Enjeela Ahmadi-Miller - The Broken Circle - A Memoir of Escaping Afghanistan

“Hey, we have to stick together,” Laila said. “I was just saying we should think about what we’re going to do if Padar doesn’t come.”

Zulaikha hung her head, and Zia scooped up the deck of cards and shuffled them. As soon as Zia began dealing the cards again, everyone calmed. Concentrating on the game always helped us avoid thinking about the next problem we faced. Laila laid down the first trick, and a new round of play began, as if nothing disturbed our world.

We played fis kut in silence the rest of the night.

Well into the third month, I grew bored of playing cards and roaming the city streets, especially with no money to spend. I began to pass time in the lobby talking to Salman. He taught me to speak Urdu so we were able to communicate better. Each morning I couldn’t wait to wash up and run downstairs to practice my Urdu with him. He made me feel safe in the hotel, that if we’d been abandoned, I would have a place to live and someone to care for me.

Each day Salman was excited to see me. He referred to me as his little girl. I kept him company behind the counter every day as he checked in the hotel guests, and sometimes he even let me hand over the room keys. He would have me call his girlfriend’s house to ask for her. Since she wasn’t supposed to be dating anyone, she wouldn’t be summoned to the phone if a man had called. Once I heard her voice, I would hand the receiver to him, and they would talk for a long while.

This was my new life, and I grew accustomed to it. My hope that Padar would come and take us to join Mommy began fading away; I began to think that it would be better to stay here in the hotel with Salman forever.

When I mentioned this to Salman, he tried to sound upbeat. “If I had a daughter like you, I would do everything in my power to get you back.”

We had been in the hotel for more than five months when one day Salman turned to me. “I want you to do something.”

I leaned close to him. “What?”

“Go buy something different to wear. You’ve had these same clothes on since you got here.”

He didn’t sound angry, but I could clearly see the disapproval on his face. I looked down at what I was wearing: I had lived in these clothes night and day for nearly a year. I felt so utterly embarrassed. Still they were all I owned. The other clothes I’d brought had become so worn out, I’d discarded them along the way. I’d almost forgotten that changing outfits was something people did.

I ran back to the room and grabbed some of our money out of the backpack where we kept it. No one was there to see me take it or argue. I headed to a nearby bazaar. I strolled through the busy streets past shops with tables displaying their food, toiletries, toys; they seemed to sell everything there. I was single-minded, searching for a clothing store. When I found one, I went inside and let a salesgirl help me pick out a dress and chador. They were beautiful, so clean and new—no tears, no stains, not even a wrinkle. I couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel to put them on and show Salman.

With my purchase wrapped up under my arm, I made my way to the end of the bazaar, where the taxis and vendors all lined up along the busy street. I looked up and down the street that was choked with traffic and people. I tried to recognize a landmark or a building, anything that would give me a clue which direction I had come from. I had been so excited about buying a new dress, I had run from the hotel to the bazaar not even paying attention to the route I’d taken.

I turned down street after street, scouring the buildings for something recognizable—a storefront or the train station or a bus stop, anything. After a while I stopped in the middle of the street. I bowed my head and began to cry. Eventually a boy approached me and asked me a question in English. He was a teenager, maybe about sixteen years old.

“Where do you live?” he asked. I didn’t speak or understand English then, so I simply shrugged at him.

“Hotel,” I said in Urdu. Miraculously it seemed as if he understood. I tried to describe the train, hoping he’d understand that the hotel was next to the station. But no matter how hard I tried, he couldn’t understand me, and I began to cry harder in frustration.

He asked me, “Do you sing a song?”

I didn’t comprehend what he said, so I just shook my head.

“Let’s sing a song,” he said. “Sing a song… ding-dong…” It was a sweet little tune, and he told me to repeat after him, so I did. Soon I forgot about being lost, and I was no longer scared, just having fun. We strode through the streets, and he pointed at buildings, expecting me to recognize one. When I shook my head, we moved on. Eventually we found the hotel, and he walked me right into the lobby.

“Salman!” I cried. He sat in his usual place behind the front desk. “I went out by myself, and I got lost.” I turned and pointed at the young man. “He helped me find my way back.”

Salman smiled warmly at him. Then slowly, he stood up, put his palm to his chest, and bowed slightly—a sign of gratitude. “Thank you,” he said, his voice low and sincere.

I thanked the boy profusely too. As I ran around the counter to give Salman a hug, the young man simply left. I turned to thank him again, but he had disappeared. I felt truly blessed.

“I bought an outfit!” I told Salman. “I’m going to take a shower and put it on.” I went upstairs, where my brother and sisters were so busy playing cards they hadn’t even noticed I’d gone out. They thought I was downstairs as usual. When I stormed excitedly into the room, none of them even looked up. I could have been lost in the city for days before they would probably have even noticed I was missing.

With my new clothes, I finally felt like I had something to look forward to. I showered and changed, then ran downstairs before any of them saw my new dress. In the lobby, I showed off to Salman.

“You look beautiful!” he said, and his eyes lit up. He seemed truly proud of me for the attention I had shown myself.

One month later, our money was running dangerously low. I knew we were running low, because Laila was giving each of us less bread and smaller portions of milk each day. When I told Salman that we were low on funds and eating just pieces of bread sopped in milk, he sent food up to our room. It was very kind of him, but none of us thought he’d do it for very long.

When Zia or Zulaikha would complain, Laila would tell them to shut up. We’d all fallen into a jaded state. It was becoming more of a reality that one day we would run completely out of money, and Padar still wouldn’t have shown up. We didn’t talk to each other much about anything, especially not about Padar. We just did things to make the time pass. We sat around and played cards. When that got boring, we’d stare out the window into the alley.

“Seems like we’ve been waiting for years,” Zulaikha said one day.

“It’s been six months,” Laila said, not taking her eyes off her cards.

“That’s a long time,” I said.

“We only have enough for rent for one more week,” Laila said. “That will leave us with no money for food.”

We stared at each other, letting the shock of what had finally come to pass sink in. Six months we’d lived in this tiny room together, and now we wouldn’t even have this small bit of security.

“We can’t go back to Kabul,” Zulaikha said. “Where do we go?”

We didn’t know a soul except for Salman in Peshawar. No one mentioned Padar.

“Maybe we can find work?” Zia said. “I think I could get a job.”

“How much could you earn?” Zulaikha asked. “Would it be enough to feed us? And for how long?”