When the Moon Is Low(28)

The Taliban feel that it is un-Islamic to take photographs of people, was all Mahmood told him. We couldn’t risk him repeating anything more damning to his classmates.

If I were a European, I never would have left my home to come to Kabul. Not in those days. I would have stayed in Poland or England or Italy where there were no whistling rockets above, where meat and vegetables were abundant and women weren’t afraid to step outside their homes. Why leave such a paradise to come to Kabul?

All television sets and video players were banned. Music was outlawed. Mahmood was wrathful, but it was only with me or within his closest circle of friends that he dared rant about the destruction of our society. He continued to work at the Ministry of Water and Electricity as a mechanical engineer. His original work had focused on bringing reliable fresh water and electric power to the outskirts of Kabul, but the focus changed under the new edicts. Every day there were new restrictions and warnings from the Taliban about what could or could not be built in Kabul.

“How many decades can we go on without progress or construction? This country is going back in time.” His shoulders slumped as if they carried the weight of the world. He was the bearded shell of his former self. I wondered if I would ever again see the tall, proud man who would spin his children in the air until they dizzied with laughter.

Samira should have been excitedly gathering pencils and reciting the alphabet to prepare for school. We could not make Samira understand why she could not attend school like her brother. I told her it did not matter and put all my energy into teaching her formal lessons at home. It felt good to teach again and to defy the edict in my own way.

IN 1999, DESPITE THE ODDS, MY BELLY BEGAN TO ROUND AGAIN. WE should have been joyous, but I felt like I was suffocating. I fought back tears every time I talked to Mahmood about our future.

“And now we are to bring another child into this Kabul? A Kabul that neither you nor I can recognize? For what? If he is a boy, he will grow up and know nothing but beards and fear. And God forbid this child has the sorry fortune to be born a girl! I just don’t think I could bear it. Already, I am ashamed to let Samira see what has become of me. I have had to cower under the stick of those turbaned tyrants while they stripped me of my career, my friends, my freedom to walk about! What future can there be for my daughter?”

Mahmood felt just as defeated as I did.

“You’re right, Ferei. It’s time for us to go. Whatever hopes I had for this country are dead. Every day is worse. I’ll find a way out for us, and I pray it’ll be before this child is born. God, I wish I had followed everyone else. Now we could be in England, just like your sister and my cousin. I never imagined I wouldn’t be able to send my daughter to school.”

I was relieved to be planning our escape and fearful of leaving home. Without Khala Zeba, I felt no obligation to stay. Mahmood met with Rahim, who knew a government official, a title that meant less with every passing day. In exchange for nearly half our meager savings, we were promised stamped Afghan passports. Rahim acted as liaison in exchange for his own envelope of bills.

Crossing the border would be a hazardous venture even with passports. Rahim cautioned us to secure foreign passports as well since our Afghan documents would not get us very far. Rahim also knew a counterfeiter called the “Embassy.” He was a crafty man who had once worked as a supervisor in Kabul’s printing press. When the Taliban silenced the whirring of the press, the Embassy had quietly carted home a cloaked typewriter, stuffed bottles of ink into his coat pockets, and planned for his own family’s future. He, like Mahmood and me, was a professional stripped of his profession.

There was a difference between us though. While the Embassy was too scared to leave Kabul, we were too scared to stay. It was still unclear who had made the wiser choice.





CHAPTER 13


Fereiba


THREE MONTHS BEFORE I WOULD BRING MY THIRD CHILD INTO the world, I sent Saleem to the market to pick up salt. My back ached and Mahmood would be home soon, eager for dinner. Without a grain of salt in our cupboards, the rice and stew would be a wasted effort.

Time often escaped my adventurous boy. I watched the clock and reassured myself that he had run into friends. The sun dipped below the mountain peaks. Saleem had been gone for two hours when he should have been back after twenty minutes.

I sat on a chair and tried to rub a knot out of the small of my back. My nerves were on edge. I hurried to the living room when I heard the front gate open, ready to lay into Saleem for dallying and anxious to have him back at home. But it was Mahmood, home a bit earlier than usual. He took one look at my face and rested his briefcase on the sofa. I saw his eyes scout the living room for a clue.

“What’s wrong, Fereiba? Where’s Saleem?”

I burst into tears. I hadn’t been sleeping well in the last week, and I was feeling exceptionally run-down. My legs and back ached, and worrying about Saleem had put me past my tipping point. But I was home alone with Samira and she was sensitive to my moods, so I had tried to put on a happy face.

With his arms around me, Mahmood reminded me that Saleem had to pass by the street where his friends typically played and that rarely had our son taken the direct route home when he’d been sent for an errand. Mahmood and I were very different in that regard. I worried prematurely. He worried too late.

At my husband’s suggestion, we sat down for dinner. I spread the vinyl tablecloth on the living room floor. Samira, more eager to please when her brother caused trouble, set out the bowls and spoons. It was a tasteless meal, with or without the salt. My heart leaped when I heard the gate clang shut. I was about to stand when Mahmood put his hand on mine.