18
They wait for the sounds of gunfire from the city outskirts, for signs the national army is engaging the approaching Taliban,
but none come. Perhaps the entire city has been fooled, Hawa thinks as she, her mother, and Soraya sit in the back of a taxi
driving through a perfectly sunny and panic-stricken Kabul. The women are busy on their phones, reading messages and tapping
out replies. They cannot trust any reassurances; they will not ignore any warnings.
But where are the Taliban? Hawa watches people dashing about. She takes a closer look and sees what she hadn’t noticed before.
Shops have closed their doors. There are too many children with backpacks scurrying to keep up with their parents.
The ATMs have not worked for the past couple of days. People are swarming bank branches, desperate to extract their cash.
Marjan was one of them yesterday, one among hundreds. Two men emerged from the bank shouting for the crowd to disperse as
there was no money left in the branch. This only made the crowd push harder toward the entrance.
Earlier, Hawa watched her mother retrieve a plastic pouch she kept tied to a pipe under the kitchen sink. Hawa noted the frown
on her mother’s face when she finished counting the cash she had squirreled away.
The back seat is cramped and the seat cushions so thin that Hawa wonders if she’s sitting on the chassis. Trapped between her mother and Soraya, she scoots forward to get a better view of the city. She can hear the low drone of fear vibrating through Kabul.
The traffic light turns red. Hawa looks out the window and realizes they’ve stopped at the entrance to the shopping plaza
where her mother had taken her to buy a new dress for Eid, where she had stiffly refused to buy Hawa a doll that came with
a bottle of vanishing milk. You don’t need a toy like that, she’d snapped when Hawa had pleaded. Something in her mother’s voice made Hawa burn with shame for having asked.
A dark green pickup truck pulls up next to them. The government’s insignia and the word “police” written in both English and
Dari decorate the passenger door. Hawa’s eyes drift to the truck’s open window. She comes face-to-face with the midnight eyes
of a bearded man wearing a bright orange vest. In his lap is a rifle, its barrel sticking out the window and toward the open
sky. Behind him are at least three more men, along with the driver and two more in the front seat. Two more men in turbans
sit in the open bed of the pickup, their backs to the truck’s cab, a stark white-and-black flag of the Islamic Emirate hanging
over them.
“Dear God. Soraya, cover yourself,” Marjan hisses. She and Soraya pull their headscarves across their faces. Hawa’s mother
draws her close. The taxi driver mutters a prayer.
The men look gleeful, like boys on a holiday. The man with the orange vest laughs at Hawa’s gaping mouth. He slaps the side
of the truck, pumps a fist in the air, and points at Soraya. He nudges the man sitting next to him, who then leans over to
get a good look at them.
Marjan knows what Soraya is thinking. They both have with them paperwork that identifies them as members of the Afghan army
as well as certificates from the Americans honoring their collaborative service. Kabul’s air carries the smoke of so many
documents like these set afire by people who did not want to risk being caught with them. Identities and degrees and careers
have been turned to ash. But Marjan and Soraya made the risky decision not to destroy the evidence of their work or the documents
they need to prove their lives would be in danger if they stayed.
“Just drive!” Marjan hisses at the driver.
“Sister, be still. Wolves smell fear,” the driver says just loud enough for them to hear. He keeps his eyes straight ahead
and silently curses himself for picking up these passengers.
Hawa hears her mother’s heart pounding through her chest. Or is it her own? What’s become of the police department? Have all
their vehicles been commandeered by the Taliban? The taxi driver feels foolish to stop at a red light. Yesterday’s rules seem
incongruent with today’s reality.
To their relief, the truck full of Talibs rolls past them, the driver with a phone to his ear. One man in the bed of the truck
fires two celebratory shots into the air. Hawa flinches, twice.
The taxi moves forward again; the driver keeps his hands steady on the wheel. “Sisters,” the driver says. “Do you think you
will be able to get on a flight?”
“We hope so,” Marjan says.
“But do you have passports? Visas? I hear they’re only letting through people who have paid someone off,” he continues.
Soraya looks at Marjan again. Caution. Half of Kabul is desperate for travel documents.
“Isn’t that the story of our lives? We will try our luck, just like everyone else. God is merciful,” Marjan says, still holding
Hawa against her chest.
“If you know how I can get passports, I would appreciate it. I have three daughters and two sons. My wife has family in Germany
and I have family in the United States. We’ve been trying but we cannot get passports or visas. If you know of anyone, any
way . . .”
