Voice of Rebellion. Roberta Staley
told them, was the first overnight stop for many Afghan refugees, mainly because it was cheap. An hour later, dusty, thirsty, and bruised from days of rough roads, Nasrin and the others gratefully disembarked outside the hotel. Never again, Nasrin thought grimly, would she travel in the back of a truck. The families said goodbye to their driver, who nodded curtly in response to their profuse thanks and wheeled the truck around, which belched more black diesel exhaust into the air as it lumbered down the road, returning to Afghanistan.
The four families stayed in one large room in the hotel. It had a flush toilet, a luxury after the days spent in the back of the truck. This was countered by the stench of an open sewer just outside the window. The next day, they rented a van big enough to fit all seventeen people and drove for two hours to their next destination, Peshawar, where they stopped for breakfast at a roadside kiosk that sold naan. In Peshawar, they rented two smaller vans for the 120-mile leg to Islamabad, where they would arrive at their final destination: the home of Rokai, brother-in-law of Hafiz. Rokai and his family rented part of an enormous house that otherwise stood empty. The landlord had agreed, at Rokai’s request, to rent out the rest of the home to the families. Nasrin felt blessed; most Afghans ended up in tents in one of Pakistan’s many refugee camps.
Pakistan grew warmer and more humid the farther they drove, the craggy mountains softening into rounded green hills. The motorways became congested with motorcycles, cars, and ornately decorated jingle trucks, so named because of the clinking metal trinkets they were adorned with. The vehicles roared only yards away from unflinching men and women clad in shalwar kameez, walking along the roadside.
It was near dusk when they reached Islamabad, Pakistan’s capital, which, at the time, was a small city of just over 300,000 people. The air was filled with a cacophony of beeping horns, engine exhaust, and the enticing scent of street food: spicy rice, meat, and vegetable dishes. It took nearly an hour to find Rokai’s house, and it was dusk by the time the vans parked in front of the home. Hafiz got out, walked up to the high iron gates, and called out a greeting. Within a minute, the gates swung open. Rokai joyously threw his arms around Hafiz and beckoned everyone inside.
A yard light illuminated the broad and shiny leaves of a laburnum tree, and pink bougainvillea bushes framed the wooden front door of the three-story house. An older man, Hafiz’s father-in-law, Mohammad Ali Hasanzai, stood on the porch.
“Welcome to Pakistan!” Mohammad said. “You must be exhausted—and hungry! I will show you to your rooms and then take you to the kitchen for food. We’ve given each family their own bedroom and bathroom. Come quickly, before all the insects of Pakistan fly in.”
Stiff, hungry, and thirsty yet excited, the families spilled out of the vans, dragging their worldly possessions in the dirty burlap sacks.
As she walked through the home, Nasrin stared in awe at the cavernous hallway with its gray marbled floor and high ceilings. Mohammad pointed out the bathroom for Nasrin and Bashir, then escorted them to a bedroom containing toshak cushions for sleeping on and some blankets.
“Here,” Nasrin said to Bashir, handing him Safee. “I’m going to have a bath.”
Bashir was about to protest, then laughed and said, “Take your time. We’ll eat in the kitchen.”
The bathroom was just down the hall. Nasrin opened the wooden door. It felt like she had stepped into heaven. There was a rusty claw-foot soaker tub and a pile of towels lying on an elegantly carved round rosewood table. She smelled sandalwood soap. As warm water gurgled into the tub out of the taps, Nasrin peeled off the layers of travel clothing: the now-hated vest with its two hundred heavy coins, her tunic and shalwar trousers, hardened with dust and sweat. When had they left Kabul? Was it only five days ago? It felt like five years, she thought, slipping into the clean bath water.
“We made it, Gul,” Nasrin spoke aloud, as if her mother were in the room. “No one was hurt. You should have come with us. Why didn’t you come?” she said, tears slowly hitting the bathwater.
