He gave each of us a brief hug. I tried to hold on to him. “I have to go, little lion.” He pulled me from him. He stood and gave us a stern look as we gathered around him. “You are all very brave. You have come a long way, and now you are here at your destination.” He reminded Laila of where we were to meet Padar.
She nodded. “I have the address, yes.”
“Then you are ready to go.” He pulled his tunic around him. “I will bring your father to you. So wait for him, no matter what.” With that, he turned and left us. With his shoulders straight, he hiked back the way he had come.
“He’s not coming with us,” Zulaikha said, her voice incredulous. We were all thinking the same things as we watched in silent shock as he began climbing the path up the mountain, returning the way he had come. He was one of the bravest men I’d ever met, and I learned so much from him. None of us said a word as he disappeared up the path, into the heights.
14
ANGELS ALONG THE WAY
True to their word, the guards let us pass over the border into Pakistan. After crossing over, we waited with a group of other travelers for a bus at the stop Masood had told us about. We looked around, getting our bearings; it was strange to not have Masood with us. I spotted a vendor down the street from us selling sodas. It had been months since we’d had one. We quickly ran to the stand and each bought one. We stood around in a circle, tipping the sodas into our mouths. The sweet drink on my tongue tasted of the simplest pleasure. It hardly washed away the taste of river water and weak tea we’d lived on for the past six months. None of us spoke as we drank. My sisters and Zia all had smiles—something I hadn’t seen much of on our journey. I could feel myself smiling too, despite how dirty we were. With dust in our hair, mouths, and ears and over every part of our bodies, we were a mess. We had been wearing the same clothes for so long. But here we were, standing in Pakistan, and the sounds and grief of war were so far away, we couldn’t hear them. All of us must have sensed this at the same moment as we drank our sodas and began to relax.
It was an old bus, brightly painted and jammed with riders. It was apparent we were in Pakistan from the dress of the passengers. The Pakistanis we saw were darker skinned, like Indians, and wore traditional clothes: the men wore shalwar kameez and jinnah caps, and the women wore dupattas and shalwar kameez also. Most Afghan men wore Western dress, jeans and sport shirts, and women, scarves over long tunics. After I found a seat, I finished drinking my ice-cold soda slowly, enjoying its coldness.
The bus wound through Peshawar’s noisy streets, picking up and dropping off, until it made its way outside the city limits and crossed into a dusty refugee camp. We stared at the clusters of tents and the dirt streets, each filled with Afghan refugees, mostly women and children. We had all been forced out of our country by war; orphaned by our country, forced to live on the road, in camps, anywhere we could find to lie down and sleep simply to survive. Fatima leaned over the seat and touched my arm. “Their husbands are all fighting, I’m sure.” I kept my eyes glued on them until the last of the tents passed out of sight.
I started to dream of a warm shower and soft bed as the bus made its way through the labyrinth of streets. Fatima had a brother and sister who lived on the outskirts of Peshawar. She insisted we stay with them for a few days to rest before moving on to the hotel where we were to meet Padar. We could rest and refresh ourselves from a long journey.
Tired, thirsty, and hungry, we arrived at the door to Fatima’s brother’s house on the far side of Peshawar. Her brother and sister met us at the door of their home that fronted a narrow street busy with people, pushcarts, and motorcycles. He stood in the doorway, taking in the four small strangers with his sister and her daughter.
“Who are they?” His manner was gruff. Her sister was even less inviting, standing behind him in the doorway shaking her head. They looked us up and down. We’d worn the same clothes for weeks. Once, before we had entered the mountains, we’d washed our clothes in the river. But now they were caked with dirt. Our faces were grimy with mountain dust. We hadn’t a chance to wash since coming off the mountain. We must have been a sight; four impoverished children would take up space and require food. Still this was not at all what we expected after having been so graciously received into the huts of the most poverty-stricken villagers.
Fatima told him about our journey across the mountains and that we were alone and waiting for our father to join us from Afghanistan.
“In this town, everyone works for their own food and water,” he said, nearly growling. “We can’t take care of these kids.”
“Brother!” she said, but he cut her off with a hard glare.
“They have to go.” He waved his hand toward the street. “Go.”
Fatima froze for a moment trying to take in her brother’s words. “We’ve walked all day, across the mountains, at least give them some water.”
He shook his head. “Go, go.” He waved us off. For the first time since leaving Kabul, I felt like a beggar. And Masood, who would have had something to say to these selfish people, wasn’t here to speak for us. When her brother ushered Fatima and her daughter through the door and slammed it behind them, we four stood staring at the wooden door closed to us, weary and alone. No more adults to guide us. I could feel the blood pulse in my temple. I started to bang on the rough wood door with my fist. They couldn’t just leave us in the middle of the street like this. They had to help us. But Zia took my arm and led me away. We wandered up the side street, still dazed at being rejected by Fatima’s brother, and our unceremonious parting with her and Shakila. It was like more family members disappearing right in front of me.
We turned onto a busy road, a hard-packed dirt thoroughfare filled with beeping cars, bicyclists zipping by, motorcyclists weaving among the trucks, jitneys, and food vendors who pushed their wooden carts past us, calling out the prices of their wares. We blended into the crowd of women in burkas and chadors making their way in and out of the storefronts. The aroma of rice and chicken and spices cooking in one of the shops reminded me how hungry I was. We were little ants that had been absorbed into a maze of unfamiliar streets and scents. It was nearing dusk; the late-afternoon shadows crept across the road as we huddled together outside a food vendor, gaping at the meats hanging from the ceiling of the stall. We had eaten such small portions for the past six months, and now, to see so much meat all in one place made us realize how close to starving we had been on our journey.
We must have been staring like lost urchins, because a man approached us.
“Did you children just arrive from Kabul?” he asked. He was dressed like many of the men on the street, in a sand-colored shalwar kameez and a jinnah cap, with a genuine smile. At first none of us spoke. I didn’t know what to think.
“Yes,” Zia said.
“Where are you staying?”
Laila showed him the piece of paper with the address we were looking for. “Do you know how we can get to this hotel?”
“Oh, this is very far,” the man said. “I’ll take you to a nearby motel for the night, and tomorrow you can get on the early bus. That will take you where you need to go.”
He took us to a motel and helped us sign in. He even paid for our stay. He told us to stay in the room and that he would be back. Thirty minutes later he showed up with food—fried potatoes, naan, and rice. We were all very grateful—and very hungry.