Shooting Kabul (5 page)

F
ADI CLENCHED THE BOARDING TICKET
in his fist and stared out the small round window. An expanse of feathery white clouds floated in the turquoise sky.
From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler
sat on his lap, but he hadn't read a word of it. The words kept swimming around beneath his eyes, not making much sense. With a shuddering sigh he closed his eyes, leaned back in his seat, and tried to think of something else … anything else. But he couldn't. The hot ember of guilt burned in his mind, and his thoughts flew back to the night of their escape.

˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙

Habib's anguished face appeared, begging the truck driver to turn back. But the frightened driver didn't stop. The Taliban were in hot pursuit, and he had a lot of money riding on getting his human cargo across the border. At first Zafoona didn't understand what was going on, but her pale face whitened further as Noor told her what had happened.

Zafoona sat in shock, and then she screamed, “Nooooooo!” The raw sound reverberated through the back of the truck. With superhuman strength, she lunged toward the back flap, but Noor held on to her. “We have to go back! My baby, my baby is there!” sobbed Zafoona. As illness and exhaustion overcame her, she crumpled to the ground. “She's all alone.… She's only six!”

Fadi could hear the echoes of her anguished wails as she pleaded to the other passengers to stop the truck, to go back to find her little Mariam. But the others looked away. They couldn't stop, or they would all be arrested, or worse, killed. Noor held on to her mother's sobbing body, trying to comfort her as best she could, her horrified gaze flying from her father to Fadi. Habib tried to climb out of the truck, but the other men wrestled him to the floor. He would get himself killed—either from falling off the truck or by the pursuing Taliban.

Fadi sat huddled in a corner replaying over and over
again the instant his fingers had left Mariam's hand as the truck accelerated to a breakneck pace, finally losing their pursuers in a side alley of Jalalabad's maze of streets. From there the driver drove off the main road toward the border. By the time the truck reached Pakistan, Zafoona's cries had ceased to an exhausted whimper. Habib still clung to the back railing, watching Afghanistan disappear behind them.

His father's shame flowed over Fadi as the other passengers looked at Habib with pity. Habib's
ghayrat
was in tatters. He had lost his sense of honor because he had not been able to protect his
namus
—his daughter.

But it wasn't his fault,
thought Fadi.
It was mine. I have no honor. I didn't protect Mariam.

Fadi opened his eyes and glanced to his right. Noor slouched next to him, complimentary earphones jammed into her ears. Fadi winced. The intense rhythm of drums and the discordant clang of cymbals could be heard from his seat, and he wondered if she was going to go deaf. But Noor didn't seem to notice. She sat staring down the aisle with an intense frown on her face. In her lap sat a fashion magazine she'd picked up at London's Heathrow Airport, where they had caught
their flight for the final leg of their journey. The magazine was open to a spread showing a model hiding in a tropical forest, dressed in shades of coral, resembling an orchid. Noor hadn't turned the page since they boarded the plane hours ago. Across the aisle Fadi eyed his parents. Zafoona slept, slumped in her seat, while his father reviewed the forms they'd received from the American consulate in Peshawar.

The papers had been waiting for them, arranged with the help of Habib's old college adviser in the United States. Stamped on them was the word “asylum.” The consul at the U.S. embassy had explained that the U.S. government allowed refugees to come to America if they were in danger in their own country.

We certainly were in danger,
thought Fadi, watching his father's long fingers gently refold the pages. Fadi recalled the chilly night when the family had sat down for their evening meal and the Taliban had found Habib.

“Turnip stew again?” complained Mariam. “That's three days in a row.”

“Don't complain,” said Zafoona. “There are thousands of children on the streets who don't have even a piece of
moldy bread to eat.”

Mariam crossed her arms over her chest and sat with her cheeks pooched out.

“Come,
jaan
, eat,” cajoled Habib. “If you finish, I believe there is a jar of plum jam left. Wouldn't that be nice on a piece of bread?”

“Don't spoil her,” said Zafoona with a glower. “No treats for you, young lady, until your food is finished.”

Mariam had just picked up her spoon when there was a loud knock at the front gate.

“Are we expecting guests?” asked Habib. His forehead crinkled.

Zafoona shook her head. Her eyes widened and she leapt up from her seat. “Children, upstairs now.”

“Shamim,” Habib said, and turned toward their servant. “Open the door and see who it is.”

Instead of hiding in his room as he'd been ordered, Fadi crept down to stand at the top of the stairs. With his face pressed between the balusters, he watched a line of dark turbans file into the house, met by Habib, his back straight and tense.

Shamim hurried to get tea for their guests while the group exchanged pleasantries and settled down on the cushioned floor of the living room. Fadi inched down the stairs as far as he dared to listen to the fragmented
conversation trickling up to the second floor.

“… your family is greatly honored in Afghanistan,” said a young, gruff voice. “We have heard heroic tales of how your brothers fought against the treacherous Soviets and helped defeat them.”

“One died taking out a KGB command post,” came another awed voice.

“Yes, yes,” murmured Habib's soft voice. “My brothers were honorable men who fought and died for their country …”

Fadi couldn't make out the rest of his father's words, and he leaned forward, nearly losing his balance. Another inch and he'd have tumbled down the steps.

“You are a proud Pukhtun, like most of our Taliban brothers,” murmured a deep, commanding voice. “You did a great service by getting rid of those poppy fields.”

“It was my honor to rid Afghanistan of opium, brother,” responded Habib.

“Now we need your help again, Brother Habib,” said the gruff voice.

“A man with a Western education like yours could provide great service to our country,” continued the commanding voice.

