Enjeela Ahmadi-Miller
THE BROKEN CIRCLE
A MEMOIR OF ESCAPING AFGHANISTAN
It was the birth of my beautiful son, Alexander Miller, that inspired me to write my memories of Afghanistan, the country of my birth.
HOW BIRDS FLY
Prologue
A TAPESTRY OF TIME AND PLACE
I had not thought about Afghanistan in years. I had forgotten, buried the images of death and war under the busyness of an American life.
There was the party to prepare for; five hundred invitations were in the mail to local fashionistas for the introduction of my new line at a posh gallery downtown. Everyone who is anyone in Dallas, even my husband’s, Henry’s, influential real estate friends, will be there.
We arrive at the party, Henry and I, celebrities on this night. Beautiful people greet us, coiffed, dressed to dazzle, each of them elegant and striking. The gallery is brilliant with light; the modern art pieces hang like illuminated gems on the white panels. Waiters with trays of appetizers and flutes of champagne serve the guests. Anticipation builds as we mingle, hugs and kisses all around. I look around in wonder—this is perfect, the apex of my dreams. Even if I had climbed the highest mountain and stood on top of the world breathing in the heady air, I could not have been more elated. All these movers and shakers here to see my designs, the work of my imagination.
The music takes on a new beat, thrumming and dramatic, and the first model sashays in. There are twelve in all—gorgeous, thin, leggy, high-cheeked blondes, brunettes, and redheads. They strut, they pose, they turn, and the smoothness of the fabric along their slender roundness accents every curve, every undulating movement of their bodies. They look like a million bucks; the jeans I have designed look like a million bucks. My face burns with pride.
Then an unstoppable wave of memory, of that Cinderella moment in Kabul when my sister Shahnaz, bedecked in gold jewelry and flowing green wedding dress, every bit as gorgeous as any of these models, promenaded into the grand ballroom of the stately Serena Hotel on the arm of her husband, Saleem. One of the happiest memories of my life. As the crowd oohs and aahs at the fashion show, they flash me glances of congratulations and admiration, but I’m transported. A child in a world falling apart around me. I think of my sister’s wedding, and the day my mother left Kabul, and the rumble of invading Soviet tanks.
I glance around. Where is my son? And I remember Alexander is at home.
Once the models have finished walking, I step away from the party to make a call.
“Bring him to me,” I tell the nanny. “Come to the party with him.”
When he arrives, I hold him in my arms, and as people congratulate me, I am not thinking of jeans, or models, or accolades, or even sales and the comforts that would bring. I’m thinking only of him, and us, and how I will never leave him like she left me. I will never make him question my love for him. I will never make him search for me.
I know now who I am. I am Afghan, and I am American. I am one fabric of existence: a tapestry of past and present.
I am safe, happy, prosperous, and enjoying every moment of my life. But I am sad for the ones left behind, those who could not escape.
My son is only three, but he should know this story. He must know where I come from. The delicate fabric of our lives here, woven by a young refugee fleeing a country that she loved.
MAP
1
ENGAGEMENT PARTY
The Rigveda, a sacred text, speaks of Kabul as a vision of paradise set in the mountains. For me it was many things—my birthplace, my playfield, my home, the crucible of my soul. But I like the description of paradise best.
Outside the gates of my house, Kabul stretched out along the sloping plains and into rocky foothills, a city both modern and ancient. High-rise office buildings were neighbors to the bazaar that had stood since the time of Babur the Conqueror, who made the city his capital. Now a modern electric trolley ran along every major road and most streets, carrying Kabuli from the suburbs to their work or shopping. The paved streets of the city were a slice of a larger world—men in turbans and men in suits; women in burkas and girls in miniskirts. There were mosques, synagogues, and churches, and in 1975, the year of my birth, it was a city of peace.
I remember most vividly the turn of the seasons. When the buttercups and lilies bloomed, their petals unfolding in a carpet of whiteness across the field in front our home, I knew springtime had arrived. They lifted a delicious odor into the cool breeze, as sweet as jalebi, my favorite dessert. The fruit trees in our orchard would ripen soon—peaches, pears, pomegranates, and later in the year there would be apples and oranges. New green shoots of grass sprouted around the trees, and to the north, the Hindu Kush mountains were snowcapped and shrouded in sporadic clouds. Cherry trees blossomed along the roads, roses came to life in gardens, and a new season emerged from the winter darkness.
I played soccer in the tree-lined streets, paved and clean, with my friends and sisters. I rode bikes and played volleyball and watched my brothers fly kites when the winds blew off the plains. I ran and played until I heard the azan—the song of the mullah. From my yard, I could look up and see the minarets of our mosque. It was five o’clock and time to return home for dinner.
Winter in Kabul came in December, and the snow would pile up high on the sides of the house, soft as giant pillows. Zia, my brother, often dared the three of us girls to climb on the roof with him and jump off. Zulaikha would have nothing to do with it. She would never get on the roof. Laila would come up only if Zia coaxed her. Zia had only to dare me, and I’d climb up. I’d walk right up to the edge of the roof, stare down for a moment at the white mound, and then lift off into space, yelling all the way, flailing my arms until landing in the white softness.
We did this until the maid came out and spotted me in midair. She ran and told Mother, who put a stop to our fun with a strong word of warning: I had to stop acting like a tomboy. She had a way of letting me know she disapproved of me. She then would call Shapairi, my second oldest sister, and have her clean me up. Shahnaz, my oldest sister, was far too busy with her makeup and clothes and her job to have any time to help dress us or clean us up.
My childhood was filled with fun and camaraderie. I was the second youngest of eight children of a prominent Kabul family, and we lived behind the whitewashed walls surrounding the house Padar had built for us in the Karte Seh neighborhood. I grew up during one of the most prosperous periods in the history of Afghanistan. My neighborhood was full of mansions of every size, and it was situated not far from the downtown district, where new government buildings were being constructed. At one end of my street was the large building where the National Assembly of Afghanistan met. Our national loya jirgas were convened here. From time to time, a line of big cars would stream down our street, bringing delegates from all over the nation to meet.
When driving through town with Padar, we often passed by the tree-filled campus of Kabul University. It was crowded with students, men and women strolling the manicured grounds between buildings, talking and enjoying life. This was a place where prosperity and tradition intersected, each in appreciation for the other’s place in its citizens’ hearts. Shahnaz, my oldest sister, and Shapairi, who was a year younger, were in high school and were the most beautiful girls in town, or at least I thought so. Shahnaz had an elegant way to her that reminded me of royalty, with a demureness that added to her mystery. Her lips were always bright red with fresh lipstick that made her clear light skin almost shine. Shapairi was an outspoken tomboy who was as bold as Shahnaz was shy and refined. They both dressed in the highest fashion and were intensely sought after by young men.