They showed us to a small, vacant bedroom with its own door to the outside. We were welcome to use the kitchen, they said, and made no mention of how long we could stay.
My heart found an ally in Hayal, though we did not share a language. In words and gestures she likely did not understand, I explained that I’d been a teacher in Afghanistan before the Taliban and that the children had fallen behind despite my homeschooling efforts.
I nearly sang out with joy when we laid our heads on soft pillows, our full bellies and the kindness of strangers keeping us warm.
THE NEXT MORNING HAYAL BROUGHT OUT A CRATE OF ELEMENTARY math books and stories in English. Samira’s eyes widened with an excitement that thrilled and hurt me. I explained to Hayal that Samira was bright but hadn’t spoken since we’d left home. Hayal seemed to understand, connecting the missing father with my daughter’s mutism. She looked over at Samira and patted the empty chair next to her. Samira sat down as Hayal turned to the first page.
I could hear Saleem in the next room, and though I knew only a handful of English words, I caught that he was talking to Hakan about finding a job. He would work hard, he promised.
I hadn’t spoken to Saleem about working. I stepped away from Hayal and Samira and walked over to the window. Hakan spoke of nearby farms where migrant workers found employment. I wanted to interrupt, but I didn’t.
My thoughts drifted.
I’d had no idea when Mahmood’s hand was first placed in mine what he would come to mean to me. Among the few photographs I’d brought was one from our wedding, a simple ceremony. I’d worn an emerald green dress, pleated from the waist down and with lacy shoulders. My face had been made up by one of KokoGul’s friends. My lips and eyelids were heavy with colors that I would never again wear. Mahmood wore a black suit, the collar of his dress shirt flaring out past the lapels, and a red rose tucked into his breast pocket. Mahmood had looked steadily into the camera, but I stared blankly at the floor.
When I looked at that picture, I wanted to go back in time and tell myself to look at him, my husband. I wanted to tell that bride that she, like the guests eager for a lavish celebration, should rejoice in this union.
He was much more than a husband. It took time for our love to grow but it did, in patches and spurts, fed by the good and bad of the world around us. Every promise we kept, every squeeze of the hand, every secretive smile we exchanged, each crying child we comforted — every one of those moments narrowed the distance between us. By that night, that horrible night when Mahmood was ripped from our lives, the space between us had vanished. We were pressed against each other, a husband and wife bound together not by marriage, but by the harmony of our hearts.
Death could not undo us, I’d learned. My hamsar was with me still. He would watch over us, my beloved husband, as we made our way into tomorrow.
Fate will make things right in the end, though only after the work has been done, the tears have been shed and the sleepless nights have been endured.
I wanted to believe him.
For my family to reach a new life, I would need to rely on Saleem. I would need to admit he was not a child. Mahmood had been better at giving Saleem the space to stretch his wings. I coddled my children, ever afraid of being an inadequate mother. I wanted to do all the things for them that hadn’t been done for me. I wanted them to feel taken care of, loved, and secure. I was failing.
Saleem looked at me differently now. Gone was the boyish sparkle, that trusting gaze that made me feel like I could do no wrong. He stood by my side, not trailing behind. It was time for me to give him the space he needed.
I had brought us this far — from Kabul, through Iran and into Turkey. This had been my journey. My story.
But what would happen to us from this moment on would be as much Saleem’s tale as it would be mine. I could not continue telling his story for him. It would not make me less of a mother if I let go of his hand and let him stand on his own feet. If only Mahmood were around to tell me I was doing the right thing and that I was no less of a mother for mothering him less.
I could hear my husband’s hushed voice. I could feel his hands resting on my shoulders. If I closed my eyes, I could almost feel his kiss on my forehead.
Let him speak, Ferei. You’ve told our story. Now let Saleem tell his.
CHAPTER 19. Saleem
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, HAKAN TOOK SALEEM TO THE VILLAGE limits where leather-faced people huddled in groups. There were men and women of all shapes and sizes, and a handful of children clinging to their mothers’ skirts. Hakan explained that trucks would pick up the workers and deliver them to the farmlands where work was plentiful.
Hakan felt uncomfortable leaving Saleem, but his presence was not helpful. He turned the corner and went to pay his sister a visit. It was spring and temperatures were rising, even this early in the morning. Saleem touched his fingers to his face, feeling the row of fine hairs on his upper lip. This day marked a new Saleem. He was determined and ready to be treated like a man. Even his mother had looked at him differently this morning — as if she could sense the change in him.
Aziz, a nomad baby, now was starting to grab at things they dangled in front of him and cooing. He would likely be crawling soon, Madar-jan predicted. Saleem watched his baby brother growing and wished his own metamorphosis into manhood would come with the same speed. He wanted hair on his face, chest, and everywhere else he knew it was supposed to be. He looked himself over carefully in the privacy of his baths, noting the changes that no one saw but him. He wanted his arms to thicken with the road map of veins he’d traced on his father’s forearms. His voice cracked and wobbled, so his words were sparse. Soon, he hoped, his voice would catch up to him.
The responsibility he felt for his family and the respect Hakan showed him made him feel like a man even if his body didn’t. Saleem moved about in the crowd, looking for friendly faces. Hakan knew none of the farmers and was not able to offer much beyond leading him to this gathering place. Saleem was unsure what would happen once he arrived at the farm and looked for someone who might help.
Most of the people in the group were older. They smoked cigarettes and squinted under the bright, morning sun. There were about thirty people in all. The women kept to themselves and formed a loose mass off to the side. Some wore colorful triangles of cloth as head scarves, tied primly under the chin, with modest long-sleeved shirts and calf-length skirts. Taken together, they were an eclectic bunch, with a mosaic of patterns that dizzied the eye.
Saleem wanted to approach the women but refrained. If he wanted to be treated as a man, he would have to act like one. He took a deep breath and sat on the curb beside a man who looked to be in his forties. Saleem rubbed his palms on his thighs, trying to think of how to strike up a conversation. The man cleared his throat roughly and spat a thick, yellow glob onto the sidewalk. A slammed door would have been more inviting.
Saleem’s stomach turned. He stood and looked at his watch, touched its face, and ran his fingers over the worn leather band. Toward the back of the crowd stood three men in their late thirties, chatting casually. Saleem took a chance. He walked over, but just as he neared, they stopped speaking.