Less Than a Month

Less Than a Month

I’m burning on the inside, and the heat out here is not helping either. There is no shade, and I have no choice but to endure the burning sun. I draw meaningless circles in the dirt with my finger to pass the time. I grab the water bottle and drink it down at once. The water is warm. Warm water makes you thirstier. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I am my children’s only hope.

I look at Soraya and Mahdi. They are sitting by the barbwire. What will they do if anything happens to me? Will they be able to take care of themselves? I’m sure they will. I was younger than they are now when I had to start taking care of myself. I had a primary school education. They have university degrees. I’m sure they’ll be fine. I burst into tears when I realize it took less than a month for all my hopes and dreams to be shattered. Soraya wanted to start her master’s. She insisted I get her a passport. I wanted to plan Mahdi’s engagement. I had suspected he wanted to get married. I knew he had someone in mind once he started going outside to the yard to use his phone. He’d say it was a classmate or a co-worker, but I knew he was in love. She must have been his co-worker. When he was doing his military service, he didn’t care about his appearance, but once he started working, he began paying more attention to his hair and clothes.

Even though I’m crying, looking at my son makes me laugh. He’s never had a beard before now! It doesn’t suit him at all. A beard looks good on a man who can grow it. Mahdi’s beard is patchy. I can count the hairs on his face on one hand. He’s always hated growing a beard and thinks it makes him look older, but now he has to. The facial hair does make him look old. He is only twenty-four years old but looks thirty. Soraya, on the other hand, looks sick without makeup. When she was in college, I could not persuade her to tone it down. Once the Taliban came, she stopped wearing it on her own. Not even a lip gloss, which she badly needs. Her lips are chapped. She keeps peeling the dried skin with her fingernails.

When I look back at my children, my heart aches.

Am I wrong to want to leave my country? I want to save my own life and my children’s lives, but what about the lives of others? My friends? My neighbors?

No! Why should I feel sorry for others? They were always kind to my face but gossiped behind my back anyway. When I heard that one of Soraya’s suitors had asked the neighbors about us, I wanted to knock on every door and ask what they’d told him that had changed his mind about marrying her. I should have asked what I had done to deserve this, what sin had I committed?

My only failing was becoming a police officer. But what was I supposed to do? I had to feed my children. What kills me the most is that they always praised me to my face and said I was brave. But I knew deep down, they didn’t approve of me. They looked down on a policewoman. Not to mention, I was a widow. Every time I’d pass them by, I could hear their whispers, but I had to pretend it didn’t bother me. A few times, I considered moving, but I didn’t have the heart to leave the house that, brick by brick, bore the memories of my Murad.

***

Less than a month ago, I would get up early to get ready for work. I had to leave early to catch the bus. I always complained about the early mornings and missing breakfast with my family. And I always missed parties and gatherings because I had to work late. This used to make me angry, but today I’d give anything for those long work hours, early mornings, and hurried breakfasts. It was tough, but I was living. There was life. There was hope. Today, there is uncertainty and a fear of tomorrow. The Taliban has declared a general amnesty, but I don’t believe a word. I still remember losing my dearest friend and colleague, Golsoom, in a police car blast. It pains me to think about it; my whole body floods with anger and hatred.

Soraya stands up and walks hopelessly toward me. “Is the road still closed?” She tries to wipe the dirt off her dress.

“Yes, sweetheart,” I say. “They will call us.”

I should have realized it was too good to be true when so small a crowd gathered. If they wanted to let people like us cross the border, there should have been a massive crowd like the one at the airport.

We even went all the way to Kabul and stayed for a few days hoping to be called to the airport there. Whenever I heard an airplane takeoff, I’d pray that we would be on the next one, but there was a bombing, and the Germans got scared. They said if we could get to Uzbekistan on our own, they would take us from there. When we turned around to come back, I was terrified that the neighbors would rat us out to the Taliban.

I’m terrified of the Taliban. They executed a policewoman when they took control of Ghazni. I hope, if anything were to happen, at least they leave my children alone. They are young and have their whole lives ahead of them.

