Ali began to hand out the food he had bought. Children gathered like metal flakes to a magnet until the crowd was dense, hands reaching and pleading for something, anything, to eat. His supplies vanished within a few minutes. They clamored for more, but the two men held their hands up to say that was all they had.
We went back to the camp every day. Padar always brought bread, fruit, and clothes to give to those in need. He had always been a charitable man, but he wasn’t working now, and I was nervous about money—residual feelings from our days in the Peshawar hotel, no doubt. I assumed we were living off money he had managed to bring with him. It wasn’t difficult to remember those days we spent cooped up in that hotel room in Peshawar waiting for him, each day our money running lower and lower. We could easily have been forced to live in these tents if he hadn’t shown up. But he had, and he had taken care of us so far, so I decided to trust that he knew what he was doing.
In the camps, I often ran with the kids, envious of the fun they had playing with other children their age. I made a friend with Youssef, whose whole family had died when a bomb exploded on his house. He was the only survivor. Another friend, Muzghan, had come with her family. They were farmers, and the war had destroyed all their crops and animals. With nothing left, they had decided to come and start a new life in Pakistan.
Another one of my friends was Sophia, from Kabul. She asked me if I had ever visited Paghman, a beautiful park outside Kabul where everyone went for picnics on Fridays.
“My parents often took us there to fly kites and to play,” I said. “I love that place.”
“I used to enjoy it the most of all,” she said. “I hope to see it again one day.”
“So do I.” I thought of all the other places I wanted to see again. Glancing up and down the dirt lanes of the camp, I felt so far from the carefully manicured Paghman Gardens.
Our little group grew to be good friends. Even though I pretended to be one of them, they all knew I was just a visitor. I always came with clean clothes and didn’t have to wear the same outfit week after week. They didn’t seem to care, but it bothered me that I wasn’t one of them. Because of my family, I’d escaped not only the war but the destitution so many others experienced every day. I had a nice warm bed and a shower whenever I wanted one and plenty to eat, thanks to Padar. I had no answers why I should be so blessed, but I thanked God for it.
I wished there were a way for my friends to escape that camp.
There was an epidemic of hopelessness that ran rampant up and down each lane of tents, behind every canvas flap, in and out of endless food lines. Under the stale odors of cooking oil and overflowing latrines, these refugees were homeless. They had no idea where they would go next to start a new life. I began to wonder if the people of Afghanistan had been cursed.
16
INHALE AND EXHALE
One night after dinner, we didn’t go to the camp. Padar had us all sit down in the living room of our small apartment for a talk.
“We cannot get passports here in Islamabad,” he said. Disappointment dripped from his voice.
We all tried to speak at one time, asking him why.
“It’s very complicated with the embassy. The Afghan embassy here doesn’t want to help because of my work with the Americans. They say I must return to Kabul to apply through the proper channels for a visa. The Americans say they can’t help get a visa without identity papers. As refugees, we are supposed to get special exceptions, but they say it will take a long time. There are so many refugees applying.”
“How long?” Zia asked. We’d already been in Islamabad nearly five months.
“It could take a few years.”
We were all silent. The hope that I would finally see Mommy began to drain out of me. I had not received a letter, heard her voice, or seen her face in nearly three years.
“Are we going to be stuck here forever?” Zulaikha said, truly frantic at the idea.
Padar shook his head. “I’m not returning to Kabul for any reason. The government will put me in jail, and you will become orphans.” He rubbed his short beard, thinking. “We can’t wait a year. It’s too dangerous for us to stay here much longer, but I have another plan that will get us to India much sooner.” He folded his hands and gave us a confident smile.
“What? What?” we all stammered to find out what he had figured out.
“I have a very good friend in Karachi. We will stay with him for a while. He’s very influential in the city. He’ll help us get our identity papers, then we’ll go to India.” He smiled in that rueful way he did when he wasn’t giving us the full story. Maybe it was all those years working in the American embassy, where he learned not to talk about the things he knew. He’d gotten good at keeping secrets. As much as I believed him when he said we would get identity papers in Karachi, I felt a deep disappointment that we couldn’t leave for India from here.
The other day, Laila had taken out a map she had purchased in Peshawar when we were trying to figure out how many miles we had walked out of Afghanistan. I had traced a finger along a route from Islamabad to New Delhi, where Mommy lived. Laila said it would take only a day to drive that far. We could take a taxi or a bus or a train and be there tomorrow if we had passports. Instead, we were going to Karachi, which was way south, almost to the sea.
“Are we going to spend another year in Karachi waiting around?” Zulaikha asked with a tone of disbelief.
He laughed; his smile warmed the room. “You’ll see. Don’t worry, it won’t be anything like you’ve experienced so far. Karachi will be very nice.”
“Have you heard from Mommy? Is she well?” I asked, my excitement growing.
“I haven’t talked to her since leaving Kabul. The last time I spoke to her, she was recovering from her heart surgery.” His face grew grave. “It was a very long operation.”
His words had that neutral tone, as if he were speaking about the weather or the crops from his land. He wouldn’t talk any more about her. I didn’t want to think of not having a mother when I reached the end of this journey. So I didn’t.
We were on our way to see her, even if we had to travel to every city in Pakistan to get our papers. I believed this was happening because I kept positive thoughts even when it was difficult to do so.
On my next trip to the refugee camp, I told all my friends the news. I hoped they would be happy for me, but all I saw was sadness. I realized I should not have told them. They were so naïve, like my friend Mina.
Later that day, when I began to pack my new clothes, I felt selfish. I had so much, and my friends in the camp had so little. I packed most of the clothes in a bag to take to the camp.
“Who are you taking these to?” Zia asked, nudging the bag with his toe.
“To the kids!” I replied. “You should donate some of your clothes to Youssef. You have way more than you need.”
Zia shook his head. “Youssef is too young. He won’t fit into my clothes.”
“He’ll grow into them!”
Zia finally gave me some of his clothes, and Laila gave me some of hers too to take when I went to say my final goodbyes.
On my last trip to the camp, I was excited to give my friends these gifts, and they were happy to receive them. Yet it was a very difficult goodbye for all of us. We hugged and cried for a long time. I knew I wouldn’t see them again.