“I wish I did,” Soraya says. “May God keep you all safe.”
“My daughter is sixteen,” he adds, continuing his plea.
“We heard the Talibs want lists of unmarried girls and widows, anyone between fifteen and forty-five years old, for their fighters to take as brides. Is it true or not? I do not want to find out. If you are going to America, please take her with you! She could stay with my brother there. She’s a bright girl and would be no trouble to you at all.
We could pick her up now. It wouldn’t delay us more than a few minutes. ”
His passengers grow quiet, stilled by his desperation. Would Marjan send Hawa with strangers if that were the only way to
get her out of this country? If she found a way, would she send her daughter over the airport walls alone and onto a plane
bound for God knows where?
“If I believed I could help your daughter,” Marjan says softly, “I would take her. But I am not sure my daughter and I have
any chance at all.”
Soraya looks ready to burst into tears. There are so many girls to save.
His cell phone rings. Soraya’s phone pings. Alerts ricochet. The taxi driver puts his caller on speaker phone.
“Ghani has fled!” the caller announces. The president?
“What? When? Are you sure?” the taxi driver demands.
“Yes, yes! He and all his people took off in a helicopter. There’s no one left in the presidential palace. They’re all gone!”
“That God forsaken son of a dog,” the taxi driver exclaims.
From the way Marjan’s staring at a message on her phone, Hawa can tell she’s reading confirmation of this news.
“And where is our army?” the driver demands. Soraya and Marjan exchange a glance. He curses the president again and tells
the caller he’ll phone back in a few moments.
Soldiers in the provinces have gone without pay for months, the women know. They’ve been left without bullets. They may have
had the will to fight the Talibs but could hardly do so without ammunition.
Marjan stares at her phone. It’s a message from Krista.
New warnings just now. ISIS threat at the airport. I hear no one’s getting through the gates.
“God damn them!” Soraya says, her words a ball of fire. It is not clear whom she is cursing. There are so many contenders.
She looks from Hawa to Marjan, her face clouded with an uncertainty that was not there only a few moments ago.
“What’s happened?” the driver asks. Marjan doesn’t answer. She’s too busy trying to hide her fear from her daughter, too busy trying to judge whether to risk the airport when they’ve just received a warning, too busy watching Soraya’s steely resolve falter.
“Stop the car, please,” Marjan calls.
“At your service. Extra charge for stopping,” the driver replies as he spins the steering wheel, pulls the car to a stop on
the side of the road, and pops the tab on an energy drink.
Marjan and Soraya exit the vehicle and meet at the trunk of the car. They can feel the heat emanating from its shell. Hawa
follows.
“What do you think?” Marjan asks Soraya.
They are not far from the airport. It is evident from the number of people they can see holding duffel bags. An occasional
suitcase. Just down the road, families are perched like birds on the thick concrete curbs. A woman shouts at someone in the
distance, a baby in her arms. The air is inhospitable.
“I don’t know. We’re damned no matter what we choose,” Soraya says. She turns away and shouts, releases a burst of compressed
air from her chest.
Marjan meets the driver’s eyes in the side mirror. He’s watching them, counting the minutes and recalculating their fare.
She tries to slow her thoughts.
“It’s not impossible. Let’s think tactically. That’s what we learned as FTPs. We need a real plan,” Marjan says, trying to
tame the situation. For every mission, she was equipped with maps, night-vision goggles, guns. Even candy to win the trust
of children.
“What kind of plan?” Soraya shouts, whirling around to face her. “The only plan is for us to run through a mine field and
try to convince a soldier staring into an ocean of people that we deserve to be saved!”
“Soraya, lower your voice,” Marjan warns.
Soraya digs into her purse and extracts the plastic envelope of documents, evidence of their service as FTPs. She thrusts
them into the air, proof that she, too, has made sacrifices to the gods.
“For God’s sake, Marjan. Do you really think anyone is listening?”
Marjan’s head spins. She grabs the papers out of Soraya’s hand and throws her arms around her friend. Only the wrong people will cock their ears. Their role in the military is both their hope for salvation as well as the reason they are being hunted.
“Today’s not the day,” Soraya whispers. “We can’t ignore the warning.”
Hawa looks from her mother to Soraya and back again, understanding the grim truth that only one of these women is right.