It felt as if we had all changed in the week since we’d left Kabul. Laila, a natural leader with energy and confidence from her years of volleyball competition, who pushed all of us to perform better or play harder, was now collapsed over her knees as if she was never going to stop throwing up. Across from me was quiet Zulaikha. Her thoughts were a mystery to me. My adventurous brother Zia’s fun-loving demeanor had now turned so serious. Once I had my sneakers off, the sharp pulsing in my feet began to ebb, so I moved close to Laila and put my hand on her shoulder to let her know I was there. Her body convulsed as she retched. She was the one who had always taken care of us, but what if she couldn’t continue? I watched Masood across the courtyard as he spoke to a man.
I tried to remember why Padar had sent us away without him. Was he truly going to meet us in Peshawar? What if he got so drunk he fell asleep and never woke up? And while he slept, his cigarette fell out of his mouth and lit the house on fire? That nearly happened once. The flesh of his arm had blistered such an ugly, painful red that we had to take him to the hospital. A fear rose within me that he would never come for us. That we were now alone.
I covered my face with my hands. I wanted to cry. I knew I shouldn’t. Even though I was the youngest, I didn’t want my sisters and brother to treat me like a child for the rest of the way. I especially didn’t want to let Masood think I was too weak to make it through the journey. I took in a deep breath and opened my eyes. I would not let myself act like a baby.
Masood stood on the other side of the dirt yard, by two wooden doors in the mud wall, as he talked with an old man. I could see the man’s face clearly—a scruffy gray beard that hadn’t been combed in a lifetime; a weathered, parched face like a discarded piece of leather; and a mouth of missing or cracked teeth. He wore a dirty sand-colored peran tumban, the traditional dress we saw often in the countryside. I could hear Padar’s voice run through my head—Don’t trust him, don’t trust him.
The wooden doors separated the part of the village we stayed in from where the rest of the people lived. It was the private compound of the local villagers. The part we stayed in was for travelers. In a couple of days, we all recovered from our walk through the marijuana fields. My curiosity returned, and I began to wonder what life was like behind those closed doors.
Laila wouldn’t have anything to do with my snoopiness. She kept telling me to stay close to her, that this was a dangerous place, and I shouldn’t just walk around and look into people’s houses or ask what they were doing. She warned me to not go too far from her. But it was difficult being around her. What did she know? Every day, she constantly pestered Masood about how long we were staying in the village. She wanted to know why we couldn’t just keep walking and get out of there. Why was it taking so long to get to Peshawar? Then Zulaikha would pipe up and start complaining about the food and the hut we slept in. Pretty soon we were all snapping at one another. Masood only smiled at all the questions and demands. “You should be happy,” he told us one day, “that you don’t have to live here. We are just waiting till it’s safe to pass. Then we will leave.”
Each day, the bombing in the mountains became more intense. Explosions in the distance sent small tremors through the earth as we sat on the ground eating our rice and vegetables. At night when sound traveled, we could hear the rat-a-tat-tat of machine-gun fire and jets streaking overhead. During the day, helicopters passed overhead, and we could see the guns and bombs. The war was close enough that Masood insisted it was too dangerous to go farther right now. As soon as he had news that it was safe, we’d move on. Meanwhile we were stuck in this dreary place, eating just enough rice and vegetables to keep the hunger pangs away.
Day after day the old man with the cracked teeth came through the wooden doors, delivered our food, then disappeared behind the doors, leaving us to ourselves. He would often stare at me and my sisters as we played. I watched him look us over one day, like he was trying to value livestock in the market. I turned away from him, renewed in my determination not to go near him. But I couldn’t sit still at times not knowing what he was doing on the other side of the gates.
One day when he finished bringing lunch, I waited until he returned to the other side, then snuck over and opened one of the doors and peeked inside. The other part of the village looked similar to our side, but this one was full of kids—hungry, gaunt, toyless children. One girl who appeared close to my age stood out: she moved around to her chores with vigor others didn’t have. She still had passion for life, despite her dismal environment. Here was one girl who appeared to have stayed above it all.
She must have been babysitting, because she ran around chasing after the little kids. I didn’t speak to her, because she was so busy. Every day, she wore the same black baby-doll dress and green pants—a peran tumban—and she kept her black hair stuffed under her black chador. She was skinny and dark skinned like so many of the other children. Finally, one day after the gray-bearded man dropped off our food, I snuck into the other side and furtively approached her.
“Salaam, I’m Enjeela,” I said, raising my hand to shake hers.
“I’m Mina,” she said with a smile, the first one I’d seen from anyone in this village. She had the sweetest nature to her. I wanted to be friends.
“Would you like to play?” I asked.
“I can’t right now.” She looked around at the yard full of kids. “I have things to do, but if you meet me back here in a couple of hours, I can.”
When I returned later, she was seated on a rock waiting for me. I sat beside her, and we talked like we had always been sisters. I couldn’t contain my joy at finding a friend to play and talk with. I could see by the light in her eyes that she enjoyed it as much as I did.
“Do you know how to play juz bazi?” I asked.
She shook her head.
I explained the simple game to her. It’s a jumping game where each player takes turns, similar to hopscotch. We played for a long time. For the first time since leaving Kabul, I forgot completely where I was; we were just two little girls enjoying a moment of friendliness. We were both caught in a reverie of fun until a shrill voice tore through the air. I cringed and looked around. It was an old woman, shriveled in her face by sun and work, who stood in the door of her hut screaming at my friend.
“Come here, you little bastard. You have a lot of work to do.”
Mina ran off and disappeared into the darkness of the hut. I stared at the door of that ragged hut she lived and worked in. I felt an instant sadness for her to have such a terrible mother.
We played every day after her chores were done. I never asked Mina about her mother. And Mina never complained.
One day Mina taught me a game called panjoque. It’s a popular game played with rocks that requires fast reflexes and good balance. We each collected ten small stones we could hold in the palm of our hand. We would throw them up in the air, flip our hands over, and try to catch as many as possible on the backs of our hands. The ones that fell on the ground we’d group into a pile close by. If we caught at least one, we’d throw that one up in the air, and before it landed, reach down and grab the ones in the pile below us, then reach out and catch the one we had just thrown up. We’d keep playing until one of us was successful and won the game. Sometimes I won. Most of the time Mina won. We played it a lot.