Shooting Kabul (14 page)

“Wow, Berkeley.” Fadi whistled. He remembered driving past the sprawling campus the night before.

“Yup, he's really smart. And very helpful … with different stuff.”

“Well, it's none of my business.”

“Thanks,” she said. “It's just that I haven't made that many friends … and Tom is a really nice guy. Someone I can talk to …”

“My lips are sealed.”

She looked relieved. “So,” said Noor, changing the subject, “what's this photo club thing? A bunch of nerds clicking away?”

Fadi frowned. “No … it's nothing.”

“It's not nothing, Fadi,” said Noor. “I can see that it's important to you.”

“It's a club where you learn how to take better pictures,” said Fadi, his face stiff. “There's a competition. The winner gets to go on a photo shoot. You can go to China, Africa, or India.”

“India?” said Noor. Comprehension dawned on her
face.

“Yup, India,” said Fadi. “Right next door to Pakistan.”

“Wow,” she said with a whistle. “That's quite an opportunity.”

Fadi nodded. “But its fifty dollars to join.… It's too expensive, like Mom said. We don't have that kind of money to waste.”

Noor sat back, a calculated look on her face again. “I've seen the pictures you and Dad used to take,” she said. “They were pretty good.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“So you think you can win?”

“I'd try my hardest.”

Noor pulled out her wallet and took out two crisp twenties and a wrinkled ten-dollar bill. “I'll give you the money.”

Fadi eyed the money with longing. “I don't know,” he whispered. That money could pay bills, help with the groceries.

“Take it,” said Noor. She put the money into his hand with a conspiratorial smile. “I'm not trying to buy you off, you know.”

Fadi grinned, the weight lifting from his shoulders. Hope flared in his heart again.
This is an omen. I know I'm going to win. I just know it.

Fadi practically ran to school on Tuesday morning, Noor's money safely tucked away in an envelope in his backpack. He flew up the steps and jerked open the front door. He fairly skipped down the crowded halls on his way to homeroom. As usual, students were milling around the halls, whispering to one another. But the looks on their faces were different. Fadi glanced at the table the school tree huggers association had set up to raise money for a campaign to clean up local beaches. Their collection boxes, decorated with peace signs, stood unattended. They weren't laughing or joking around. They where whispering, and they look scared.

“Did you see the news this morning?” said a boy in a Giants cap.

Fadi slowed, pretending to adjust his backpack.

“Yeah, I can't believe it—,” said the girl next to him.

“My mom freaked out,” interrupted her friend. “She has family in New York and was trying to call them all morning.”

They gave each other anxious looks as Fadi paused.
What is going on?
he thought, a prickle of unease creeping down his spine. He hurried on to homeroom and took his seat. He had unfinished math homework to take care of.

Homeroom passed as usual, with Mr. Torres coming in late, wearing an orange-and-white striped sweater. “Good morning, guys,” he said.

The room was unusually quiet as students took their seats. Mr. Torres stood at the board, looking a bit dazed. Moreso than usual. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. He shook his head while running his hand through his rumpled hair and reached for the day's announcements. Fadi exchanged a questioning look with Patty, who was passing notes to her girlfriends. He shrugged at everyone's weird behavior. All he could think of was going to photo club at the end of the day.

As Fadi exited language arts later that afternoon, he passed by the water fountains and spotted Felix shoving a small sixth-grader out of line to take a drink. Fadi hurried on, toward the cafeteria for lunch.

“You gonna buy me lunch today, rich boy,” he heard Felix call out after him.

Pretending he hadn't heard, Fadi avoided the cafeteria, planning to hide out in the library. He passed the teachers' lounge and slowed down. The door was slightly open, and he could see Mr. Torres's loud sweater.

“I can't believe it,” said Mr. Torres. “This was no accident. Two planes hit the Twin Towers and another crashed into the Pentagon.”

“Oh, my God,” came a woman's worried voice.

Fadi stopped, waiting to hear more. The door to the lounge opened and Principal Hornstein hurried out, smoothing the wisps of gray hair around his head. He gave Fadi a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, and hurried toward his office.

By the time Fadi headed toward the art studio after school, he'd pieced together what had happened through fragmented conversations he'd heard throughout the day. Terrorists had crashed planes into two skyscrapers in New York and at the Pentagon in Washington, D.C.

Around a dozen kids were sitting in the art studio when he entered. Anh was there and smiled when she saw Fadi.

“Hey,” she said. “You made it.”

“Yeah,” said Fadi. “I made it.”

“So sorry I'm late,” said Ms. Bethune. “I received some news. My brother works at the Pentagon, you see …” She stopped for a moment, a blank look on her face.

“I heard kids talking about the planes,” blurted an Indian boy. Then he snapped his mouth shut. His face looked a little green.

“Yes, Ravi,” said Ms. Bethune, straightening her spine.
“I'm afraid there's been an attack.… Planes crashed into the Pentagon this morning, and well, my brother called to tell us he was okay.”

“Oh.” Ravi gulped as the other students looked at one another.

“I'm sure you will discuss it with your parents when you get home,” said Ms. Bethune. “I'm going to cancel photo club today, but I'll take your membership dues.”

Fadi unzipped his backpack to remove his money. His hand brushed the honey tin, and he paused. The familiar square shape filled his palm, and he gently squeezed it before letting go. He pulled out the envelope and handed it to Ms. Bethune, who was passing around sheets of paper. Fadi's heart raced as he read the title: “Take Your Best Shot Contest Guidelines.”

“Take these and read them at home,” instructed Ms. Bethune. “If you want to enter the contest, you need to give me your pictures by October eleventh. I need to send them to Société Géographique by the twelfth. Next week we can discuss what you might want to photograph, and I'll give you guys rolls of film. The following Tuesday we'll start learning how to use the darkroom.”

