Voice of Rebellion. Roberta Staley
we should get going,” Bashir said, and the families murmured their assent, having cleaned the ghorie of any last bits of rice.
They stood up, brushed the dirt off their clothes, hoisted the children into the back of the truck and climbed aboard. Mahboob and the men walked over to the group of mujahideen to thank them and wish them well.
The journey to the overnight shelter took about twenty minutes. The abandoned chaikhana was a hut with a flat corrugated iron roof that looked too small for ten people to lie down in, let alone seventeen. Mahboob walked slowly around the area, his hands ready on his weapon, then popped inside and came out a few seconds later. The building, Nasrin realized, must have been used by thousands of refugees who had escaped to Pakistan over this pass since the Soviets invaded ten years ago.
“It is safe,” Mahboob announced. “The women can start a fire in the stove. There is wood on the other side of the building. There is also water in a storage tank,” he said. “We’ll sleep here and rise before dawn. It is very close quarters, but you will manage. I will stand guard outside.”
Nasrin ducked inside the black interior with the other women. Surely there were candles or oil lamps? They felt around inside, bumping into one another, stepping on toes, which made them giggle.
Bashir ducked his head inside. “What’s going on?” he said cheerfully. “Some matches would help,” he said, handing Nasrin a box.
“I found a kettle!” Nasrin said, groping around a clay cook-stove. “Go get water, Bashir, so we can make tea.”
An hour later, with a small fire warming every inch of the room, except the dirt floor, which remained ice cold, everyone arranged themselves for sleeping, somewhat like a marketplace display of eggplants, Nasrin thought, smiling at the image. Nasrin let her thoughts drift to her past excursions with Bashir, hunting for another exotic coin to add to the collection. These bloody coins, she thought, as they poked into her body through the vest. Why hadn’t they collected something soft?
Safee’s hungry gurgles nudged Nasrin out of her doze. The fire in the stove had gone out, and the air in the chaikhana was musty with the odor of dirty bodies. She needed fresh air. Trying not to wake those still sleeping, Nasrin grabbed the burlap sack with the baby bottles and thermos and tiptoed over the bodies, opening the door just wide enough to slip through, softly murmuring, “Shhh” to the hungry infant. Bright stars hung in the graying darkness. Nasrin jumped at the silhouette of Mahboob, crouched on the ground, alert, his machine gun across his lap.
“Salaam, Mahboob. Sobh bakhair—good morning,” whispered Nasrin.
“Sobh bakhair,” Mahboob responded.
About fifteen feet from the chaikhana, Nasrin spied a round boulder where she could sit to feed Safee. She wrapped him tightly in his blankets and her burka to keep him warm, shaking a bottle filled with now-tepid water until the infant formula powder dissolved. That Safee didn’t protest about the lukewarm milk showed how hungry he was. By the time she returned to the hut, everyone in the chaikhana had woken and was stretching outside in the growing dawn. All wanted tea. Everyone groaned how hungry they were and dug into sacks and bags for leftover naan.
Yawning, Bashir walked over to Nasrin and kissed Safee on the forehead. “If all goes well, we’ll be at Terai Mangal on the Pakistan border tomorrow,” he said.
Warmth. Food. Safety. Freedom. But, until then, many unforeseen dangers, worried Nasrin.
THE MORNING SUN, gold and pale, hung in the eastern sky, warming Nasrin’s face. She grimaced as the truck hit a pothole, causing her to bite her tongue. The driver slowed the vehicle and stopped, then turned the engine off and jumped out. Had the huge pothole snapped part of the undercarriage or given them a flat tire? She could hear the driver and Mahboob talking, then detected a strange voice. Bashir and the rest of the men jumped out of the truck. Nasrin strained to listen but couldn’t make out what was being said. She handed Safee to Mozhdah and, pulling her burka down over her head, jumped out. Bashir and the rest of the men were standing near an empty truck that had its hood up, the engine emitting an acrid smell.
“What’s going on?” Nasrin asked Bashir.
“This truck has broken down. Our driver is from the same village as this man. We’re going to have to help him get the truck going again,” Bashir responded.
“How long could that take?” Nasrin said worriedly.
“Until it’s fixed.” Bashir sighed.
“But we don’t have food,” said Nasrin.
“None?”
“We ate all the palaw from the other night. We have a bit of naan left. Safee still has powdered milk. But I have to boil more water.”
Bashir shook his head with worry. “I’m sure we’ll get the engine going again soon.”
“Let’s hope,” Nasrin responded.
The sun crept west across the sky, and still the two truck drivers tinkered and hammered with their tools, occasionally jumping into the cab to try the ignition. The engine refused to turn over.
The children dug holes in the hard ground with sticks and made houses out of piled stones in the bright sun. Gradually, the light began to change, throwing deep, cold shadows onto the rough track. Nasrin felt a growing fury. They had paid their driver a fortune to take them to Pakistan. She walked over to the men, whose heads were deep in the engine, while sockets, wrenches, and screwdrivers lay on a dirty, oily cloth on the ground.
“Salaam,” Nasrin said politely.
The drivers ignored her.
“Nasrin!” Bashir called out in warning.
Nasrin didn’t look at Bashir. “We have been here for hours,” she told the drivers. “The children are hungry. They are thirsty. We must get going.”
No response.
“Night will fall soon and we have only traveled a few hours today. We won’t arrive in Pakistan tomorrow. It is too dangerous, staying here,” Nasrin’s voice rose in frustration.
Bashir hurried over and grasped Nasrin’s arm, pulling her firmly away and down the path. “You must understand, Nasrin,” Bashir said urgently. “They are from the same village—the same family. Our driver would as soon join the Afghan army as leave a relative stranded. We have no choice. We must stay until the truck is fixed.”
“But they’re not going to get it going. They’ve been at it most of the day,” Nasrin protested. “Maybe the driver should come with us and look for a mechanic—or engine parts—in Terai Mangal,” she said.
Bashir suddenly snapped his head around and began scanning the rocky terrain. “Where are those voices coming from?” Shouting could be heard from far away.
“I don’t know,” Nasrin responded nervously.
“Listen,” Bashir said softly.
They turned at the sound of shouting from Mahboob, who had cupped an ear with his right hand, the better to hear the faraway voices. He grinned broadly, waving at a craggy hilltop several hundred yards away.
“Yes! We would love some food!” he yelled. “Thank you!”
Bashir and Nasrin looked at each other, puzzled, and walked towards Mahboob.
“Who are you talking to?” Bashir asked.
“Some mujahideen have been watching us from their lookout and noticed that we have children and no food,” said Mahboob. “They are going to send a large plate of palaw and potatoes to feed us.”
“The mujahideen lookouts don’t miss much,” Bashir remarked.
“No, they don’t,” Mahboob agreed.
A mujahideen soldier, carefully navigating the treacherous