Voice of Rebellion. Roberta Staley
only allowed a six-mile range of movement from the city center. Mozhdah didn’t really know what a curfew was, and Nasrin suspected that she thought of it as something alive—a monster that came out at night that made people disappear.
Nasrin wondered if Bashir’s ongoing conflict with his boss, Ghafoor Alipour, had anything to do with his lateness. Bashir was an easy target because of his educational background. The University of the Philippines had been founded by the Americans in the early twentieth century, and Ghafoor believed Bashir was sympathetic towards the United States. In Ghafoor’s mind, Bashir’s anti-government sentiments and connection to America extended back to childhood. Bashir had grown up in the northwestern Afghanistan city of Herat, a place famed for its arts and architecture. His open-minded parents had allowed him to attend secular school in addition to a religious madrassa. Bashir excelled at his studies, eventually entering Kabul University to study English pedagogy.
Following his graduate degree in the Philippines, Bashir had returned to Kabul. His arrival was unfortunately timed. Three days later, there was a coup d’etat by the Communist PDPA. During the Saur (April) Revolution, PDPA revolutionaries massacred the self-proclaimed president Mohammed Daoud Khan and his family on either April 27 or 28, 1978. Five years before that, Khan had overthrown his cousin King Zahir, the country’s last twentieth-century leader who had championed democracy and liberal ideals. But despite its Communist rhetoric, the PDPA showed little inclination and even less ability to bring about a socialist revolution, becoming embroiled in fighting between two murderous wings: the Parcham and Khalq. Ghafoor was as thirsty for power as the party he belonged to. When Bashir refused to join, Ghafoor took it upon himself to punish him. Although teachers were exempt from conscription, Ghafoor insisted to his PDPA connections that Bashir was a poor role model to students.
The next morning, with Bashir still missing, Nasrin fed the children scraps from last night’s dinner. The night had been quiet, and Tafsira took Mozhdah and Masee to play in the sunlight in the front yard. Nasrin glanced out the window at them and saw a man in a jacket, his upturned collar partly hiding his face, striding up the walkway. He stopped to say hello to Tafsira and the kids. As the man turned towards the house, Nasrin realized it was Nazir Khalji, Bashir’s best friend. There was only one reason for him to be here: he must know something. Nasrin flung open the door before Nazir could even knock.
“Where is Bashir?” she demanded.
Nazir raised an eyebrow and said, “Salaam.” He took off his shoes and walked into the living room, settling himself onto a floor cushion.
Nasrin flushed at her rudeness. “I’ve been so worried. Bashir always comes home straight after work. Have you seen him? Do you know where he is?”
“You must not,” Nazir responded, “tell anyone what I am about to tell you.”
“I won’t say anything,” Nasrin said impatiently. “Where is he?”
Nazir explained that Bashir was in hiding, after being tipped off that his arrest was imminent.
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Can I see him?”
“No.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yes, he is fine. Worried about you, the children, and Tafsira.”
“Is he close?”
Nazir told her it was too dangerous for her to know such information. The Afghan army could come and question her. He was surprised that soldiers hadn’t come pounding on the door already. They would have no qualms about torturing her to elicit information, Nazir told her darkly.
Nasrin’s breath caught in her throat. “What can we do?”
Nazir looked at Nasrin for several seconds without speaking. “I see no other option,” he finally said, “but fleeing the country to Pakistan or Iran.”
Nasrin glared at Nazir. “We have three small children. Safee is just a few months old. How will we get the money to get to Pakistan or Iran? It’s dangerous. The routes out of Kabul are overrun by mujahideen. We will all be killed!”
“Certain death awaits you here,” Nazir countered. “At least there is some hope in escape.”
Nasrin felt a surge of panic. “Where will we get the money?”
Nazir responded calmly. “Bashir mentioned you have savings, enough, possibly, to escape Kabul.” He got up, walked towards the door, and opened it. “Don’t worry,” he said gently, looking at Nasrin. “We’ll figure everything out.”
The kindly tone caused Nasrin’s eyes to smart with tears. How could she not worry? “Tell Bashir I love him. Tell him that the children and I are okay,” she said.
Later, awake in the night, Nasrin considered Nazir’s words. He was right—there was no future here. Their life was a ghoulish game of waiting for a missile to drop on their house, to be hit by a stray bullet, or to be thrown into prison and tortured. She got up in the dark, feeling her way in bare feet, tiptoeing along the cold tile floor, a blanket wrapped around her thin, shivering frame. She could hear the thud of bombs in the distance. Please, she prayed, stay away from my children tonight.
Nasrin walked down the short hallway to her mother’s room and knocked on the door. “Gul,” Nasrin whispered, using an affectionate nickname meaning “flower.” “Are you awake?”
“Of course,” Tafsira replied. “Come in. I never sleep anymore. Here in Kabul, to sleep is to be dead,” she said, laughing softly at the bitter joke. “Nasrin jan, what did Nazir say to you today? It is causing you distress. I see it in your eyes.”
“You can’t tell anyone what I am about to tell you,” Nasrin said.
“What is it?”
Nasrin reached out in the dark for her mother’s hand. “Bashir wants us to flee to Iran or Pakistan. I think that this is the right thing to do. There is no future here—for me, or your grandchildren. You will come with us, of course.”
The silence was as heavy as the darkness.
“No,” Tafsira said. “I am too old to run away. I would not survive such a journey. I was born in Afghanistan, and I will die in Afghanistan.” She paused. “I don’t want you to go, Nasrin jan. The war will be over soon and we can rebuild our lives.”
Nasrin said nothing, tears in her eyes. “But, Gul, how can you say that? It will not be over. Your Afghanistan—my Afghanistan—is gone. I can’t stay here and doom Mozhdah, Masee, and Safee to a life of war. Bashir is in danger. We are all in terrible danger, every second of our lives. I can’t live like this anymore. I just can’t.”
She began to weep. Tafsira took Nasrin into her arms, and both of them cried deep into the night.
THE NEXT DAY, Nasrin busied herself with sweeping the rugs and rubbing heavy dust off the surfaces with a cloth, hoping Nazir would show up again. As night began to settle, she heard a soft knock on the door.
It was Nazir. “Any news?” Nasrin asked, almost before she opened the door.
“Salaam, Nasrin,” Nazir said. “I would love some tea.”
“Salaam,” Nasrin responded. “Tafsira!” she called out to her mother, who was in the kitchen. “Can you bring tea for Nazir and me?”
“Bashir sends his love,” Nazir said. “I hope you have told no one of plans to leave for Iran or Pakistan.”
“I told Tafsira,” Nasrin confessed. “I want her to come too. But she is stubborn and refuses to leave. She thinks peace will come.”
Nazir sighed. “This country,” he said, “will never know peace again. Bashir agrees that the only solution is to escape to Pakistan. Financing is a problem, but he has a solution. Nasrin, do you think you can organize a group of people who want to leave Kabul?