When the Moon Is Low(38)

We’d put one more border behind us—one more buffer between us and the life we’d left behind. Turkey looked less like Afghanistan than Iran had. The language, the earth, the food—everything was one degree more foreign. On reconsideration, it was we who were foreign. We were drifting into lands where we were not welcome and scared every step of the way that we would be sent home, a fate I could not bear to consider.

I was leading my children into an unknown world, and whatever happened to us, to them, was my responsibility. It would have been easier to close my eyes and disappear, to not be responsible for their next meal or keeping them safe while we trespassed borders. But these lives depended on me, even Saleem who could brood like a grown man and questioned the choices I made. The shadow of hair on his upper lip, the way he shouldered our bags, the wristwatch he coveted—Saleem believed he was a man. As much as I needed him to be just that, I was also afraid for him. The person most likely to drown in the river is the one who believes he can swim.

In a pouch I’d sewn into my dress was all the money I’d managed to gather by selling off our household belongings. Gone were our dishes, a silver plated tray, a chiming clock. I kept my jewelry in the pouch as well. It was all we had to finance our trip to England. Mahmood had chosen England because we had family there. I wasn’t sure it was the best decision but he insisted.

I did not want to impose on our relatives in England, especially when I didn’t have Mahmood by my side. But to change our destination would be letting a time in my past matter more than it should. I could not afford to be sentimental about material belongings, but I could be as emotional as I wanted about my husband. I wouldn’t change our destination now. I wouldn’t change a thing Mahmood had decided for us. In some way, it made me feel my fingers were still intertwined with his, following his lead.

Besides, I had no better plan in mind. We would go to London.





CHAPTER 18


Fereiba


WE LANDED IN THE SMALL TURKISH TOWN OF INTIKAL, A COZY village skirted by large plots of farmland. The air was clean, and the green landscape reminded me of my father’s orchard. On our first afternoon, we set out to secure shelter. Thankfully, Mahmood had taught Saleem enough English that he was able to communicate with at least some locals. My son’s English was undeniably better than mine.

“Come, Saleem. Let’s go and talk with the men there,” I said, pointing to a group of men coming out of a masjid. I fixed my head scarf. I’d put away the black Iranian burqa to better blend with the dress of this new country. It felt good to wear a simple head scarf. It was like slipping into my past.

“Madar-jan, why don’t you wait here with the little ones. It’s better if I talk to them alone. You don’t speak much English anyway.”

I wanted to disagree.

“I can do this, Madar,” Saleem said, looking straight at me.

I nodded.

I watched on as Saleem walked from one man to the next, each waving him off with a head shake, a scowl, a shrug. Saleem looked around. I saw him toy with the watch on his wrist, glance at it briefly, and survey a group standing near the mosque’s side entrance.

An older man emerged, dressed in a suit that showed the fades and frays of frequent use. Saleem’s eyes were drawn to him as were mine. His stature, his salt-and-pepper hair, and the gentle smile on his face—if my husband had lived another twenty years, he would have looked like this man. Whether Saleem had the same thought or if there was something else about the man that drew him in, I dared not ask. He approached cautiously. The man cocked his ear as Saleem spoke then looked over in our direction, squinting.

The man’s name was Hakan Yilmaz. He and his wife, Hayal, lived in a modest home just a few blocks from the main part of the village. He’d worked for years as a professor of politics while Hayal had been an elementary school teacher. They’d raised two boys, now grown men with families of their own. When the couple retired, they moved back to Intikal to be near Hakan’s sisters and brothers. They were warm and unassuming people—more worldly than their modest village home would indicate. They were the kind of people who saw an Afghan mother traveling with three children and could guess the story behind such a sight.

Saleem had explained to Hakan that we were looking for simple shelter and that we would gladly pay for a brief stay. Hakan put a hand on Saleem’s shoulder and led us to his home where we met his wife, Hayal. Hayal, a petite woman with soft eyes, was delighted to have a babbling baby in their home. Long retired, she still had the presence of a schoolteacher. Her brown hair was tied back into a neat bun and she wore a simple navy blue cotton dress with a small tan sash around her waist. Samira took to her immediately.

They showed us to a small, vacant bedroom with its own door to the outside. We were welcome to use the kitchen, they said, and made no mention of how long we could stay.

My heart found an ally in Hayal, though we did not share a language. In words and gestures she likely did not understand, I explained that I’d been a teacher in Afghanistan before the Taliban and that the children had fallen behind despite my homeschooling efforts.

I nearly sang out with joy when we laid our heads on soft pillows, our full bellies and the kindness of strangers keeping us warm.

THE NEXT MORNING HAYAL BROUGHT OUT A CRATE OF ELEMENTARY math books and stories in English. Samira’s eyes widened with an excitement that thrilled and hurt me. I explained to Hayal that Samira was bright but hadn’t spoken since we’d left home. Hayal seemed to understand, connecting the missing father with my daughter’s mutism. She looked over at Samira and patted the empty chair next to her. Samira sat down as Hayal turned to the first page.