41
Dawn’s aura has bloomed into daylight, and the hill is a flurry of activity and speculation. On top of their routines—feeding
children and deciding which chores take priority—the women are buzzing with questions and assumptions and descriptions of
the new arrivals.
She’s very skinny. Her chin is pointy and her eyes have a little green in them, like polished jade.
Polished jade. When did you start talking so fancy?
How long ago did her husband die?
Her daughter is fourteen years old.
No, she’s about my height. She must be six or seven.
Is she a troublemaker? The mother, I mean.
They have three suitcases with them. Her clothes look expensive.
Hmph. Maybe her eyes really are made of polished jade, then.
She told Kobra she wants to make a home here.
Where are her other children?
Maybe she had to leave some behind. She was crying to Khanum Kobra last night and that’s why she let her stay.
Marjan is not excited to meet the other women.
The fewer people she meets at this time, the better.
The only reason she steps outside is to charge her phone.
They were going to get the generator going this morning, but since the Taliban had stormed into town, the residents of this hill had chosen not to venture past the tarp that divided them from the rest of Kabul.
Like everyone else, they kept their children at home instead of sending them to school.
A year ago, a plague had crept through town, making people cough and gasp for air, turning bodies hot then cold.
Isolation spared the women on the hill then, and they hoped their isolation would spare them now.
The women of this aloof city had made a painful but necessary choice. They claimed for themselves this island, this high sanctuary,
in hopes that no one would go to the trouble of coming after them. They needed to know more about Marjan and Hawa before they
decided if they could let down their guard. So when Kobra brings Marjan back to the generator, which sits where the path becomes
a cul-de-sac, the women stand in their doorways or step into the clearing to get a closer look.
Kobra stands in the center and addresses the gathered women in a commanding voice.
“Ladies, this is Marjan. She is a widow like us. Her daughter’s name is Hawa. They are not here to stay but are in need of
shelter for a time. We can all understand that,” she says. “We do not have an empty home right now, so she will stay with
me and my children. Carry on as usual.”
“Where did you live before?” one woman asks. She stands to Marjan’s right, close enough that she can see that the rumor about
her eyes being the color of jade was foolery.
“Not too far from here. In the apartment complex east of the German high school,” she replies.
“In the apartments?” someone exclaims, as if Marjan has just announced that she had a private servant and driver. “And you
have no other family to take you in?”
Marjan shakes her head. The less she speaks, the better.
A young boy pulls the string on the generator, and the machine sputters and coughs. He widens his stance and prepares to pull
again, harder this time. The machine makes a weak gurgling sound. A little girl calls out that he should check the fuel, so
he undoes the cap and gives the machine a light jostle. He confirms the tank is empty.
Kobra summons her son and another boy his age.
Their new arrival will have to practice some patience while the boys fetch a couple of liters of fuel for the generator.
Being matriarch of the hill was not Kobra’s only job.
Until nine days ago, Kobra also worked in the kitchen of the presidential palace.
She chopped vegetables, washed pots, trimmed meat, and sometimes even served during meals.
Her job vanished on August 15. Now that she’s heard the president has fled the country with trunks of cash, she does not expect that she’ll ever see any of the pay that was due to her.
Hawa stands at the periphery, almost out of view. She is nervous that she will say the wrong thing. Away from home, away from
Ingrid and Khala Soraya, away from her school—it feels like their situation could not get any worse, and yet she knows that
it can if she misspeaks. She chooses to stay tight-lipped.
“Do you want some?”
Hawa looks to her left. A little girl of perhaps four or five years holds out a square of bread. Her tawny complexion and
the dirt under her fingernails tell Hawa she spends much of her time outside. She wears a loose-fitting green dress with yellow
flowers. The collar is frayed, the cuffs darkened.
Hawa accepts the bread and thanks the little girl. She shifts her weight, holds the bread awkwardly for a beat but then realizes
how hungry she has become and takes a bite. It softens in her mouth and tastes better than any bread she’s ever had.
“My brother bought it. He’s the one with the green shirt over there. And the one next to him is my mother,” the little girl
says, pointing to a woman sitting on a plastic chair. She has an elbow on one of the armrests and her chin in her cupped hand.
“Oh,” says Hawa. “You and your brother live here?”
“Yes. And my two sisters. Well, one sister left for a month but now she’s here again,” she explains, her volume dropping on
the last sentence. “My mother agreed to give her in marriage but then her husband brought her back. I think he changed his
mind about her.”
Marriage is more of a concept, an abstraction to Hawa, since she has never seen one up close.
Her mother doesn’t speak about her own marriage.
Her music instructors are all married, but they did not bring their wives or husbands to school.
Hawa once asked Ingrid if she was married.
Ingrid had laughed and replied that she was married to her job, just like Hawa’s mother.
Hawa didn’t quite understand what that meant, but Ingrid sometimes said things she didn’t understand.
“How old is your sister?” Hawa asks.
