Voice of Rebellion. Roberta Staley
distance, her frightened breathing magnified in the oppressive blue sheath. She placed her feet carefully on the ground in front of her, feeling her way in the blackness, blinded by both the dark and the burka.
They stopped when they came close to a row of parked buses, dented, dirty, and rusting, with thinning tires. About thirty feet away from the buses, their friends sat huddled together on the ground, the children leaning against their parents, eyes wide with fear. The men, in linen shalwar kameez and long heavy vests, sat on folded layers of burlap sacks—the kind used to carry produce to the city from farms outside Kabul. Bashir walked up to them, murmured “Salaam,” and looked cautiously around, noting the bus stop was being patrolled by several pairs of soldiers, dressed in heavy brown camouflage uniforms and black leather boots, cradling AK-47s. One pair of soldiers stared at them and began walking over.
Nasrin quickly pulled Mozhdah’s chador down over her head to hide her eyes. It would not do for the soldiers to see her daughter’s soft, smooth cheeks and clean, shiny hair, so different from the pinched, sunburned face of a peasant girl who had spent her young life picking vegetables and fruit, hauling water, washing clothes, and gathering and spinning wool. Nasrin chided herself; Mozhdah’s chador and traditional tunic and baggy pants were too clean. She should have made more of an effort to make them ragged and shabby.
The soldiers turned on a square flashlight and shone it directly into the faces of the men, sweeping the beam slowly across the huddled blue forms of the women, who clutched their children. The flashlight lingered on Mozhdah, who turned her face towards the light.
The taller soldier barked in Farsi: “Az koujastin?” (Where are you from?)
“Logar,” Bashir said, shielding his eyes with a hand.
“Kouja mirein?” (Where are you going?)
“Logar,” Bashir repeated.
The soldier stared at Bashir in the harsh light as the group held their breath. Then he snapped the light off, turned away, and walked off with his fellow soldier.
Gray sky emerged in the east, hinting at the approaching dawn. About fifteen minutes later, thin rays of sun grazed the frost on the ground, turning it to crystals. A naan seller slowly walked by, a stack of bread in a cloth bag, and Bashir bought several warm, fragrant discs, enough to last them the day.
The bus drivers arrived, unlocked their vehicles, and turned on their ignitions, warming up the engines, choking the air with black exhaust. Bashir, along with Hafiz, walked over to one of the drivers, whose jacket was stained with motor oil and grease. They were the only people getting on the bus to Logar. A wad of worn, grubby Afghani bills exchanged hands. Bashir beckoned and all seventeen piled aboard. Nasrin stared out the windows as the dawn morphed into day. She cradled Safee tightly, trying to stay calm.
An hour later, with the sun still in the eastern sky, the bus slowed and braked to a stop with a grinding screech of metal that set Nasrin’s teeth on edge. Hearing harsh voices, she peered through the dirty window. They had arrived at an army checkpoint, consisting of a small mud-brick shack snug against a pile of sandbags on top of a horseshoe-shaped hard dirt wall. Two soldiers came over to the bus, and the driver pulled the door crank, allowing them to stomp on board.
“Don’t say anything!” Nasrin whispered to Mozhdah and Masee, seated beside her.
The soldiers walked slowly, looking carefully at each person, picking up the burlap bags and shaking them. One stopped beside Nasrin and stared at her hands—smooth and pale, with neat nails—as she cradled Safee.
“Az koujastin?” he barked.
Nasrin stayed silent and Bashir responded, “Logar.”
“You’re lying.” The soldier laughed scornfully. “You’re from Kabul!” The soldier turned, yelling at the bus driver, “These people are from Kabul! Don’t lie to me!”
Nasrin stopped breathing. The bus driver said nothing, got up, and beckoned the soldier to follow him. Jumping stiffly onto the hard ground, the driver walked casually over to join a group of soldiers standing near the sandbagged mud wall. Pulling a cigarette out of a pack in his pocket, he offered cigarettes to the soldiers, then lit his own smoke with a match, inhaled deeply, and began chatting. The soldier from the bus joined them.
Nasrin was terrified. She kept her head down, murmuring to Safee, who grabbed at the unfamiliar mesh hiding his mother’s face. Then their driver walked back to the bus, took a final, heavy drag from his cigarette, and flicked the butt to the ground. He jumped on board, slipped into the driver’s seat, turned on the ignition, and put the bus into first gear. Nasrin glanced at the soldiers, who stood outside smirking. Why hadn’t they been arrested?
Bashir, seated ahead of Nasrin, turned his head slightly and said gently, “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Nasrin lied.
“It is a good thing,” Bashir chuckled, “that Afghan soldiers are so corrupt.”
The bus passed through two more checkpoints. Each time, there was an intimidating search by soldiers and a payment of baksheesh. By the time their stop came, at a collection of mud-walled homes that could barely be called a village, Nasrin estimated it was about 2:00 PM. They piled off the bus, stiff and hungry, and thanked the driver profusely, telling him how much they admired his cool-headed negotiation skills.
Haji, whose cousin was the famous mujahideen commander, led the way past the single-story, light brown homes with their uneven flat roofs and large plastic water jugs outside. Logar seemed deserted. They walked for about five minutes until they came to a larger home surrounded by a high wall made of mud bricks enclosing a large courtyard. Nasrin could just see the top of the roof over the wall, which was pockmarked with bullet holes. Part of the wall had collapsed—possibly from a Soviet rocket—and been inexpertly rebuilt. Off in the distance, a herd of sheep, tan and dirty white, grazed on the brown grass.
“We’re here,” Nasrin said to Masee and Mozhdah.
“You mean Pakistan?” Mozhdah asked, puzzled.
“No, Mozhdah jan.” Nasrin laughed. “This is our friend’s home. We’re here for a short visit.”
They came to the closed front gate and Haji called out a greeting. A man in shalwar kameez, with a pakol hat and worn leather sandals, AK-47 slung across his chest, opened the gates. They were expected, as Haji had managed to get a message to Commander Rawani that they would be coming. The families shuffled in. Through the burka face mesh, Nasrin spied hens with dusty feathers scratching in the dirt and a gray-brown donkey standing near a wizened tree, its eyes nearly closed and head bowed, swishing its tail, enjoying the tepid sun warming its back. She ached to take off the heavy vest and burka.
There was no glass left in the windows and plastic had been nailed over some of the openings. They followed their escort to the house and, after taking off their shoes, entered. They were then led into what Nasrin assumed was the living room. There were no homey comforts, no rich, thick Afghan carpets as there would normally be in a house of this size, just thin cotton floor mats and some faded pillows, or boleshts, propped up against the wall for people to lean against when sitting on the floor.
The group settled themselves against the boleshts, and soon an elderly man came into the room carrying glass cups on a tray. He left the room and returned with two large pots of chai. He seemed incurious about the group, and Nasrin wondered how many hungry, thirsty, and frightened stragglers bound for Pakistan had stopped at the compound.
As they sipped their tea, a man walked into the living room. His face was deep brown, with rivulets of wrinkles around his eyes and mouth and an aquiline hooked nose. He wore dusty pale khaki pants with side pockets, a tan shirt, and a long dark vest. A traditional white-and-black checkered shemagh scarf hung loosely around his neck and a woolly pakol rested on his head. He had a black moustache, wiry beard, and penetrating, intelligent eyes. He placed his hand on his chest: “Salaam. I am Commander Rawani.”
Nasrin and the others murmured a greeting