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“Good evening, dear viewers. Today, I come to you from outside the studio. Like many of you, I have been struck by the takeover
of our beloved city, of our country by the Taliban, the so-called Islamic Emirate. We continue to see hordes of people making
their way to the airport, desperate to board one of the last outbound flights before the Americans officially end their twenty-year
occupation of our nation, a period marked by countless casualties, civilian and military. It was also a period marked by progress
and growth in various economic sectors but also mired in corruption at all levels of government. As always, we must connect
events to the impact on people.”
Mina clears her throat. She gives an almost imperceptible nod, a signal to Hawa to zoom out so that viewers can see a woman
standing beside Mina. The woman looks up. She holds one end of her headscarf by her temple, concealing most of her face.
“I have with me a woman with an intriguing story. For her safety, we will not reveal her identity. This brave woman overcame
incredible life challenges and went on to serve in the Afghan National Security Forces. She was a member of an elite squadron
of women trained to carry out missions targeting insurgents. The Taliban have claimed, since their takeover, that there will
be no reprisals, no punishment of those who served in the army. Khanum, do you believe these promises?”
“Of course not,” Marjan replies. “For years, I wore a uniform and defended my country, my people from these terrorists. They are disorganized. Many of them have only known a life of war. They have already begun hunting down anyone they see as their enemy. They nearly kicked down the door of my apartment.”
“And why were they at your home?”
Marjan looks beyond the camera, to the children and their mothers, a live audience to her confession.
“They assumed the soldier they were looking for was a man. They didn’t realize I was the soldier.”
“An assumption many would make,” Mina admits. “And since they came to your apartment, what have you been doing?”
Hawa tries to keep the camera steady. It’s a challenge even though the handheld device weighs next to nothing. Marjan still
holds the end of her headscarf by her temple.
“I have been on the run, hiding.”
Marjan lowers her headscarf, lets her hand drift from her temple to her earlobe, revealing half her nose.
“And do you have a husband, Khanum?”
“I did once, but I had to leave him. He was a violent man, one who cheated and stole. He was morally corrupt at home and at
the highest levels in this country too.”
“This must be a terrifying time for you, then. Have you tried leaving?”
Marjan nods again, and her headscarf drops another centimeter, revealing her upper lip. She’s exposing herself to the camera,
and it is akin to shedding a coat in the dead of winter. The Taliban are already hunting Afghan soldiers, and a video by the
notorious woman behind Metra Media will certainly be on their radar. Could they use the data and the technology they’ve inherited
to track her down? Who knows? And while Marjan’s wanted nothing more than to be invisible to Abdul Khaliq, she needs him to
see her now so that she can lead him astray.
With her other hand, the one that hangs at her side, she signals Hawa to come closer. Hawa takes a step toward her mother
and Mina, keeping them both in the frame.
“The airport was a nightmare. I don’t see any hope there, and the flights are ending. It’s a matter of hours now.”
“What are your plans, then?”
“I do not have many options,” Marjan says. Viewers can see most of her face now. They need only to invoke symmetry to fill
in what is missing. “I will try to leave by land, as many others are doing.”
“Are you not discouraged or afraid of the dangers of traveling through territories now controlled by the Taliban? What if
you are stopped along the way?”
“God is merciful.”
“Mm,” Mina says. “And you will be leaving behind friends, family, a life you have built. How does this feel?”
Marjan’s eyes are pink and wet. A knot forms in her throat as she thinks about Shahla, Rohila, and Sitara. She thinks of her
sisters in uniform, at least a few of whom will not find a way out. She thinks of her neighbors, the shopkeepers, Hawa’s classmates
and teachers, the midwives and beggars. She thinks of the women in the shelter, of Kobra and these brave women living on this
noble hill with their bright-eyed children. She thinks of the promise she made to her daughter, that the music wouldn’t be
taken from her. Every mission was a fight for all of this, the innocents and the innocence of her homeland. What is it like
to turn her back on all of this?
“It is . . . it is dying without death.”