“Then this is what we shall do: we will head to the base together.You’ll be the expectant sweetheart of a US soldier.I’ll be your father.They will fly us both out of here.”
I give him a puzzled look.I highly doubt it will be that simple.And yet, having dictated his plan, Professor Ahmadi has already resumed packing.
“Is that all you’re taking?”He nods his chin in the direction of my only visible possession, the rifle dangling at my side.
I remember what my mother said.About what we would want.About what we would be allowed.
“I have everything I need,” I say at last, drifting a hand over my slightly rounded belly.And when he assumes that I’m talking about my unborn child, I don’t bother to correct him.
In the end, it is not so simple.Professor Ahmadi loads his car with all his boxes of books and bags of valuables, everything he’s convinced he can’t live without.The moment we depart the university gates, however, we are immediately stalled in the same heavy congestion I encountered earlier.No amount of honking or swearing makes a difference, and it quickly becomes clear we’ll never make it to Bagram, which is a full hour north of the city.Instead, we set our sights on the Hamid Karzai International Airport, spending an agonizing four hours covering what should’ve taken thirty minutes.
Even then, by the final few miles, the crush of humanity has grown too dense to be passable by car.We park in the middle of the road, the professor picking one suitcase, topping it with his most precious box, before slinging a black duffel over his shoulder.He hands me a second.We set out unsteadily, quickly overwhelmed by the sheer chaos.Women sobbing and wailing in the oppressive heat.Grown men wading through drainage canals filled with knee-deep sewage.
The closer we get, the worse it becomes, the press of humanity congealing into an impassable wall pressing against a second even more imposing physical structure, this one topped by coils of razor wire and manned by grim-faced US Marines armed with assault rifles.Children are being passed forward through the crowd.Someone has even climbed halfway up, frantically trying to hand over a baby as if gaining access to the stream of departing US cargo planes is the only hope of survival.
I watch in a mix of horror and fascination.The Americans have abandoned us.The Americans will save us.It makes no sense and yet still isn’t as crazy as the three-thousand-year-old capital, my city, my family’s home, collapsing in less than twenty-four hours.
There are faces in the crowd I recognize and who recognizeme.We all studiously avoid eye contact, though at this point, it hardly matters.
In war, there are winners and losers.Here are the losers, hundreds of thousands of Afghans who dared fight for a better future, and in the coming days, will probably pay with their lives.Or worse, their families will pay that price for them.
I’m grateful that my mother is already dead, that she does not have to see this.That she doesn’t have to swallow down the bitter taste in her mouth, which is now filling my own.
Eventually, Professor Ahmadi grabs my arm and pulls me away.There’s no hope for us here.Everyone is thrusting precious papers in the air, legal documents attesting to their right to leave the country.Everyone is lugging personal valuables and family treasures.
None of it matters.
“Should the worst happen, people will want to take everything, but in the end, they will be allowed nothing.Remember this, my sweet.Remember.”
Now I fall in step behind Ahmadi as we awkwardly press our way through the incoming streams of traffic in order to return to his automobile.
“We will be married,” he states as we are walking.
“I thought you were my father.”
He halts so abruptly, I nearly stumble into him.“Sabera!Look around.Surely you see everything has changed.It’s no longer safe for a young woman to be alone.”
I want to argue with him.But I recall the look of that first Taliban fighter leering at me from across the street, anticipation already brightening his eyes.
The professor releases the handle of his suitcase long enough to grasp my shoulder.
“I have the connections and resources to get us across the border.We will have to travel by car, but it can be done.In return, Sabera, I will be your husband.You will follow my lead, you will do as I say, and you will accept me in each and every way.Do you understand?”
The grip of his hand tightens, strong and bruising for a man of his years, while beneath those thick brows, his own eyes hold a gleam.
I regard him for a full minute.I remember bursting pomegranate trees and the sound of my brother’s laughter.I remember my parents and the look they shared every day of their marriage.I remember floating peacefully atop a deep, dark lake, my pale shirt spreading around me like butterfly wings, while his warm hand slipped into mine.
When I was a girl, I dreamed.
Now I nod once.
“I promised your father that I would keep you safe,” Professor Ahmadi states curtly.“And I am a man of my word.I will accept the child as my own.I will provide for you both.Maybe it is not the marriage you expected, but I am an exceedingly brilliant man, Sabera.And it’s clear to me you are an exceedingly clever girl.We might not do so poorly together after all.”
He resumes forcing his way through the cresting human tide.
After a moment, I follow.
My father told me when the danger grew too great, I would need a man to save me.