I would have never chosen to join the police force if I’d had any other options. I couldn’t find anything else. Murad had just been killed in a car accident. A hit and run. I had to provide for my children somehow. My brother-in-law couldn’t help us. He’d said life was so expensive in Iran that he could barely send enough money for his wife and children. When Murad was still alive, I didn’t need to work. He made good money. He worked at the airport as a security guard for the Germans. This official letter that I have today is thanks to him too. He is looking after us even in death. I just hope we can leave Afghanistan soon so I can stop stressing. I can only rest after we are out of here. I have not been able to sleep a wink, wracked with horror and anxiety. I fear someone has sold us out. The whole neighborhood knows I was a cop. Every time the wind blows outside the window, I jump, thinking the Taliban is breaking in to arrest me. How can I live like this? I’m sure it would drive me to madness if I stayed.

***

The sun is setting. The three of us are watching the bridge. All we need is to go over it and find safety. Soraya and Mahdi are worried. They both look pale. The fact that we haven’t been called yet means it will not happen. My children depend on me, and I depend on the Taliban to let us pass. When I think of turning around, terror consumes me.

I remember my neighbor, Reza’s wife, telling me how lucky I was. Even though I hated her so much, my heart broke for her. She quickly wiped her eye with the corner of her chador, so I wouldn’t notice, but I did. If I had stayed a minute longer, she might have begun crying. I didn’t want her to know we were leaving, but just as we were putting our bags in the taxi, she appeared and asked, “Where you off to?”

I didn’t like her question. I hate it when someone asks where I’m going. But she was always like that. Plus, just knowing where was never good enough for her. She had to find out every detail, including how and why.

I hugged her tightly and said, “We are going to Kabul for a few days.”

“You are so lucky to have papers.” She sighed.

It surprised me. I hadn’t said a word about having papers. I wondered if she had been interrogating Soraya with her questions and she’d slipped and mentioned the letter the Germans had written me.

I didn’t want to waste time and allow her to ask any more questions. I said goodbye and got in the taxi. The car moved away, and I watched her in the side-view mirror. She was standing in the middle of the alley. She seemed to have lost weight since the Taliban took control. Less than a month ago, she’d seemed plump. Her purple dress had always hugged her body. I’m sure she’s stressed too. She, too, has a young daughter and son. I’m sure she is worried about their future.

The taxi drove away; she grew smaller and smaller.

***

The last rays of sun have left the bridge. I’m tired of looking at the bridge from behind barbwire. My heart is exploding. I want to cry, but I can’t. If I do, my children will lose hope. Waiting won’t do anything either. I look at the taxi; the driver is stretched back in his seat, his feet dangling out the window. He is the only carefree person here. He’ll get his money. The longer he waits here, the more money he earns.

We can’t spend the night here. We are tired, thirsty, and hungry. For the past two weeks, I have gotten little sleep. The past two nights, none at all. I look at Soraya and Mahdi and say, “Let’s go.”

“Home?” Soraya asks.

I don’t know what to tell her. I’m scared of going back home. I’m afraid someone has alerted the Taliban, and if we return, they’ll find us.

I don’t answer. I smile and take her hand so we can leave.

“Home is not safe,” Mahdi says. “Let’s go to Auntie’s house.”

I softly whisper, “No! We’re going home.”

“But Madar!” Mahdi protests.

I know what he means. He, too, is worried something terrible will happen, but I have made up my mind. Even if the neighbors have sold us out to the Taliban, I want to be in my own home. I have tried everything to save my family, and now I have to leave it up to fate.

I open the taxi door. The driver jumps from his stupor and says, “Are we leaving, sister?!”

I nod and sit down in the back. Soraya comes in through the other door. Mahdi sits in the front passenger seat. The car shakes and jolts forward. I turn around and look at the white bridge that is the only hope I have left.

The taxi drives away; the bridge grows smaller and smaller.

Image by Antonio Carrau.