Voice of Rebellion. Roberta Staley
clambered aboard. Commander Rawani came to the back of the truck as everyone settled into a spot on the uncomfortable metal floor. “There are places along the roadways,” he said, “where you can stop for food, water, and shelter. You will meet many mujahideen who are not part of Mahaz-e Milli. They might rob you.” He was sending one of his men, Mahboob, to accompany them to Pakistan and keep them from harm. “Khuda hafiz—may God protect you,” the commander said, putting his right hand over his heart. He moved aside to let Mahboob leap lightly into the back of the truck. The young man stood tall, cradling his weapon.
“This man,” Haji announced to the group, “is my nephew.”
The group smiled and greeted Mahboob warmly.
“Tashakur—thank you! Khuda hafiz! Tashakur! Khuda hafiz,” the families yelled to their host as the truck roared to life, spewing diesel fumes that made them choke.
As the vehicle lurched forward, the fumes lessened and Nasrin breathed easier. But the noise of the engine grew louder, making her wonder if their journey might be over before it even started. No—it wasn’t the truck engine, Nasrin realized, looking up into the sky. It was a low-flying jet, the morning light bouncing off its steel exterior, streaking towards Commander Rawani’s headquarters. The families all stood up in the truck, clinging to the top metal bars for balance, to watch. Even from a couple of miles away the boom of the bombs hitting the earth felt like a blow to the chest. Black smoke swirled into the air and Nasrin felt sick, realizing how narrowly they had escaped. Had Commander Rawani been killed? Mozhdah and Masee, who couldn’t see over the sides of the truck, looked stricken.
Nasrin sat down hard on the metal floor, holding Safee close, and put her face into his blanket, letting it absorb her silent tears.
CHAPTER 3
The Road to Terai Mangal
THE ENGINE GROWLED as the truck climbed the rock-strewn, dusty dirt mountain roadway. The families sat silent, shaken by their narrow escape from the air assault. When she thought back to the urgency in Commander Rawani’s voice as he saw them off, Nasrin had a sense that he knew an attack was imminent. Quite possibly he had evaded it. But she wondered if the elderly housekeeper who served them their tea, as well as the two men who baked the naan, had also eluded the bombing.
Nasrin turned to Bashir. “What route are we taking to Pakistan?”
“The road to Terai Mangal, a pass almost directly on the Durand Line dividing Afghanistan and Pakistan,” Bashir responded. “Mujahideen bring supplies into Afghanistan through there—food, weapons, money, medicines. Afghans also bring illegally cut lumber over Terai Mangal into Pakistan.”
“It doesn’t sound very safe,” Nasrin said quietly so that the others in the truck wouldn’t hear her.
“No, it’s not,” Bashir said. “Groups of mujahideen hide along the path, and they can be as dangerous as the Soviets, especially if they suspect you are a spy for the PDPA. But we have no choice—it is the only way for us to get through the mountains with children.”
Nasrin bit her lip. Surely the mujahideen would let women and children pass safely; they posed no threat. As the day wore on, Nasrin felt boredom mix with trepidation as she listened for the sound of approaching planes. Everyone complained about their aching backs from the constant slam of body against metal as the truck plunged in and out of potholes, over rocks, and around hairpin turns, belching black diesel into the air with each gear shift. But there was beauty too. When Nasrin handed Safee to Bashir to hold so that she could stand and stretch, she stared in awe at the craggy, precipitous gray and brown rock faces of the mountains, patchy with ice, their peaks partly hidden by hoary, brooding clouds. Far in the distance she could see blue mountain peaks enveloped in an opaque mist that made them appear two-dimensional. Putting her face into the wind, Nasrin inhaled pure air—the breath of ancient rock—as clean and fresh as new snow.
It was late afternoon when the autumn sun disappeared behind a mountain peak and the air became frigid. Nasrin shivered and her hands quickly stiffened in the cold. Within minutes, they were plunged into darkness, and Nasrin wondered if they shouldn’t halt their journey for today—but where? It wouldn’t be safe, she thought, to keep traveling along the narrow road with its steep drop-offs and unexpected turns. Then the vehicle stopped and the ignition was turned off. The engine sighed, like an animal relieved of a heavy burden. She heard male voices, speaking in Pashto.
“Can we get out now?” Nasrin asked Bashir.
“Let me check,” said Bashir, groaning as he used the slats to pull himself upright. Their guard, Mahboob, had already leaped onto the ground.
“Mommy, I want to get out too,” said Mozhdah.
“Me too!” said Masee, and before Nasrin could respond, the pair jumped out of the truck after their father.
Nasrin looked at Safee and nuzzled his cheek. “Let’s get out of this horrible thing,” she said, handing Safee off to one of the other women so that she could stretch, muscles and tendons creaking and popping, then slip on her burka.
Nasrin gingerly climbed down out of the truck and took Safee back. Several yards away a group of about a dozen mujahideen sheltered in a lee of rock. A campfire was burning, its smoke fragrant. Over the low orange flames hung a black iron pot on a wooden spit, and cast-iron teapots sat on the edge of the fire near the hot embers. Mozhdah and Masee came to stand close to Nasrin, watching as Mahboob and the men joined the intimidating group of guerrilla soldiers, who were dressed in long shabby vests, shalwar kameez, and sandals. Several lit cigarettes, and the smell of burning tobacco mingled with the scent of campfire.
Most mujahideen were culturally and religiously conservative, so they considered it inappropriate for women they didn’t know to come anywhere near them. Mahboob had told the group, should they encounter mujahideen during their journey, that all they had to say was “Kada da,” meaning, “There are women and children—it is a family moving.” The presence of women meant the mujahideen would neither approach the group nor even look inside the truck. Bashir and Mahboob strode back to the women and said that the soldiers had received communications via radio that the families would be arriving.
“They have food ready for us,” Bashir said.
“I’m starving,” Nasrin confessed.
Just as it was inappropriate for the women to stand near the mujahideen, it wasn’t tolerable that they should come close to or eat at their campfire. So Mahboob and the men got a small blaze going a little way away from the soldiers, using embers and cached twigs and branches, to keep them warm while they ate. Bashir, Hafiz, and Haji went over to the mujahideen and came back carrying large plates, called ghorie, piled high with palaw, a traditional rice dish. Seated on the ground, the four families dug in, using the fingers of their right hands to ravenously scoop food into their mouths.
“Mommy,” exclaimed Mozhdah. “This is delicious!”
“I know!” Nasrin said, giving Safee rice grains on the tip of her finger. “Eat all you want—there’s lots.”
After the meal, Mahboob told the families that the mujahideen had heard what happened to Commander Rawani’s headquarters. All the mujahideen had escaped the air attack, but the two naan makers had been killed, the house and compound obliterated. Nasrin’s stomach heaved, and she thought she might throw up. She glanced at her fellow travelers—their faces stricken, eating slowed.
Nasrin forced herself to finish her palaw and glanced surreptitiously at the guerrilla soldiers’ campground. At the edge of the light thrown by the campfire, she could see about a dozen machine guns lying on a piece of canvas. They would be safe with this group of fighters but might well freeze to death in the mountain air without shelter.
“Where are we going to sleep tonight?” she asked Bashir.
Bashir shrugged and directed Nasrin’s question to Mahboob. “Is there a shelter for the women and children to sleep in?”