They are Hazaras.In other words, as Shiites in Sunni-dominated Afghanistan, they have long been subject to discrimination.A return to the Taliban-controlled state would mean at best persecution, at worst, genocide.Unfortunately, their fate isn’t much better in Pakistan, where they must face down glowering guards and distrustful neighbors.As if life behind coils of razor wire isn’t hard enough.
After the first night of Isaad sharing his food, the woman, Malalai, appears with an offering of her own—adult diapers.She offers them first to me, and then, much to Isaad’s consternation, to him.
It’s not safe to use the latrines at night, she informs us.Forget the hungry rats and packs of feral dogs.The camp is filled with young men, lost, traumatized, inured to violence.Stabbings are daily, some the result of short-tempered exchanges.Some simply the last straw of troubled minds that can’t take one second moreof the noise, the smell, the oppressive rain/heat/cold.The police are too few, the doctors and social workers nearly nonexistent.
Keep my hair covered, she advises.Also, my head bowed and my gaze down.I may have escaped the Taliban, but that doesn’t mean I’m safe.Women can change countries; we still can’t change the minds of men.
Very quickly, we discover Isaad isn’t wrong about the food.Afghan cuisine is a satisfying mix of sweet and sour, soft and crunchy, tangy and comforting.The endless curries served up here, however, rip through our intestines.By the third evening, both Isaad and I can only lie on our mats and moan, our one precious bottle of water not nearly enough to replace the fluids pouring out of our bodies.
Halfway through the night, Isaad staggers to his feet, determined to summon help.He collapses at the door.The husband, Rafiq, helps him back to bed.The couple have nothing to offer but their compassion.
When I awake again at first light, their five-year-old boy, Omid, is stealing our water bottle.I want to cry out in protest.But I don’t have the strength, as he takes the bottle, tips it back, and pours the final few precious drops onto Isaad’s parched lips.
“Sleep, Kaka, sleep,” he whispers comfortingly.I would cry, but I don’t have enough moisture left.
We survive.We learn.We adapt.Somewhere around the fourth week, I make my way through the camp to the communal showers for my designated slot, Isaad striding along beside me.At one time, I would’ve rolled my eyes at his puffed-up chest andself-important swagger.Now I’m grateful for his protective arm and beetled brow as mere mortals scatter before us.
Suddenly, a teenage boy lurches into our path.He isn’t screaming as much as gasping, his hands clutched over his stomach, where I can see a splotch of red spreading rapidly across his tattered and dirty tunic.
Two older men come skittering to a stop behind him, one grabbing at the teen’s arm, yanking him back.The boy staggers.The men burst into a frenzy of sharply delivered words.Isaad is already tucking me behind his imposing form.The men aren’t Afghan.Maybe Bangladeshi or Sri Lankan or Burmese; the refugee camp is a virtual United Nations of homelessness.
More chatter, the second man now yanking at the boy as well.
The boy doesn’t speak.He sways dangerously, his face leeching of color as more red seeps across his shirt.
The second man speaks up harshly, his intent clearly ominous as he prepares to drag the injured youth away.I don’t know what else to do.I twist out from behind Isaad’s looming form, wrap both my arms around the young boy, and pull him against me.
The sudden insertion of a clearly pregnant female shocks both of the men into silence.
I use the opportunity to hiss out forceful words of my own.The two men immediately raise placating hands before exchanging alarmed glances, then bolting away.
I can feel the boy shivering.Shock, pain, exhaustion.I whisper reassuring words as he collapses against me.I cradle his form as we sink to the ground, offering what comfort I can, as four other teens burst onto the scene, taking in me, the wounded boy, then Isaad’s obviously enraged expression.
They begin to mutter in agitation, their language foreign toIsaad and rapidly increasing his hostility.Quickly I cut them off with a slew of questions, followed by rapid-fire instructions.In the next few minutes, they mobilize, two returning with a thin brown blanket, the others helping lift their friend atop, then each grabbing a corner, the refugee version of a stretcher, as they heft up their friend’s injured form and sprint in the direction of the makeshift medical clinic.
Bit by bit, the crowd returns to the demanding task of basic survival, till it is just me and Isaad.I’m covered in blood, while Isaad wears a look of confusion.
“What was that?”he asks.
“The boy was waiting in line for food.The men thought he’d taken their place.There was some kind of disagreement… The boy’s friends came, but not in time to help.”
“How do you know this?”
I hesitate, studying the man who is now my husband.I search his face for a long time.I must pick my next words very carefully.
“I listened to them.”
“That is not Dari, nor Pashto, nor English.”Isaad frowns at me.“How did you understand them?”
Then when I don’t immediately answer: “Tell me, Sabera.Where are they from?What were they speaking?”
I am saved from having to confess that I have no idea, that all syllables in any language are nothing but bright, shiny notes, waiting for me to pluck them out of the air and string together in a song of my own making.
That I can do the same with numbers.And symbols and faces and names.For me, the entire universe is nothing more than an assortment of threads that I can weave together, rip apart, then form anew in any and all configurations.And most of the time, I can do it between drawing one breath and another.
It took me years to understand others don’t experience the world the same way.
And it took my mother to make it clear that others must never know.
