct is to flee out the back, but only dusty fields surround the school. They’ll be able to cut her off. She could wait them out but that leaves open the possibility that they might come inside. And then she fastens on a solution. She runs down the corridor and finds Miss Layla in her classroom writing Quranic verses on the chalk board.

“As-Salaam Alaykum,” Noor says.

Miss Layla turns. Despite her sixty years, her hair is still jet black.

“Wa’alaykum asalaam,” Miss Layla says.

“This may be a terrible inconvenience but I was wondering if you had a burqa I might borrow?”

“I thought you deplored their very existence.”

“Things have changed lately, I’m getting a lot of unwelcome attention on the buses, I’d feel safer wearing one.”

Noor feels like the ground is swallowing her up each time she lies.

“Then why didn’t you wear one to school today?” Miss Layla says.

“I’m ashamed to say my father is so ill I cannot afford one right now.”

Noor hears a man’s voice and edges further into the classroom.

“I don’t care what the headmistress told you,” Miss Layla says, “you were a good Muslim daughter to stay home with him.”

Noor sees a shadow cross the frame of the door and turns her face away.

“Get out of here, Imran,” Miss Layla says.

Noor looks over at the gangly old janitor standing there in his grey shalwar kameez. He gives her a toothless smile before scuttling away.

Does Kamila’s husband look like him?

“You’re in luck,” Miss Layla says. “I have an extra.”

Miss Layla retrieves a light blue burqa from her cupboard. Noor places it over her head, the garment wrapping around her body like an invisible cloak. Her urgent breathing dominates its interior, but already she feels safer.

“Thank you,” Noor says.

Noor makes her way out of the building and crosses the courtyard. She stops short of the school entrance hoping to find a couple of teachers she might accompany. There are none. She takes a deep breath and walks out the entrance and towards the main road.

Don’t look back
.

The wind gets under the burqa and threatens to rip it off. Noor wrenches it back down. She hears a vehicle approach from behind and stares straight ahead. An old Datsun pick-up passes by.

Thank you, Allah.

She comes to the road and huddles next to a group of burqaed women. She glances back. The SUV is still parked there. A bus pulls up, and she gets on board. As it pulls away, she realizes she’s heading the wrong way and towards the refugee camps. An opportunity has presented itself. At the intersection of Jamrud Road and Nasir Bagh Road, Noor struggles off the bus and joins the crowds. Another bus pulls up, and she forces her way on board. The bus soon leaves the city behind and heads down a road lined with sporadic trees and grey tilled fields. None of the men offer her a seat.

Charlie would’ve offered me his.

The bus comes upon Nasir Bagh refugee camp, and she gets out. She hadn’t thought it possible that there could be another place on earth more forlorn than Kacha Gari but here it is, a mixture of poorly constructed katche huts and battered tents. The tents billow in the wind, their guide ropes straining to keep them attached to the hardscrabble ground. Any cart sellers that there might have been have fled, and soon Noor finds herself standing alone, her fellow passengers scurrying into the distance.

Noor remembers Kamila once mentioning that her family’s tent was close to the camp’s main mosque, but in the fading light, she fails to see it. The muezzins start up, and Noor detects a chant that’s louder than the rest.

That has to be it.

Men start coming out of their tents, and she follows them. She stumbles down one path after another until the mosque is right in front of her. It’s an unimpressive concrete block with an impressive number of men lined up out front. Noor realizes Kamila’s father must be amongst them.

This is your chance.

She hurries down a row of tents and sees a woman tending a pot of boiling water.

“Do you know a young girl by the name of Kamila Samim?” she says.

“What’s it to you?” the woman says.

“I’m her teacher.”

The woman pulls back the front of the tent.

“Zahara,” she says.

A girl, maybe a year younger than Kamila, sticks her head out the tent.

“Show this woman to Kamila’s tent.”

Zahara crawls out. She reaches out her hand, and Noor takes it. They take off in a zig-zag fashion around the tents.

“Are you here to offer her congratulations?” Zahara says.

“Something like that.”

Zahara points at a large, patchwork tent.

“There it is,” she says.

Zahara runs away. Noor raises the front of her burqa and stares at it. Inside she can make out five, perhaps six women moving about. Kamila must be one of them.

