After the sessions, Badriya wanted Maroof and our guard to escort her back to the hotel. She had no interest in attending classes at the women’s training center but I certainly did. The guards had more stock in looking after Abdul Khaliq’s first wife, so they watched nonchalantly as I climbed into Hamida’s car, leaving me under the watch of her guard and driver.
We opened the door to the training center, which was, as usual, empty until we got there.
“Hello!” Ms. Franklin called out happily.
I wondered how she could be so cheerful all the time.
We alternated every day. One day she would teach basic English, and the following day we were back on the computer, learning to navigate the Internet or type notes. I thrilled at being a student again and longed for a real classroom, one full of boys my age whom I could learn with, joke with and play soccer with.
Ms. Franklin was proud of our progress. She said she’d told her parents all about us, about how impressed she was with our dedication, with our desire to work in government as women. I liked her praise. It had been a long time since I’d heard any.
So when the door opened, thirty minutes into our session, we were understandably intrigued to see who it was.
A tall, thin woman in her forties entered and looked around, unsure.
“Hello, come in!” Ms. Franklin said.
The woman wore a calf-length black jacket over a deep-plum-colored tunic and pants. Her ponytail was hidden by a plum-colored head scarf.
“Salaam!” she replied. “You are Ms. Franklin?”
Her name was Fakhria and she put Ms. Franklin in a tricky situation. She worked at a women’s shelter here in Kabul and wanted to attend the classes at the resource center. Ms. Franklin looked mildly perplexed. The funds that supported the center were specifically allocated to women parliamentarians. The classes were not open to the public because, theoretically, the center couldn’t accommodate more than the women jirga members. But so few of them came.
Ms. Franklin pursed her lips and waved Fakhria in, as I would have done. Somehow, she was not a woman you could turn away easily.
At the end of the class, Hamida asked Fakhria about the shelter. She and Sufia had heard of a women’s shelter but hadn’t ever seen it. I was surprised to hear such a place existed.
“My sister was killed by her husband. I decided I needed to do something and then I came upon this shelter. It was founded by an Afghan woman who was living in America. She raised money and emptied her pockets into building this place for girls. She travels back and forth now but we have a few people who look after the shelter.”
“And your husband, he doesn’t mind you spending time there?” Sufia asked gently.
“No, he is very supportive actually. He’s a kind man, my husband. After what happened with my sister, he knew I would go crazy just sitting there in mourning. We’ve got five children to keep me busy at home but I needed to do this. I wanted my children to see me do something.”
Fakhria started to tell us about the shelter, about the girls who came there. She told us about a girl she called Murwarid. Murwarid was only fifteen years old, she said, and had come to the shelter two weeks ago, bruised and desperate. At the age of eight, she’d been married to a man in his sixties, living in the countryside. Her husband had abused her in every way possible. Her nose was crooked after he’d broken it twice. When he’d tired of her, he’d started to take her around to other villages, selling her off to men to have sex with her. She had tried to run away once before but he caught her and sliced off one ear, dragging her home by the other.
Six months later Murwarid decided again that she wouldn’t survive if she stayed with this man. And this time, if he killed her, she would be better off. So she ran.
She came to Kabul and found the women’s shelter, where she was living now, recovering. She still woke in the night screaming.
Fakhria invited us to visit the shelter. It would be great, she said, if the parliament could help support such a place. Maybe offer some training or jobs to the women living there.
Hamida and Sufia clucked their tongues to hear the stories Fakhria told.
I sat frozen. Too much of what she said sounded familiar.
You see that? Murwarid found her escape, I could hear Khala Shaima say. Why haven’t you found yours?
CHAPTER 51. RAHIMA
“Read this one to me.”
Badriya had unfolded Kabul’s weekly newspaper on the table. She pointed from one column to the next. She stopped me one paragraph into a story about drought conditions in a province to the south.
“Forget it. Who needs to know about that? I want to know what’s happening here. Try this one,” she said, picking out a column on the following page. I sighed and got ready to read about a new bank opening next month when I was interrupted.
A knock on our door.
“There’s a phone call from home. Come down to the lobby to take the call.” It was Hassan, our bodyguard.
“Now?” she huffed. “As if we haven’t had a long enough day!”
Badriya and I had just gotten plates of food sent up from the hotel kitchen. I loved the food there. Maybe it was that I had no part in cooking it or cleaning up after it. Maybe it was the pretty floral pattern of the plates. My mouth watered at the smell of the cumin-infused potato stew. I tore off a piece of bread as she resentfully left the room. I dipped a piece of bread into the stew and brought it to my mouth. The grease felt good on my lips. No reason for us both to eat cold meals, I figured.
Badriya returned a few moments later.
“The qorma is really good,” I announced as she walked in. I looked up and saw that her face was drained of color.
“Are you… are you all right?”
She looked at me, her mouth open slightly. Her eyes searched.
“Badriya-jan, what is it? Who was on the phone?”
Her hand covered her mouth. Something wasn’t right.
“Badriya-jan, are you all right?”
Suddenly, something in her shifted. She straightened her shoulders and pulled her lips together tightly.
“It was Abdul Khaliq on the phone. He called about Jahangir.”
My stomach fell at the sound of his name.
“He’s not well,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “He’s not well. Seems he’s been very sick since we left.”
“Since we left? Why didn’t he call sooner?”
“I don’t know, Rahima-jan. I don’t… he’s going to have Maroof take us back.”
“I want to go back now!”
“We are. Maroof is bringing the car around.”
I wanted to be there already. I wanted to see my son. The last time he had been ill, he’d spent two days in my arms. Whispering every prayer I could remember, I stroked the moist hairs from his sweaty forehead and watched his cherry lips tremble until the fever released him. I knew he must have cried for me and I hated that I wasn’t there.
We packed our belongings in a matter of minutes. Badriya moved surprisingly quickly. Forty minutes later, Abdul Khaliq’s SUV was on the main road leaving Kabul, whizzing past tanks and western soldiers, their curious eyes shielded by sunglasses. Maroof grunted something to Hassan in the passenger seat.
There was something peculiar about Badriya’s behavior. Jahangir, like all the other children in the compound, had survived fever and illness. I looked over at her. Badriya busied herself folding papers neatly and putting them away in her purse. Papers she couldn’t read.
“What did he say, Badriya? Do they want to take him to a doctor? Has he been eating anything?”
“I don’t know, dear girl. The connection was lousy and you know Abdul Khaliq. He doesn’t explain much.”