SIX MONTHS LATER, the laburnum tree was a sunburst of bright yellow flowers that filled the air with sweetness. Mozhdah played in the front yard with her cousins: Farzana, Mina, Vida, and Nadia. Bored, the girls decided to slip through the narrow gap between the hedge and the cement column of the front gate to see if their friends were home from school. Walking to an adjacent house, they saw sisters Asma and Bushra, and siblings Qudsia and Faisal, still in their school uniforms of light blue shalwar pants and tunics. They were sitting on the front step of their home.
Mozhdah waved them over. “We’re going to buy some pakora fritters and chutney. Come with us,” Mozhdah said in Urdu, which she was picking up from the neighborhood kids.
The group walked several blocks until they reached a busy thoroughfare where the street vendors congregated, selling everything from popsicles to freshly crushed sugarcane juice, walnuts, and sweets. The children sought out the pakora vendor, who served the treat with bright green chutney in a paper container for two rupees. Sharp and tangy, the chutney went perfectly with the spicy, crunchy snack. Mozhdah received a small allowance from her dad, most of which she spent on pakora. She spied two women in blue burkas hurrying down the street, and wondered if they might be from Afghanistan. She wanted to speak to them in Farsi—ask them if they were from Kabul. Maybe they knew her grandmother, her aunties, uncles, and cousins. But she was too shy, and the women scurried quickly past, with too much purpose.
Bashir had found a job in Peshawar, an ancient city founded in the sixth century BCE by nomadic Kushans. Just six months previous, he and the other escaped families had stopped here for a breakfast of naan on their journey into Islamabad. Only forty miles east of the Afghanistan-Pakistan border, Peshawar had been inundated with thousands of Afghan refugees during the Soviet occupation. It also bustled with foreigners who worked for international non-governmental organizations (NGOS) and aid agencies. About ten miles from the city was the famous Nasir Bagh refugee camp, one of the biggest of about 150 safe havens for Afghans that had sprung up. Bashir worked as a translator there with the International Medical Corps (IMC), teaching English-speaking expats such as nurses and physicians basic Farsi. He made 6,000 rupees a month—about USD$300—enough to support his family. The IMC provided Bashir with accommodations at its compound during the week. At the end of each workweek, Bashir jumped on a bus for the 120-mile journey back to Islamabad to spend the weekend with Nasrin and the kids.
Despite their relative security, the Jamalzadah family was in limbo. Pakistan didn’t grant citizenship to Afghan refugees. Bashir and Nasrin knew they could never return to Afghanistan, so as soon as Bashir arrived in Pakistan he applied for an identification card—the all-important Shanakhti Pass. It was a simple piece of paper, written in Urdu, the lingua franca of Pakistan, with a photo, one’s name, and the names of family members. None of the foreign embassies would accept a refugee claim without it. As soon as he received a Shanakhti Pass, Bashir applied to the American, Australian, and Canadian embassies as a refugee. At the Canadian office in Islamabad, he was given a short form to fill out that included space for the names of family members. He made photocopies of his post-secondary degrees and teaching certificates and submitted them as a package.
One weekend, after returning home from his IMC job in Peshawar, Bashir received a letter from the Canadian office. It was another form, a much longer one this time, asking for details about his refugee claim, including any threats or actual harm he had suffered while in Afghanistan, and the possibility of mistreatment by an individual or group should he return to his home country. One question asked whether Bashir required an English translator if selected for an interview with embassy staff. Bashir jotted down “No”—grateful for his fluency in English. Once again, he returned the form to the embassy, along with photocopies of his degrees and diplomas.
Now it was a waiting game. As Bashir sat on the bus to Peshawar, he stared unseeing, lost in thought, at the passing landscape: flat farmland with neatly ploughed fields, turgid rivers, and the outline of blue mountains like a mirage on the horizon. What would Canada be like? Would the people be friendly? He couldn’t think about Canada too much, for fear of getting his hopes up. What might make his refugee application stand out among the thousands that the embassy was deluged with? How were people picked?