“Hello,” she says.

No one responds. She edges closer and places her lips next to the fabric.

“Excuse me.”

The entrance snaps open, and a woman steps out. Noor knows the type well. Her worn face makes her look like she’s in her late forties, yet it’s doubtful she’s even out of her twenties.

“I’m looking for Kamila Samim’s mother,” Noor says.

“Yes.”

“My name’s Noor Jehan Khan, I’m her teacher. I thought I’d come by and visit, tell you how well Kamila’s doing.”

The woman’s eyes narrow.

“On a night like this?” she says.

“She’s an exceptional student.”

“Good to know.”

The woman turns to go back inside.

“I think Kamila could really benefit from another year at the school,” Noor says. “If you kept her there longer, her marriage prospects would only increase.”

The woman turns back.

“So it’s you who’s been planting all these ideas in her head.”

“I have only taught her things that the Prophet, peace be upon him, would approve of.”

“I told my husband not to send her there.”

“It was a courageous decision, I promise you.”

“And now here she is crying so hard even a good beating can’t force an end to it.”

“I beg you, convince your husband to stop this marriage.”

The woman pushes Noor, and Noor staggers backwards.

“You think it’s easy feeding six kids,” the woman says.

“I’m sure the school can help—”

“You think we can afford to keep a girl around who has her nose stuck in books all day.”

“You don’t understand—”

“No, it’s you who doesn’t.”

The woman shoves Noor so hard that Noor topples over, her head whiplashing against a guide rope on the way down. Noor struggles back up onto her feet.

“You can’t do this,” Noor says. “It’s not right.”

The woman swings her fists at Noor’s face. Noor grabs a hold of the woman’s wrists and holds her off.

“Please,” Noor says.

The woman shrieks, and, out the corner of her eye, Noor sees the tent flap open, and another woman emerge. Kamila’s mother breaks Noor’s grip and digs her nails into Noor’s cheek. Noor cries out. The second woman punches Noor in the stomach. Noor tumbles over and the blows begin raining down. Noor guesses that a third woman, perhaps even a fourth, has joined the fray. Hands punch her in the ears, rip at her breasts, pummel her in the back, pull at her hair, dig their nails into her buttocks.

Oh Lord, I’m going to die right here.

Noor tries to crawl away, however a hand yanks her head up and drives her face into the ground. Her nostrils fill with dirt. She can’t breathe.

And then just like that the blows stop.

Noor twists on her back expecting a final coup de grace. It never comes. The women have gone. She looks towards the mosque; the men are returning from evening prayers. She crawls in between two tents and realizes Kamila’s mother likely meted out a similar beating on Kamila. Noor begins to cry. Miss Suha was right. She hasn’t helped these girls, she’s only brought greater despair into their lives.

***

AAMIR KHAN GLANCES
at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Twenty past ten.

“Where are you?” he mutters.

For the last hour he’s told himself that Noor’s still at school, forced to work late after her ten day absence, but as the minutes have ticked by that explanation’s become ever more fanciful.

“Where are you? Dear God, where are you?”

Scenes play out in his mind, scenes he’s had many years to hone. Noor walking home. A car coming up behind her, a couple of young men up front; mustaches, no beards, youthful attempts at looking debonair. They are blasting Indian pop music, passing a cigarette laced with hashish between them. One of them notices Noor and says something to his friend. The car arcs in the road, and Noor stands there frozen in its headlamps. The men throw her in the back. She screams, and the passenger punches her in the head. When she comes to they’re dragging her into a room where each has his way with her. Noor begs for mercy, but they don’t stop. Finally sated one slits her throat. They throw her back in the trunk and dump her on some waste ground. Another dead Afghan refugee no one will give a damn about.

No one but me.

Aamir Khan swallows, his mouth dry, his breathing labored. He knows there’s no point in going to the police. A missing refugee in a city of millions; there could be no lower priority. Worse yet they could be involved. The scenes replay in his mind except this time the car is a police pick-up and the men sweat-stained police officers.

‘Look after them for me’—those had been Mariam’s final words to him.

“Oh Mariam,” he cries out, “how I have failed you.”