“Cool,” murmured Ravi.

Fadi skimmed over the page and saw that the results of the competition would be announced December
first, and the awards ceremony would take place in San Francisco the following week or so. He looked at the grand prize. The digital camera held no meaning for him. He wanted those two tickets to India. To do that he had to come up with something so original and awesome that it stood out from the rest of the entries. The rules said you could take pictures of anything; you could be as creative as you wanted to.
But what would win the competition?

B
Y THE END OF THE DAY,
Fadi knew that the world as he knew it would never be the same again. He, along with Noor and his parents, sat around their tiny television, glued to the screen. Stark, horrific images flickered in the darkened room, bursts of orange, gold, black, and smoky gray.

“This is terrible, just terrible,” whispered Zafoona. She sat on the faded brown recliner, wrapped in her shawl. Her eyes were rooted to the two majestic buildings on the screen. As flames exploded outward, the massive steel and glass structures faltered and Zafoona closed her eyes and turned away.

Noor leaned forward to flip the channel, but everywhere she clicked there was repeated footage of a plane, flying low, crashing into the second tower of the World Trade Center. “How can such solid buildings collapse?” she whispered. Gingerly her fingers touched the screen, as if trying to feel whether it was real.

“Leave it on this channel, Noor j
aan
,” said Habib.

The host of CNN had assembled a panel of terrorism experts to share their theories on who could have carried out such a well-planned attack. It was nearly ten o'clock, time for Habib to head out for the airport, but he couldn't seem to leave his seat.

Zafoona's eyes snapped open. “This is a horrific deed.… So many innocent people are dead.”

“Who did it?” Fadi wondered out loud. He leaned back against the recliner and folded his arms against his chest.

Zafoona reached down and brushed his overlong bangs away from his eyes. Her eyes cleared. “Whoever did this has no value for human life, and whatever statement they're trying to make is lost by their evil actions.”

“Yes,” said Habib. “This is an act against Allah and all of humanity. And there will be retribution.”

Fadi heard the darkness in his father's words, and it
worried him. He reached for his mother's hand and felt her fingers tighten around his.

The next day Fadi stood with his father in a grocery shop in Little Kabul, watching long, flat sheets of freshly baked bread, nearly as tall as he was, emerge from the oven. They were fifth in line, waiting their turn to pick up bread for dinner. Fadi's nose tingled as he inhaled the pleasant smell of yeast and spices while glancing at Habib. His father's face was troubled. Habib had called Professor Sahib that morning and found out that the men they'd hired hadn't found a speck of information on Mariam or the family she'd disappeared with.
Five hundred dollars down the drain,
thought Fadi glumly.

Shrugging off the feeling of disappointment, Fadi turned around to inspect the back of the store. Usually the store hummed with noise as people chatted, laughed, and exchanged jokes with the tiny white-haired owner who sat at his usual spot, next to the register. Today everything was eerily quiet. Fadi scanned the dry fruits aisle and spotted Masood, one of the two Afghan boys from his math class. Masood stood next to a table piled with cakes and cookies. As if feeling Fadi's eyes on him, he looked up, and his eyes met Fadi's. He nodded in acknowledgment.

Fadi returned the gesture.
Maybe I should go talk to him.
But he couldn't, since Habib had stepped away to pick up some canned beans, and he had to save their spot in line. Reluctantly Fadi turned his attention to a group of men huddled near the butcher's counter, dour expressions on their faces.

“Did you hear the news?” muttered one. An old scar ran down the right side of his face, giving his cheek an odd, puckered look, like he'd swallowed a lemon.

“No. What happened?” another man asked.

Fadi saw his father's attention turn toward the men as he returned to join him in line. Intrigued, Fadi's ears perked up.

“They're reporting that the nineteen terrorists were affiliated with Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda,” said the scarred man.

Fadi saw the woman at the head of the line turn pale. She took her bread, grabbed her little boy, and hurried over to the cashier.

“This is going to spell disaster for Afghanistan,” said a third man.

Fadi stiffened.
This is not good. Osama bin Laden is in Afghanistan.

“Once Osama was a hero.” A man in a leather jacket sighed. “He helped defeat the Soviets.”

“I know!” interrupted the scarred man. “We all have wounds from that war. But now Osama has turned against the United States.”

“Well, the Taliban have offered Osama
panah
, so he's not leaving Afghanistan anytime soon,” said the butcher.

He's right,
thought Fadi. According to the Pukhtunwali code of
panah
, or asylum, if a person asks for protection against his enemies, the person, in this case Osama, would be safeguarded at all costs.

“This spells big trouble,” said the butcher. He handed the scarred man a packet of meat. “It is not good that outside elements, like al-Qaeda, are ruining Afghanistan.”

“They are working with those villains the Taliban,” grumbled an older man with a cane. “We need to get rid of them both.”

Fadi saw his father frown. Others in the store stopped what they were doing and looked toward the butcher.

A tall man with narrowed blue eyes paused as he was exiting the door. His large hands gripped the bags in his hands and he turned toward the men. “The Taliban you are cursing are the ones who brought order to the country,” he said.

“They are religious zealots,” responded the older man. “They have made Afghanistan the laughingstock of the world. Now they are working with Osama.”

The blue-eyed man took a step forward, his fists clenched. “Once the Soviets left, the country was overrun by warlords. Do you want to return to that? Seventy percent of Kabul was destroyed, and hundreds of thousands of Afghans were killed. That includes every ethnic group—the blood of Pukhtuns, Tajiks, Hazaras, and Uzbeks filled the streets. The Northern Alliance is made up of the same warlords and will bring disaster to Afghanistan.”