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“The sun will be merciless today,” Kobra says as Marjan zips her bag and checks her phone once more. “I’ve asked the boys
to fill water bottles for you.”
“You’ve been so kind,” Marjan says. She has thanked Kobra often. She cannot thank Kobra enough.
Kobra shakes her head. She is uncomfortable with Marjan’s gratitude, maybe more uncomfortable than Marjan herself. Samira,
who has lived on this hill longer than Kobra, pulled her aside last night to express her concern.
She won’t be the only one to come up here. We always try to make room, but what if she tells others and then two more women
come? And then another ten? Before you know it, half of Kabul will be climbing this hill. What will we do then?
Kobra had learned so much from her mother, including a foolproof way to end any debate.
God is merciful, she said, and watched Samira sigh, because this was not a statement she dared refute, even if it felt a bit evasive.
“And you, Hawa-jan,” Kobra says. “You do know how to win over an audience.”
Hawa looks at her feet, hiding a coy smile.
She loved the way the younger children had clamored over one another to get closer to her, to watch her blow a few clumsy notes out of the recorder.
For some, it might have been their first time seeing someone play an instrument.
She remembers gawking at the rubabs, the sitars, the tablas, and the harmoniums at the music school during her first week there, how excited she had felt to pluck a string, to press her lips around a reed, to tap her finger against a skin pulled taut.
Those early notes were the beginnings of a conversation.
To Marjan’s surprise, Hawa picks up the recorder from the corner of the room and places it into the hands of Kobra’s daughter.
The little girl’s eyes flit from the instrument to Hawa’s face.
“I can’t play like you,” she says.
“It takes a bit of practice,” Hawa says. “But start with something simple.”
“Like what?” the little girl asks.
“Like . . . like birdsong,” Hawa offers, recalling one of the early classroom musings of her teacher. “Try to copy their melodies.
They’re short and simple and a good place to start.”
Ustad Rafiqi had told them that humans found sitting in nature relaxing because birds only sang when they detected no danger
around them.
Hear a bird sing and then you’ll know you can rest your head in the grass. Close your eyes and let the sun put you to sleep
for a stitch of time, he had wistfully explained.
“If you’re going to copy birdsong, mimic the doves and not the roosters,” Kobra warns. Her daughter buries her face into her
mother’s shoulder to hide her smile.
Marjan and Hawa say a few more farewells before heading down the hill. They do not know the women well and still they can
sense they’re being sent off lovingly, with whispered prayers carried on the breeze. They are not alone as Marjan lifts the
tarp, as she and Hawa leave Zanabad.
We’re on our way to the airport, Marjan types to the group.
Good. Keep us posted as you get closer. Jenna will share more instructions once we hear from our guy, Krista responds.
Marjan sends a separate message to Soraya.
Please come today. You are right. We are running out of time.
She waits for a reply, but nothing comes. She doesn’t blame Soraya for wanting one more day with her mother. She might do
the same were her mother still alive, but this is not the day to think about the family she has lost. She must quiet those
thoughts.
“Do you think you would have learned to play without lessons?” Marjan asks her daughter. “If you had just a flute and a . . .
a canary?”
Hawa bites her lip.
“I don’t think so. But I didn’t want her to feel discouraged.”
“You would be a good music teacher, just like your ustads. Wasn’t one of them a shepherd?”
Hawa nods. Ustad Rafiqi had many lives before music drew him in. He learned by walking through tall grasses, pressing his
lips to the hollowed wood and testing out one note, then another. Even in the absence of instruction or an audience, the music
surfaced.
“Music is an insistent creature. It wants to live. I didn’t know this before,” Marjan says. “But I’ve learned this from you.
When I came to your concert, the songs you played were in my head for a week like a recording.”
“They were?” Hawa seems taken by the idea she could have such a presence in her mother’s thoughts.
They walk until they meet the main road. Marjan watches for a passing taxi, raises her hand and tries to summon one. When
the fifth one passes her, she wonders if they’ll have to take buses and walk to get to the airport but is relieved when a
cab finally stops for them.
She tells the driver they want to go to the airport.
“The airport,” he grouses. “People are killing themselves to get on a plane. It’s an embarrassment, this mess they’ve left
after twenty years. Sister, are you sure you want to go there?”
Marjan doesn’t flinch at his resentment. She is unsure what to make of the last two decades but can say with certainty her
life is better because of them.
