29
“I will talk to everyone I know. I will keep trying,” Ingrid vows, holding Marjan’s hands. She delayed her departure for four
days to see some work through but cannot postpone leaving any longer. She is moments away from being picked up by a van that
will take her to the airport. “Promise me that you’ll stay safe.”
worst terrorist attack on American soil. How poetic, Jenna had said. The Taliban have given the Americans until the end of August, and despite the director of the CIA flying
in to meet with one of their leaders, this is their red line. Any delays will result in unspecified consequences. The American
embassy has been evacuated. Bases and equipment have been abandoned. The Americans will be gone by the end of the month, eleven
days earlier than September 11.
The real enemy is the more elusive Islamic State group, the Americans insist, and the Taliban will help them in this new,
more urgent fight. It is perplexing to the living, confounding to the dead.
Marjan squeezes Ingrid’s hands and nods.
“We will be fine,” she promises, more for her daughter’s benefit than Ingrid’s.
The Talibs have already tied this apartment to someone in the Afghan army.
Now that they have access to all the biometric data of the government, it won’t be long before they return with more detailed information.
They’ll have her picture, her name. They may even have a record of all the missions Marjan went on and all the Talibs she helped put in prison.
How many of them are running free now, released from prison?
It is Hawa’s turn to say goodbye to Ingrid.
“I don’t want you to go,” she says. Marjan watches her daughter hug their neighbor tightly. Marjan is both in awe of this
bond and slightly envious of it. She pulls Hawa back gently because she knows Ingrid is too kind to let go. They watch Ingrid
slip down the hallway with a suitcase and a large bag. Hawa moves to the window to watch Ingrid get into a van as soon as
it pulls up.
Marjan turns to her phone. There are new messages in the group chat with Jenna and the other American women from the Cultural
Support Team.
How are you ladies doing? When I hear from my contacts, I’ll let you know which gate is open today. Ts control the checkpoint
but they’re letting people through if they have travel documents. Looks like U.S. command is working with them to secure passage.
And we’re supposed to trust them? Georgia, another CST, had replied. Soraya had painted henna onto her hands during one of their hangouts. She’d been slower
to warm to the Afghan women but was now very protective of them and had been working with Jenna to pressure anyone they could
find in Washington to help the FTP.
It’s part of the deal, Jenna wrote back.
The women were on the base together the day the details of the American-Taliban agreement were released. After two decades
of fighting, the Americans would leave. They would help secure the release of five thousand jailed Taliban fighters and vowed
not to interfere with Afghanistan’s domestic affairs. In exchange, the Taliban would not shoot at Americans on their way out.
Whole lot of blood and treasure for nothing, Georgia writes now.
I’m pissed too, but for our sisters, let’s keep this chat on task, Jenna encourages.
A moment later, Georgia deletes her previous message.
Marjan realizes that the American soldiers must have a chat for themselves, just as she and the other FTPs do.
“Shoulder to shoulder”—that is how they describe the way Afghans and Americans fought together against the Taliban.
And it is true. But it is also true that they are not exactly the same.
Marjan does not resent the difference. It’s just a matter of circumstance.
They are two different blooms in a shared pot.
Will the messages from these American women dry up one day? How long before the memories of their shared missions become hazy
in the minds of the Americans? How long before they forget the names and faces of their Afghan sisters?
“Madar, where will we go?” Hawa asks her mother. She has repacked her bag three times already. As small as their lives are,
so much will be left behind. These are regrets not yet realized.
“We will figure it out,” Marjan promises, but Hawa is unsure. Where could they possibly go in this city? Hawa wishes they
were like everyone else in Kabul and had uncles and aunts and cousins to turn to. But they have no one.
“Can we stay with Khala Soraya?” Hawa asks. She is as close to family as they have, and Hawa likes the way Khala Soraya makes
her mother seem more at ease. Where her mother is anxious and reserved, Khala Soraya is vibrant and spontaneous.
“No, we can’t,” Marjan replies. “That’s out of the question. She lives with her family, her brothers and their wives and children.”
It’s more than that, though. Marjan feels something in her loosened by the threats around them. She needs Hawa to understand
this world if she’s going to survive it.
“And, Hawa, Khala Soraya is family to us but that does not make her brothers family to us. It will always be a problem for
us to stay in a man’s home.”
“I know, Madar,” Hawa says. She has learned lessons that were never taught.
“We will find a safe place,” Marjan repeats. She has made this promise a half dozen times today, even though she has not yet
figured out where that place might be. “Let me call Soraya. I need to check on her too.”
Marjan steps into the other room to make the call. Soraya’s brother and cousin are wearing on her, she can tell.
Soraya picks up on the first ring. With everyone glued to their phones, there are few missed calls these days.
“What’s happening?” she asks, skipping the formalities.
“Ingrid left. We’re packed.” Marjan lowers her voice. “I can’t stay in this apartment much longer. It’s just a matter of time
before they come back.”
“Where will you go?” Soraya asks.
“I’m thinking about trying the shelter,” Marjan said. She’s already told Soraya about the place she lived in the first year
after escaping Abdul Khaliq.
“But I heard they closed them down.”
“They couldn’t all close down so quickly, could they? I have to try.”
