Voice of Rebellion. Roberta Staley
in grave danger. If caught, he would be tortured and killed, leaving his own wife and children destitute. But, Nasrin was his cousin. “There is a dinner for the generals at the Hotel Inter-Continental this Thursday. It will be a night off for me, so I’ll be free to take all of you to the bus.”
Nasrin slipped Atiq a piece of paper on which she had written everyone’s address. “We will get word to everyone to be ready to go Thursday night,” she said.
The families, Atiq emphasized, had to keep watch and be ready to slip as unobtrusively and silently as possible into the jeep as soon as it stopped outside their home. They must carry very little: water and a bit of food. “I will not wait for them,” said Atiq. “Tell them that.”
“We will be ready,” Nasrin said, nodding. “Khuda hafiz—peace be upon you. Thank you—a million times thank you.”
NASRIN DREW THE thick dark curtains shut. It was only late afternoon, but Mozhdah and Masee needed to get some sleep before the late-night rendezvous. She closed the bedroom door, heard them whispering and giggling. They were already dressed in traveling clothes. She prayed they would fall asleep.
A brown burlap sack holding Safee’s clean diapers was already waiting by the front door. In between the folds of cloth she had hidden Bashir’s master’s degree, as well as his undergraduate degree and teacher education certificate. Nasrin couldn’t find her own teacher’s certificate, but told herself it was of little consequence. When would she have the opportunity to teach again, she thought, pouring boiled water for Safee’s formula into a green-striped half-gallon thermos. She eyed with consternation the simple brown Afghan vest waiting on the kitchen counter.
Before Kabul became a moonscape of broken buildings, Bashir and Nasrin had loved to go to the Old City and walk among the kiosks selling kites and spices like turmeric and saffron, as well as rose petals for making rose oil for perfume. They would hunt for coins once used as currency along the Silk Road, the ancient trade network connecting East and West, from China to the Mediterranean Sea. Bashir and Nasrin would find rough-edged coins of silver, gold, or brass covered with delicate Persian writing—some of the coins dated back a thousand years. Nasrin could not bring herself to sell the collection of two hundred coins and had spent several evenings creating tiny pockets on the outside of the vest for secreting each one. She tried the vest on, dismayed at its heaviness, knowing she would be carrying Safee as well.
“Bulletproof,” she said aloud, smiling grimly.
Nasrin peered out the window that looked out onto the road in front of the house, keeping watch for headlights. Her silky blue burka lay folded on the burlap sack holding the diapers, naan, a container of water, the thermos with boiled water and infant formula. Tafsira waited with Nasrin, but they didn’t speak. In the past few weeks, they had said everything that they could possible say and vented every emotion: recrimination, regret, grief, and then, simply, resignation and love. Off in the distance, Nasrin spied a dim suggestion of headlights.
“He’s here, Gul,” Nasrin whispered to Tafsira. “Let’s get the children up. Quickly.” Nasrin took the heavy vest and pulled it over her narrow shoulders, draped the burka over her arm, and then picked up the sleeping Safee. Tafsira went into the bedroom to shake Mozhdah awake and pushed her to the door, carrying Masee.
Mozhdah was on the point of tears. “Why do we have to get up now? I’m tired.”
“Shhh, Mozhdah jan,” said Nasrin. “We are going on a bus. It’ll be fun.”
“I don’t want to go on a bus ride,” Mozhdah pouted, slipping her feet into shoes.
A military jeep pulled to a stop opposite the apartment. The driver killed the engine. Nasrin waited. What if it wasn’t Atiq? What if their escape plot had been discovered, and this was a soldier come to arrest them? She heard the sound of a vehicle door opening—the noise magnified in the dark and the silence. Nasrin heard quick, soft footsteps against the cement walkway. She waited. There was a knock on the door.
Nasrin quietly opened it. It was Nazir.
“Let’s go. No talking,” he whispered.
“Are you ready, Gul?” Nasrin whispered, turning to look at Tafsira, her hand on the doorknob.
“Yes, Nasrin jan,” Tafsira murmured. “Go!”
They trod lightly down the stairs, Tafsira holding the hands of Mozhdah and Masee, who had woken up, too numb with sleep to complain. They quickly crossed the road and Nazir opened the back door of the jeep.
“Nasrin, let me take Safee,” he said. “Jump in.”
“Atiq—you came! Thank you!” Nasrin exclaimed softly as she clambered onto the hard, cracked leather seats.
Atiq craned his neck and grinned. “I said I would, didn’t I?”
Nasrin threw the burlap bundle onto the floor and jumped, gasping in alarm, as she sensed another person in the back.
“It’s me—Bashir.”
“Oh, Bashir,” she cried, throwing her arms around him, noting the bony frame and scratchy, untrimmed beard.
“Hand me Safee,” Bashir said. Nazir handed the baby to Nasrin, who passed the bundle to Bashir, who gently kissed his son, still asleep. As Nazir hoisted Mozhdah into the jeep’s back seat, she yelped with joy, “Daddy?” Masee, plunked next to Nasrin, climbed over his mother to reach his father for a hug.
Nasrin slipped out of the jeep.
“Where are you going?” Bashir said anxiously.
“Give me a second,” she said, walking towards Tafsira, who waited a few feet away. She stood in front of her mother and gripped her shoulders. “Please, come with us!”
“No, I will only be a burden,” Tafsira said. “I will not come.”
“Then promise me we’ll see each other again,” said Nasrin, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“God willing,” said Tafsira, and after one desperate, hard hug, she turned away from her daughter, the outline of her body dissolving into the night, as if she no longer existed. They would never see each other again.
Nasrin climbed back in the vehicle and pulled the door shut, flinching at the loud metallic clang. She quickly pulled the burka over her head, grateful for its privacy, hiding the tears she didn’t want her children or Bashir to see. The jeep pulled away from the curb, bouncing over bumps, rocks, and potholes—taking them from fear and hopelessness into dread.
About twenty minutes later, the headlights of the jeep illuminated the outline of rows of buses and low-slung, small buildings off in the distance. Atiq stopped the jeep and turned off the ignition.
“You have to get out here,” he said, turning around. “The area is patrolled by Afghan soldiers, and I don’t want to be stopped and questioned. Your friends are here already. I dropped them off earlier.”
“Oh, Atiq,” exclaimed Nasrin, grabbing his arm and squeezing it. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Nasrin jan, no need to thank me. Just get to Pakistan safely.”
Nasrin looked through the mesh of her burka at Nazir, who sat in the front passenger seat. “Thank you for helping us get here, for helping keep my husband safe, for supporting me when I was crazy with worry.”
Nazir smiled. “Now it is your turn to keep Bashir safe—and he you. Remember, Nasrin, you are a peasant woman—do not respond to any man’s questions. Leave everything to Bashir.”
Nasrin took Safee from Bashir, who opened the jeep door and put out his hands to Mozhdah and Masee. One at a time, he lifted them onto the cold, dusty ground. He then grabbed the burlap sack. Atiq turned on the ignition and shoved the stick shift into first gear, pulling a U-turn to return to the city. There was no going back now.
It was cold and too early for the dawn light to help them navigate the rocky, uneven