When she settled down, I told her about the shama and how beautiful it was, and the water, so perfect and clear. They all wanted to go, except Zulaikha, who was concerned about wandering outside the village alone. When Masood agreed to accompany us, we all went the next day.
My sisters and Zia couldn’t believe the calmness and peacefulness of the shama. Masood told me the entrance was well hidden, so it was very lucky I had found it. We went there almost every day until it was time to leave that village. When we were in the cave, we all pretended we were in another place, a fairy kingdom or a magical realm, anyplace but a country being torn apart by bullets and bombs.
In the nearby mountains and valleys, the Soviets and the Afghan army bombed the mujahideen mercilessly. When the pounding of the bombs grew louder and too close, Masood said it was time to leave. When we were all packed, he told us that Fatima and Shakila were coming with us. We knew from what we’d seen that Fatima would slow us down, make our journey longer. At first, Laila complained, but Masood said that was the way it would be. Fatima’s guide had left her, and she was alone, and they were on their way to Pakistan like we were, with no other way of getting there.
After days of walking and sleeping just off the roads so we wouldn’t be seen by other travelers or soldiers using them, we entered another village, famished and tired. The smell of kabobs greeted us. Masood gave one of the elders money to take care of us, asking him to feed us very well. Masood said we needed strength for the rest of our journey because soon we would be turning into the mountains, and our way would get more difficult.
We rested there for a few days, regaining our strength from the days of sleeping beside the road. Soon it was time to move again. By now Laila had stopped complaining about how long it was taking to get to Pakistan. The other refugees fleeing the country were in the same situation. We all had to walk around the war since taking the direct route would get us either arrested or shot.
Masood purchased a donkey for Fatima before leaving the village, and that helped us move faster. Still it took her time to adjust to riding on the back of an animal since she’d never done it before. After a day of riding, she learned to sit sidesaddle on the donkey with her daughter seated right behind her. Masood led the donkey, and we wound single file behind it into the mountains, where the mujahideen were fighting to free the country from invaders.
Bombs and machine-gun fire came from the canyons on both sides of the trail. Still Masood said traveling deeper into the mountains was the safest way to go. The road, now nothing more than hard-packed dirt, wound beside a river. Sometimes it narrowed so that we could pass through only one at a time. We gradually trekked higher, between mountains that rose steep and treacherous on both sides of us.
Our way led through a string of villages, some with walls surrounding them, but many were nothing more than clusters of mud huts by the side of the trail. As we moved farther up the mountain pass, it seemed almost every village we passed was in mourning. Through their openings came the wails of women heavy with grief. I stopped to look into one and saw women seated on the ground in front of a shrouded body laid out on the dirt floor—either a father, brother, or son. The grief of the women weeping was overwhelming. I felt ashamed intruding on their sorrows. Masood stopped beside me. “Funerals,” he said. “The sons and fathers of our country are dying in this war.” We were all quiet that night as we sat around in the dark, camping between villages. Masood wouldn’t let us have a fire lest we attract attention to ourselves, so we lay out under the glittering stars to sleep. The ground seemed extra hard. We ate fruit, some nuts, and whatever else Masood had in his bag. I felt sorry for the mothers and sisters of these villages we had passed through. I was thankful we were alive, and we were not starving. And we were on our way out of this country that was now bleeding to death from so many wounds.
That night, Masood warned all of us that the most grueling part of our journey was yet to come. So we must sleep and gather our strength. I tried to sleep that night, but the images of white-shrouded bodies plagued my closed-eyes vision. I thought of Ahmad Shah and Zia and Padar. Was it better to stay and fight with the mujahideen or to escape with my family? I was glad the men of my family were not fighting, but I was sad that so many other fathers and brothers of my country were dying.
12
KUCHI
The next day, we started early and moved down the path to the mountain trails single file until we came to an open area where travelers had gathered in a makeshift camp. A section of it lay in the shadow of a stand of trees; a stream flowed along the outer edge, up against the rocky side of the gray mountains. Off by themselves by the trees was a family of Kuchi. They were nomads and were brightly dressed, unlike everyone else in peran tumbans and chadors. I couldn’t take my eyes off them as we made our way into camp.
“They can put a curse on you. It would be better for us to stay away from them,” Fatima whispered in my ear as we passed. “They’ll use black magic,” she said, warning me not to have anything to do with them.
A wide space lay between us and the nomads. No one else in the camp was speaking with them, affirming Fatima’s claims. But I’d heard stories about the Kuchi, that they had no fixed home, lived in tents, and were constantly on the move. They must have many interesting stories to tell. I had never seen such colorful people, even in Kabul. “Look at us, we’re already cursed,” I said to her. “What more could they do to us?”
As we set up camp, I watched a young Kuchi mother play with her children. She had dark flowing hair and eyes rimmed with black kohl, which made her look exotic and beautiful. She wore a silver stud in her nose and a gold-and-red bindi between her eyes. Strings of colorful beads adorned her neck. She draped a green scarf over her head, and her billowy clothes were deep shades of purple and shocking pink and white. The way she played with her children and how her husband took care of their camp, compared to so many of the rough characters we’d met on the road, seemed quite normal. I wondered why Fatima and the other people in the camp feared them.
Even though their clothes were bright, they were very worn. I thought I could use that as an excuse just to speak with them. I approached Laila and Zulaikha and Zia. “They’re very poor,” I said, pointing to the nomads. “We should give them some money.”
“We’re poor too,” Laila said, shrugging me off. “We hardly have enough for ourselves.”
That was Laila, always being dramatic about our situation, as if we could starve to death at any second. I frowned at her, letting her know I was very unhappy with her stinginess. “We have plenty,” I said. “Give me a few afghanis so I can help them.”
To my surprise, normally quiet Zulaikha also chirped at Laila to be more generous. They argued until exhausted by the debate. Laila dug in her pocket and tossed me five afghanis. As I walked over, I tried to think of a way to approach them with the money without offending them. I decided to ask if they sold jewelry, but first I wanted to let them know that I was interested in getting to know them.
“Do you have any surma?” I asked the woman. Surma is also called kohl; it’s a black powder from the mountains that is used as eyeliner. Mothers in Afghanistan applied it to the eyes of newborns in the belief that it made their eyes bigger and stronger.
She smiled warmly at me and said she did. She searched in a large cloth bag beside her. “Would you like me to put it on you?”