“Fourteen, much older than me,” she replies, and sees Hawa’s eyes grow wide. The girl feels vindicated by her reaction. She’s
known all along her sister’s marriage didn’t seem right, but every time she brings it up, her mother tells her it’s none of
her concern. “And the groom is forty-two years old. Or so they say. His beard has bits of gray in it and his belly is this
big.”
She arches her back and rubs her hands over an imaginary stomach.
Hawa’s gaze moves back to the mother sitting in the plastic chair. She studies her face, tries to understand why this woman
would give her daughter to a man nearly three times her age.
“My sister stays inside most of the time. She doesn’t talk or eat much. My mother says it’s best if we just leave her alone
for now.”
Hawa thinks of the square of bread this little girl just gave her and the lingering taste of sesame seeds in her mouth. She
realizes how this bite of food came to her. Was this the way the world worked? Did one girl have to go hungry so another could
eat?
She wishes she had something to share too, then remembers what she has stuffed into her bag.
“Do you like music?” she asks the little girl.
Kobra squints against the sun. There is a light breeze coming from the west today, a change in direction.
Kabul is changing direction too. All the ambition that had flooded Kabul is gone, replaced by a different zeal.
This is why Kobra never trusted any of the foreign organizations.
They came to this hill and saw the needs, then flipped through papers and left.
Something about criteria. She looks at Marjan, petite and rather quiet.
Still, something simmers behind those eyes; Kobra can sense it.
Maybe this woman’s colleagues can work some magic and get her out of here.
If Kobra had a connection like that, if she had a chance to take her children out of this country, would she try to?
She probably would.
She enlists Marjan’s help lugging jugs of water up the hill. She expected Marjan to struggle with the weight of the jugs more
but is pleasantly surprised to see she is barely slowed by the load. She is not wheezing or taking frequent breaks the way
Zakia did her first week here. This is good. Because though Marjan promised they would not stay long, and though Kobra told
her they had no more room for anyone on the hill, she also knows she would not throw this mother and daughter back into the
wild, and certainly not while the wolves are roaming.
It is noon by the time they have the generator up and running again. Marjan is allowed to charge her phone to thirty-five
percent before someone complains. Fuel is a precious resource.
Marjan powers the phone on, her foot tapping impatiently as she waits for the apps to load. Her messaging icon shows new notifications.
She clicks and sees Jenna has posted several messages, some to the group and some to her privately.
Marjan, please reply. We’re worried about you.
Marjan reads quickly, but then has to go back and read again, because in her eagerness to know what she’s missed, she’s skipping
lines of text.
Yesterday, two FTPs made it through the gates. They managed to get their names on a manifest and will be boarding a plane
this afternoon. The news gives Marjan a surge of hope. She tries not to envy them. They must have endured much shoving, pushing,
and climbing to make it through.
The marine we’ve been in touch with says to wear something green. It’s hard for them to hear anything at the gate but if you
wave and point to your clothing, it will help them spot you in the crowd.
Please confirm if you understand.
Three FTPs reply that they understand. Marjan does as well, though she doesn’t have a single green article of clothing in
her small bag. She’ll have to figure this out too.
We’re each pushing the issue up the chain with our members of Congress too. We’re not getting any direct instruction back from them and I’m not going to hold my breath. I think our best chance is to rely on the marines on the ground there.
Working with Jenna and the others, Marjan has learned that Americans don’t have faith in politicians either.
Soraya has also sent multiple messages—one to the group and one privately to Marjan.
Please let me know where you are. My mother’s blood pressure is high. She says she’s fine but I want to be sure she’s okay but then I’ll go to the airport. I cannot stay here any longer and I’m scared we’re running
out of time. You’re not responding to any messages. Are you okay?
Marjan hurries to reply, feeling terribly that Jenna and Soraya have been left to wonder about her and Hawa.
She calls Soraya’s number, waits for her friend’s full-volume chastising for zipping around town with a half-dead phone, but
Soraya does not answer. She hangs up and tries once more but still no luck. She will have to settle for a text and decides
to message both Soraya and Jenna together.
We are in Zanabad, she types. A place where widows live on a hill. It seems safe. They gave us a place to stay last night. I will meet you tomorrow at the
airport. Maybe tomorrow will be our day.
Jenna replies almost immediately, relieved and encouraging. Marjan checks for a reply from Soraya so many times that she nearly
drains her battery back to zero. She will offer Kobra some money in exchange for help using the generator once more. She tries
calling again but still Soraya doesn’t answer.
Marjan is desperate to know where Abdul Khaliq is, what he’s up to. It feels like he’s just over her shoulder. Hands trembling,
she texts the number she has memorized, the contact that is still nameless in her phone.
Can you talk?
Dots appear on the screen, an incoming message.
You should not be speaking with my mother.
Marjan nearly drops the phone. She’s been exposed, a lifeline taken from her. How much has been revealed to Abdul Khaliq? Everything, she has to assume. He will come for their daughter, if only to punish her.
That night, Hawa wakes often, stirred by her mother’s movements and the blue-white glow of the phone on her restless face.
How has the phone’s battery persisted this long? She rolls over, faces the wall, and wishes away this false moon.