“You think you’ll be safe there?” Soraya asks.
“If they’re looking for soldiers, they won’t think to look in a women’s shelter,” Marjan explains. “And we don’t need to stay
there long. Jenna and the others will get us through the airport soon.”
“They’re trying. There’s no guarantee that it happens,” Soraya replies.
“You know what we say: For every mountain, there is a path,” Marjan says.
“I don’t know about that, Marjan,” Soraya says, a slight tremble in her voice.
“What do you mean? You don’t sound like yourself.”
“We had four Talibs here today.”
“Oh, God,” Marjan says. She sits on the edge of the bed.
“I hid in an armoire and my family told them there was no one in the army in our home, but the Talibs wouldn’t believe them.
They were searching the house and throwing things around. I was so lucky they didn’t find me. They came so close.”
“Oh my God, Soraya.”
Marjan knows exactly how her friend must have felt in that moment, being a breath away from Taliban retribution.
“They didn’t find me and it made them furious.
They took it out on my brother. My mother was crying, begging them to stop.
They beat him terribly and now . . . now it’s just confirmed for him that I am to blame for everything.
They’re starting to think that my cousin is right.
That the moment I put on a soldier’s uniform, I started to shame the family. ”
Marjan’s heart sinks. Cursed are the women who like walking against the wind, women eager to break with tradition. Soraya
and Marjan are these women, as are all the women in the platoon. Soraya has a natural eloquence and charisma. The Americans
were taken by her early and nominated her to an international delegation on women’s rights. In a conference coming up in Europe,
she was to be one of the global ambassadors advocating for equality across the world.
A few of the female soldiers come from families proud of their daughters’ achievements. Soraya’s mother might have been proud
of her if she weren’t hammered with warnings that her daughter was dragging their family through the mud.
“Look, I’m going to visit the shelter. And if it looks like we can hide out there until we can get to the airport, maybe . . .
maybe you should join us.”
“It’s bad enough that the Taliban are driving us out of our country. I won’t have my cousin drive me out of my home,” Soraya
says defiantly.
Marjan makes her promise she’ll call if she needs anything. Soraya makes her promise the same.
“Remember, I caused you some trouble once. So I owe you, friend,” Soraya says.
Marjan lets out a laugh. “Soraya, you’re the best kind of trouble.”
When she hangs up, Marjan turns around to find Hawa standing in the doorway. She’s no doubt heard most of the conversation.
“We should leave. There’s a place I want us to check out,” she says to her daughter.
“Is Khala Soraya going to be okay?” she asks.
Marjan nods. “Khala Soraya is one of the strongest women I’ve ever met,” she tells her daughter.
It was Soraya who helped her, even after training ended, increase her fast roping speeds so they could get out of the helicopter and find cover quickly.
And it was watching Soraya, carrying twenty pounds of gear, grit her teeth and push through the last mile of a hike that inspired Marjan to push harder.
“If you only knew how strong she is, you wouldn’t worry about her. ”
“You’re strong and she worries about you,” Hawa says as her mother walks past her and into the living room.
The comment startles Marjan. Hawa had said it so quietly that Marjan almost didn’t hear her. She wonders briefly what else
she might have missed.
“I suppose it is natural to worry about people, even if we think we’re very strong,” she says. “I worry about you all the
time and you’re one of the strongest people I know.”
“But I’m not strong at all!” Hawa protests.
Marjan shakes her head.
“The video you and your friends made at school, that took courage and strength.”
Hawa looks surprised.
“I thought you weren’t happy that I was in the video.”
“I wasn’t happy about it, but I respect that you took a stand.” She touches Hawa’s face. There’s a bit of Parwin in her smile,
a touch of Marjan’s mother in the way she wrinkles her nose. There’s a bit of Abdul Khaliq in her eyes, too, but Marjan no
longer fears this. Her daughter couldn’t be more different from him.
Marjan’s phone buzzes with a message. She swipes her phone and reads a message that sends her heart racing.
Be careful. He is looking for you.
She tucks her phone into her bag, tries not to let her face betray her. Hawa is alarmed enough.
“I didn’t want to say goodbye to Ingrid. I don’t want to leave this apartment,” Hawa says. “Why does everything have to change?”
Marjan nods. She thinks of the many farewells she has said, the many people who have come and gone from her life.
This life is a guesthouse, a man once told her. He’d broken into her heart with Mawlana’s verses. She cannot recall the lines, but the essence stayed with her. Sorrow may spoil your joy, even as it sweeps your house clear and readies the way for a new delight.
Hawa and Marjan both take a look at the apartment they are leaving behind once more. Just before they cross the threshold,
Marjan walks back and takes the two terracotta planters from the windowsill. She cannot bear to think of her mint and delicate
cilantro leaves withering in her absence. She leaves them outside the neighbor’s door and then shoulders her bags.
Marjan shuts the door behind them and starts to walk down the stairs. When she turns around to check for Hawa, she sees her
daughter already has a foot on the step behind her.
“I am with you,” Hawa says to her mother.
In the stairwell with cinder-block walls, their footfalls sound like the pattering of rain on a hot roof. Like anxious fingers
drumming a tabletop. Like twin heartbeats swimming toward synchrony.