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“Oh, the things I do for you,” Soraya whispered.
“I wanted to tell you.”
“So you knew your sister was there before we left? My God, of course you did. No wonder you were acting so strange,” she said,
exhausted. They’d completed the mission debrief, eaten a quick meal, and returned to their quarters to sleep. They were sitting
on their cots, at no risk of anyone overhearing them, and still Soraya dared not speak at a normal volume.
“I wasn’t sure,” Marjan explained. “I haven’t seen her for years.”
“That could have gone so badly,” Soraya said, shaking her head.
“But it didn’t, thanks to you,” Marjan said. “I don’t know how to . . . how to . . .”
“How to thank me?” Soraya filled in. “How about you tell me why you never mentioned this sister?”
Marjan had learned so much from her military training and yet she’d missed one essential lesson—no mission was successfully
conducted by only one person, no matter how elite or well-trained. Marjan had been charging forward on her own for too long.
She needed a sister, a friend, a confidante. A platoon would be ideal, but for today, Marjan would take even one sister in
arms.
“A thousand years ago, I was one of five daughters. We were nothing special, just a family.” She told Soraya the entirety
of her story, starting from the day she became a bacha posh.
“Your aunt was right. You are a warrior,” Soraya said when she finished, with an arm around her friend. “You just didn’t have the uniform before.”
Something light floated upward in Marjan’s chest, slipped through the thick knot of her throat. She blinked rapidly, allowing
the tears to fall.
“It breaks my heart that you had to survive that life, but I’m so grateful that you did.”
How had she held all this in for so long?
“If you ever want to talk about it . . .” Soraya began.
“I won’t.”
“I don’t mean today or tomorrow,” Soraya said.
Marjan shook her head. “It is behind me,” she said.
This wasn’t true, of course. Seeing Shahla proved that.
Who had been with her mother when she took her last breath? Had her father ever felt remorse for giving his daughters away?
What did Rohila look like now? Did anyone pray over Khala Shaima’s grave?
How foolish she’d been to write her number on the cotton of Shahla’s dress! What if her husband saw it and asked her about
it? Her husband was not like Abdul Khaliq, but he was still a man. Men did not take well to wives keeping secrets tucked in
the folds of their dresses.
Marjan knew that Soraya would not disclose her past to any of the other women in the platoon. But Marjan had not anticipated
that her friend would treat her exactly the same once she’d learned about her past. Marjan saw no pity in Soraya’s eyes. Marjan
realized this was part of why she had been so reluctant to talk about her history—she could not have stomached being treated
like a wounded child.
They went about their work and missions as usual, traveling back to Kabul together. In the city, Soraya visited often, spoiling
Hawa with small gifts and the bubbly conversations that occur between a vivacious aunt and her admiring niece.
Until the day, almost a full year later, when Marjan’s phone pinged with a new text message.
Salaam. I don’t know if this is the right number.
Marjan thought nothing of it at first. There were plenty of wrong numbers.
Some men even had enough idle time on their hands to text a string of digits at random looking for a woman to chat with.
Marjan ignored the message and only bothered to respond two days later, when the dawn azaan had woken her from a restless sleep.
Who are you looking for? she wrote back.
The response came later that day.
A visitor traveled far to give me this number a year ago. I’m looking for her.
This message made Marjan’s heart pound. Was this Shahla? Did she dare ask? If she replied, she might put herself in danger.
She thought long and hard before she typed out a reply.
Sister, I am not sure who you are. Maybe I would recognize your voice.
A few moments later, Marjan’s phone lit up with an incoming call from the same number. Her finger hovered over the screen,
unsure if she should pick up. What was the worst that could happen? This individual already had her number. And if there was
any chance this was Shahla, she had to take it.
“Yes?” she said timidly.
“Rahima? Is it you?” Shahla whispered, and Marjan’s fingers tightened around the phone.
“Oh, Shahla. I didn’t know if I’d ever hear from you. Are you all right?” Marjan asked, whispering as well.
“I wasn’t sure if I had the number right,” Shahla said.
“Whose phone is this?” Marjan asked. She’d seen her sister’s living conditions. She had married into a family that had enough
to feed everyone, but in rural homes, there was one phone, and that phone stayed with the husband.
“It belongs to my son,” Shahla said. “His father has given him one now that he’s been helping with his work. Jameel is a good
boy. I’ve told him that I wanted to get in touch with my elderly aunt. My husband did not think very highly of our family
and sees no use in me contacting any of my relatives.”