“What do you mean?” asked Habib.

“You studied in the United States, did you not?”

“Well, yes,” replied Habib. “I received my PhD in America.”

“Ever since we took power, foreign governments like the United States and France have said they will not recognize our authority to rule Afghanistan. Once again, we've been called to come before the United Nations to present our position. You could help us. You have lived among the Americans and know their ways. As our ambassador, you could convince them to accept our rule.”

Fadi sat back in shock.
Join the Taliban? As an ambassador?
He leaned over the banister, practically hanging upside down so he could hear his father's answer.

“Brothers, you honor me greatly,” replied Habib. “But I am not a leader or a politician. I am just a teacher at heart. I don't think …”

Fadi frowned. He'd lost the rest of his father's words.
Talk louder!
He was about to tip over when he felt a sharp pinch on his butt.

“Get up here, you little brat!” Noor whispered in his ear. “Do you want to get Father in trouble?”

Grumbling, Fadi retreated to his room.

As soon as the Taliban left, Fadi, his mother, and Noor hurried down the stairs, followed by Mariam, who
sleepily rubbed her eyes.

“Go to bed, Mariam,” urged Noor.

Mariam shook her head. “I'm part of this family too, you know,” she grumbled. “I want to know what's going on.” With a huff she followed them down into the living room.

Over the next half hour, Zafoona's cheeks grew pale as she paced back and forth while Habib described what had happened. “Oh, my goodness,” she said, wringing her hands. “This is terrible, just terrible.”

“I know. What a pickle.” Habib sighed, tugging at his beard. “The Taliban have become an irritation to foreign governments.”

“Well, taking in Osama bin Laden and his troublesome friends doesn't help their cause,” said Zafoona.

“But the men at the bazaar said Osama was a good friend to Afghanistan,” piped up Mariam. She'd created a fort made from cushions and was looking out of the opening. “He fought against the Soviets and saved us.”

“Oh, brother,” muttered Fadi.
Mariam is going to get it.

Habib smiled. “Yes, Mariam
jaan
. Osama bin Laden helped us fight against the Soviets. The United States even gave him money during the war. But unfortunately he is using that friendship for his own gain,
and the Taliban feel obligated to help him.”

“But, why?” asked Mariam.

“Our Pukhtunwali tenant of
melmastia
dictates that we do not turn out a guest once we have given them our hand in friendship and a place at our table.”

“Oh, Allah, have mercy,” replied Zafoona. She collapsed onto a chair and wrung her hands. “What are you going to do?”

“I can put them off for a while,” said Habib. He ran a hand through his rumpled hair. “I'll figure a way out of it.”

“There is the smell of war in the air,” said Zafoona ominously. “The Northern Alliance is bringing together warring factions to resist the Taliban. Shamim was telling me the rumors he overheard in the market.”

Fadi and Noor exchanged a worried glance. The Northern Alliance, led by General Ahmed Shah Masood, a great warrior during the Soviet war, was made up of non-Pukhtun Farsi-speaking groups. Many of the groups didn't get along and were led by corrupt warlords with unsavory reputations.

For a moment Habib's face twisted in frustration. “In the end they all want to grab power for themselves,” he said in disgust.

Unlike his brothers, who had joined the army after
high school, Habib had gone to the university. He didn't believe in war, or that violence was the way to solve problems. His dream had always been to rebuild Afghanistan and bring peace to its people. Fadi could see the disillusionment in his father's eyes.

“What are we going to do?” asked Noor, speaking up. She looked from her father back to her mother.

“We should have stayed in Madison,” muttered Zafoona.

Fadi had heard the argument before. While living in the United States, Zafoona had watched the news coming out of Afghanistan with growing concern. It had been in the spring of 1996, and Mariam had just been a year old. The Taliban had risen from eastern Afghanistan and had marched through the country, slowly gaining control.

“Are you sure we can't stay in the States, Habib?” Zafoona had asked.

“
Jaan
, my student visa runs out in a few months and we have to leave,” Habib had told her. “I could try to find a job here—that would extend our stay—but don't you think it's our duty to go back? We are educated. We can help the country get back on its feet after so many years of war. I can help the farmers improve their crop yields, so fewer people will be hungry. You can open a school, like you've always wanted to.”

Zafoona had pursed her lips in contemplation as Habib had pushed on.

“Just last night CNN was showing the Taliban's visit to the United Nations headquarters in New York. They are an amazing group of young men—inexperienced, sure, but they are bringing law and order to Afghanistan. They're getting rid of all the corrupt and brutal warlords that took over the country after the Soviets left. Many refugees are returning.” Habib had coaxed, “In your new school you could teach the kids all about the great books you love so much.”

Zafoona had smiled and relented. She knew her husband was an idealist, and in the end she'd agreed to his plan. Deep in her heart she'd also wanted to see her mother, whose health had deteriorated while they'd been in Wisconsin. Within a year of their return to Kabul, Habib's dreams had been shattered. The Taliban took control of the capital, and Kabul University was closed. The black-turbaned young men banned the education of girls, and any hope of Zafoona's opening a school was erased. The once respected and honored Taliban became what they were fighting against, the oppressive warlords and dictators that had preceded them. When the Taliban gave Habib the ultimatum to join them, Habib knew
the family could no longer stay.

The flight attendant interrupted Fadi's dark thoughts as she stopped her cart next to them. Noor snapped out of her daze and pulled out her earphones.

“We have two options for your meal today,” said the flight attendant with a white-toothed smile. “Chicken with pasta or fish over rice pilaf.”