Marjan had loved the clarity and structure of a mission.
She was given every detail in a briefing.
By the time she climbed into a Chinook, she didn’t need to look left or right to know who was sitting beside her.
She knew the coordinates of their drop-off, the layout of the village, the name of the target, and how to hand off a prisoner.
Hell, she knew the flavor of the candies they would be handing out to the children.
But she realizes now that while the plan for the night might have been clear, the plan for the following month was less so.
And beyond that, the vision of the generals and people above them had become even more obscured, as if they were flying through
a blanket of clouds.
It should be no surprise, Marjan thinks, that they’ve vowed to be gone by the end of the month. Their embassy is already closed,
their staff evacuated. The only remaining troops are the ones at the airport. Five days from now, there will be no American
presence in Kabul, and Marjan will have no chance of getting out with Hawa.
“You’re right. But I have to try for my daughter’s sake,” Marjan replies, trying not to think about the horrific scenes she’d
heard about at the airport. People had overwhelmed the gates, flooded the runway, and grabbed onto a plane even as it took
off and gained altitude. Who would ever forget the image of people falling from the sky like wounded birds?
Marjan’s phone lights up again. She expects it to be Soraya, but it’s Jenna. This morning Marjan saw that Soraya had last
been online around three in the morning. Maybe she hadn’t texted because she didn’t want to wake anyone with a ping at that
hour. She should know no one is sleeping through these nights.
Ladies, roll call. Where are you? Jenna asks the group.
On our way, Marjan replies.
Okay. We’re still seeing warnings that there may be an insurgent targeting the airport. Stay alert.
Maybe they make these warnings because they do not want us to leave, another FTP muses. But we cannot stay here. I burned my papers. I am nothing.
We’re going to get you through. Do you have the signs with you?
There are small fires all over Kabul as people race to eliminate the evidence of their involvement with the Americans or other Westerners. Hard-earned diplomas, certificates, recommendation letters, and precious photographs—anything incriminating is turned to ash.
As they approach a checkpoint, Marjan takes Hawa’s hand. She opens her phone and deletes the messages with Jenna and the others
in case they check her device. The Taliban are guarding the outer perimeter of the airport while the Americans and Afghan
soldiers manage the land inside.
Two Talibs stand on the dirt road; one has the end of his lungi pulled across his mouth, a screen against the dust. The rifle
he’s carrying is thankfully pointed at the ground. He peers into the taxi, looks Marjan and Hawa over, and asks for their
documents.
“I have none,” Marjan says meekly. “My husband is holding everything for us. He is already inside the airport.”
The Talib turns his head and fires a wad of saliva onto the ground.
“Open your handbag,” he barks.
Marjan sees Hawa go perfectly still. She obliges, unzips her bag, and holds the mouth open so he can see it contains nothing
but a pen, a folded piece of paper, a few bills held together by a metal clasp, and two bottles of water.
“What is that?” he asks. “What’s the paper?”
Marjan’s pulse drums in her ears. The proximity to the enemy unnerves her. But the Taliban soldiers are all around them, within
striking distance and utterly untouchable.
“Just a note from my elderly mother, a prayer for a safe journey,” she says. She can feel Hawa’s eyes on her.
The Talib conferences with the man beside him. From somewhere in the line of cars behind them, they hear the bleat of a car
horn. One Talib leaves to investigate the noise. He raises a whip and lashes at the back of a man who tries to duck the blows,
covering his head with his hands. There are shouts and horns and the occasional rat-a-tat of warning shots fired into the
air.
Marjan takes stock of the surroundings. The airport perimeter is teeming with people. Tactically, it’s nearly impossible to secure the area. They need to push through today, to get close enough that the marines can spot her and the sign she’s been told to carry.
The Talib waves them through. She thanks the taxi driver, who shakes his head and warns her to be careful.
Marjan nods. With Hawa’s hand in hers, she pulls out her phone and updates the group that she’s arrived and will start making
her way to Abbey Gate.
Good, Jenna replies. Keep me posted.
She spots a tall tower and sees two soldiers, Americans, it appears, standing atop a concrete wall topped with coiled wires.
Behind the soldiers is the leaf-shaped airport. Military structures sit on the north side and passenger terminals are to the
south. A single runway cuts through the center, a paved spine.