A man pulling a four-wheeled wagon piled high with stacks of swaying trunks halts between me and the leering militant.I don’t wait.I turn and run, bouncing off surging bodies and tripping over abandoned belongings as I fight my way upstream.The university, from which I had fled just hours ago, now seems my only hope.
When I finally glance to my left, I don’t see the Taliban fighter anymore.But I still catch glimpses of black turbans pushing through the streets, emerging from various storefronts and side alleys.The crowd’s growing fright is palpable.
The smell of exhaust fumes and sweat-covered bodies.The feel of steel and concrete blast walls, pressing against a swelling tide of humanity.The congestion of red-and-black-umbrellaed four-wheeled market stalls, once set up to feed milling shoppers, now desperate to escape.
I veer right when a second scowling man appears in front of me, swerve left when a third snatches at my arm.It feels like swimming upstream, which makes me think of the last day at the lake, the feel of his fingers entwined in mine…
By the time I stagger through the university gates, I’m gasping in a gut-churning combination of grief, fear, and exhaustion.All I want is sanctuary.What I discover, however, is a scene only slightly less chaotic than the city streets.People dashing here,dashing there, while others appear to be nearly spinning in place.And the noise—an undercurrent of anxious mutterings that seem to come from everywhere and swell to a crashing crescendo.What’s happening, where to go?Rumors fly that the Taliban have entered from the west and south and are capturing all government institutions, including schools.And yet the idea that an institution as prestigious as this university might fall still feels preposterous.Of course, the Taliban, marching straight into Kabul…
No one knows what to do, because none of us possessed this level of imagination.And yet now, here we are.
Pressing my back against the wall, I work my way quickly to Professor Ahmadi’s office.Inside, I find him sorting through his oldest and most precious notebooks, whose ragged pages are filled with lecture notes he has carefully curated over the years, official textbooks being hard to come by.Even more amazing, he has an entire red binder filled with meticulously developed theorems and proofs, in hope of the day he’ll have a wider audience.Now, one by one, he’s piling such treasures into open boxes.
He stills the moment he sees me.His dark eyes, set deep beneath heavy, gray-shot brows, fall to the rifle clutched in my trembling hand.
“It is that bad, then?Your father?”
I can’t say the words.The professor nods once, saving me from the heartache.
“And your brother?”
I shake my head.
He grunts.“I tried to warn your father.His brothers were doing him no favors.Side with them, pay the price.”
I open my mouth, but all that emerges is a half-choked sob, the beginning note of an animal’s wounded scream.
Ahmadi sets down the red-covered journal in his hand,considers me straight on.An older man, he wears his intelligence like a fierce cloak wrapped around his tall frame and hawkish nose.I’ve seen women swoon over him.And I’ve heard whispers about the others, female students upon whom he set his gaze, then dismissed once they succumbed.Dokhtar Baaz, they whispered behind his back, a lecherous old man.I don’t think they were wrong.
I’ve worked for him for nearly a year, an exalted position for someone of my junior standing.But I’m not stupid.I observe how his gaze spends more time roaming the lines of my body than reviewing the long and torturous equations he has me copying onto the chalkboard.
Lately his focus has grown even more attentive, the first to notice my drift into bulkier, more traditional dress.Then later, seeming to actually notice how my hastily scrawled numbers are scratched across the blackboard with surprising speed and fluidity.I’ve had to force myself to slow down, to glance repeatedly at his annotations, as if in need of the information.
Now he considers me.Then, as a direct order: “Tell me.”
I want to make the announcement matter-of-factly, if not defiantly.Instead, my cheeks flush hotly, and I’m acutely aware of my shame.
I miss my mother.It’s foolish, but now more than ever, I long for the comfort of her embrace.I want to confess to her all my stupidity and naïve female failings.I want her to tell me everything will be all right, and even if she’s lying, at least for a moment, I will be able to set down my burden.
Now I try to utter three simple words.My mouth opens, closes.No declaration emerges.I blush harder, try again.I still can’t make my throat work.My father might be progressive, but even he would be appalled by what I’ve done.
For an instant, terribly, selfishly, heartbreakingly, I am grateful he’s dead and will never know of my disgrace.Which makes me hang my head in shame all over again.
Professor Ahmadi, finally taking pity on me: “Who’s the father?”He asks the question brusquely.I’m grateful for the lack of berating.
“Does it matter?”I whisper.
“I would say, given the circumstances, it matters very much.”
I shake my head.“He’s gone.I’m alone.That is all that’s relevant.”
“Is he American?”Ahmadi asks sharply.
“No.”
“But you could say he is.An American combatant, recently recalled from Bagram?”
“I… I guess.”