Marjan pressed her fingers to her forehead. “You were so ill when I saw you. I was worried . . .”
“Oh, that was a terrible time. I recovered, thanks be to God. And Sitara. She helped nurse me back to health.”
“How is my little sister? Did you ever tell her it was me that night?”
“She’s well. Her children are well. She’s a good girl but I don’t trust her to keep you a secret just yet. She is still trying
to find her way in this home. Some days she says she wishes I would not have brought her into this family. Other days, she’s
grateful. The sky changes colors by the hour and so do we.”
Marjan sat by her apartment window. She ran her finger along the serrated edge of a mint leaf growing in a rectangular planter.
She wished she could bring her sister into this world, to have her sit beside her on the floor, their backs against the cushions
and two cups of tea between them going unfinished because they had so much to say to each other.
“But, Rahima, we had so little time that night and my head was woolly with fever. I can barely recall what I said and what
I asked you. Where are you? Tell me everything.”
“I go by Marjan now,” she explained. “I live in Kabul, in an apartment. I have been a soldier for a few years now. It’s been . . .
the best thing for me.”
“I dreamed so many times of seeing you again but never could I have imagined you would appear in a uniform.”
Marjan had to ask. “The one taken in that night, did he return?”
“He did. After three weeks.”
“Does he run with insurgents?”
Shahla took so long to respond that Marjan wondered if the call had dropped.
“I am not privy to his business.” This was possibly true. It was also possible that Shahla did not want to invite another
midnight visit by soldiers. “You are happy with the work you do?”
Marjan considered this. She was no fool.
She knew the government had its flaws, its corruptions and vices.
She had heard the sordid stories about which appointments had been bought, the lucrative mining contract that went to a cousin, the sexual exploitations committed by men one rung above their victims. There was too much money in the country.
There was so much poverty. What was the alternative?
A country led by terrorists or greedy warlords?
At least in this version of Afghanistan, the girls had a fighting chance.
At least there were good people in Parliament and the ministries as well, fighting for the country’s soul.
“If we never see a woman do anything but marry and have children, it’s easy to believe that is all we can do. Women have all
kinds of jobs in Kabul and other cities. I want my . . .”
Marjan paused, unsure if she should say more. Her eyes fell on her daughter’s sneakers by the apartment door.
“I want my daughter to know she can choose what she wants to do with her life.”
“You were pregnant with her when you ran away?” Shahla whispered.
“Yes. She is bright and sweet and reminds me of our beloved Parwin,” she said.
“Sweet, sweet Parwin. Oh, Rahima, you are really like no other woman,” Shahla exclaimed, erupting into laughter. “I have to
keep my voice down.”
Finally, they could connect with each other. Shahla would, from time to time and when she was sure no one would see what she
was doing, borrow her son’s phone to send a message or make a quick call to hear her little sister’s voice. Marjan warned
her to delete the messages after she sent them, so they would not be seen by anyone else. As eager as they were to reclaim
their connection as sisters, they could not do so often. Shahla lived in a home with many other people. She had little privacy
and was almost always in full view of at least three or four people—her children, her husband, or her in-laws.
Marjan did not send messages; she only replied. She was terrified she would cause her nephew’s phone to ping while it was
in the hands of his father or someone else.
She wanted so much to tell Hawa about her khala Shahla, but she did not.
Every time she thought about introducing Hawa to the truth about her family, she struggled with where she would draw the line.
How could she talk about Shahla without talking about why they could not visit each other?
And what if she wanted to pick up the phone and call her aunt?
It was a doomed mission.
Marjan did not sit still, even when she was home. She cleaned, reorganized, and tended to three pots of flowers and herbs
on her windowsill. She was in motion at all times, resisting the undertow.
Provinces away, Shahla did the same. She sometimes found herself lying awake in the precious stillness of night, and if she
was certain no one would notice, she draped a shawl over her shoulders and slipped out of the compound. On those nights, she
walked far into the valley, golden jackals yipping in the dark. She would sit on a rock by a willowy stream and dip her fingers
into the cool waters, trying to divine where the water had come from and where it would go.
Two nights after speaking to her sister, Shahla went on a moonlit pilgrimage. This time, she stepped into the stream and sat
in its cool waters and cried. The blood, sweat, and cooking oil from her clothing seeped into the rippling flow. She watched
the water welcome her tears, knew they would join a river she could not see and cross this country. There, in the cradle of
ancient mountains, she let God alone hear her laugh.