“Madar—”
“Shh, while I can still speak, this is what you must know: You cannot trust your uncles.Your father is too gentle.They will bend him to their will, and he will not understand the danger until it’s too late.Never trust men who fatten their bellies off other people’s pain.And never,ever, believe any man knows what’s best for you.Even when they come from a place of love.”A pause.“Especially when they come from a place of love.
“You and only you will clean out my sewing room.”
I nod helplessly.
“You will be troubled, and I’m sorry.You will feel you’re too young for such a burden, but you’re strong and powerful, janem.You will find your way.”
Her fingers squeeze mine.She raises her head to gaze at me with a fierceness I didn’t know she had left.
“You will tell no one.Do you understand?Not even Farshid.You can peer into other people’s souls, my sweet.But never let them see yours.”
I open my mouth.I want to say no, to selfishly refuse such a giant and terrifying ask.
But it’s too late.My mother’s head falls back against the pillows, the exhaustion like an extra blanket weighing her down.
She slips her hand from mine, draws a thin line through the tears on my cheek.“Should the worst happen, people will want to take everything, but in the end, they will be allowed nothing.Remember this, my sweet.Remember.”
I break down, sobbing, begging, demanding that she stay.She pats my back once, twice, three times.Then she gently pushes me away.
Her gray eyes stare straight into mine.Clear, purposeful.
She states: “Chin up.”
And that’s it.My father appears with my brother.More aunts and uncles and cousins.Until with a last exhale, my mother passes, her hand tucked into my father’s, while my brother and I kneel with our heads against her feet.My father’s wail is the first to crack the silence.Then we are all sobbing and moaning: Oh my God, I am dying, I can’t live without you, why have you left us, oh God, please please I’m sorry I wasn’t a better husband, sister, daughter, son.
We collapse over her body and howl our pain to the heavens.
She is gone from us.Gone from me.
When I was a girl, I dreamed.
Later, I clean out my mother’s sewing room.I don’t understand everything I find.But I realize enough.
More choppers roar across the minaret-studded skyline, and blast walls are built higher while roadside bombings become so common we barely flinch at the sound, just round our shoulders and scurry home.
My classmates exchange horrible tales of things going on in the outlying towns.A growing resurgence of Taliban fighters executing policemen, annihilating entire villages.Females dousing themselves in gasoline and setting themselves on fire to escape forced marriages.Even more women, schoolteachers, reporters, doctors, disappearing in the middle of the night.
And yet still we flit from coffee shop to coffee shop, post photos to our Facebook page, chat away on our cell phones.Because this is Kabul.The insurgents would never dare to attack here.
My brother, Farshid, disappears for longer and longer periods of time, returning home covered in dust and staggering in exhaustion.He cloisters himself in my father’s study with the rest of the men, where low whispers and harsh exclamations reverberate down the hall.
They are arguing next steps.My mother’s right—my father’s too gentle for his brothers’ avarice.They have worked too hard, built too much, to leave all their worldly goods behind.They will defend if they have to, bribe their way through the rest.There’s still plenty of time to determine best options, they rashly insist.Never mind that they have made enemies of nearly everyone, including our neighbors.And while my father might be more kindly regarded, he’s also well known for his outspoken views on women’s rights.The current government finds him annoying; in the eyes of the Taliban, he’s downright dangerous.
In war, there are winners and losers.If Kabul falls, my family won’t be on the winning side.
One day, I discover Farshid striding through the courtyard with an armful of rifles, his expression so grim it hurts.There’s so much I want to tell him, but I remain bound by my mother’s words.
“Farshid,” I try.
“Not now, Sabera.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help…”
“Go to school, Sabera.Study, learn, grow that stubborn mind of yours that enjoys torturing me so much.You do your job.I’ll do mine.I will keep you safe, Sabera,” he states darkly.“Trust me.”
“I will keep you safe, too, Farshid.Two halves of one whole, yes?”
