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

“What are they doing?” Zia shouted. Laila told him to shush, and we all sat up, clenching the seat backs and each other, watching more intently through the windshield.

One of the guards began hitting Padar. I screamed, and we all jumped out, running toward the fight. By the time we reached him, he and the soldier were trading blows. I feared they were going to shoot him, he fought back so ferociously. Ram and Padar were both fighting with the soldier. Finally, an officer stepped forward and stopped the fight.

“That’s enough. That’s enough.”

The fighting stopped, and they backed off. Padar and Ram stood their ground.

The soldier stood close by us. He waved his hand back toward Bangladesh. “Go back to where you came from. Don’t try to enter India again, or we will arrest you all.”

Ram and Padar turned to the car and motioned for us to follow them. Ram limped slowly, trying to catch his breath. Padar’s nose was bloody, and red rivulets ran down his cheeks, over his lips, and down his chin.

Once we were all back in the car, I retrieved a cloth from my backpack and gave it to Padar to clean his face. He held it to his bleeding nose. We sat in the silent heat for a few minutes until Ram had gathered himself enough to start the car. He turned it around and slowly headed back the way we had come. We settled into the back seat quietly; it wasn’t the time to pepper Padar with questions.

We drove for a while. “I will find another way,” Ram finally said, as if he had been thinking things over carefully. “Do you want to try again?”

“Of course,” Padar said from beneath the cloth, without a moment’s hesitation. “My children are survivors. One thing I can tell you, no one can stop them. If the whole world fell apart, there would be four survivors—my children. I’ll give up before they do.”

In the back seat, we glanced at each other in amazement. If he was disappointed or discouraged by the fight with the border guards, he didn’t show it. He was more determined than ever to get to India. Somehow, someway, we were going to see Mommy. It was our destiny.

We were parked outside a low-slung village market in the afternoon heat. After leaving the border, Ram had made his way off the dirt roads back to the main highway to a village with markets, mosques, and office buildings. We were beginning to sweat in the back seat as we waited for Padar and Ram to return. They had disappeared inside the market at least a half hour before to purchase some food and sodas. The street was busy with traffic and activity—small cars, trucks, and the occasional rickshaw with passengers. We’d been warned not to leave the car, so we bided our time watching the people pass by.

The two men came out carrying what they had gone in for. Back in their seats, they passed out cold sodas and a local flatbread sandwich, a chicken shawarma. We were famished.

While we ate, we listened to Ram and Padar discuss what they’d learned in the market. Evidently, they’d been asking the locals questions about the best way to cross the border.

“It’s just not safe to cross here,” Ram said. “Too much violence lately.” We heard him retell what the shopkeeper had told him. Just last year, not far from the Bangladeshi border, over in West Bengal, the locals had risen up and massacred many illegal immigrants. Now the border guards stopped everyone to demand to see their papers, even farmers crossing their fields, since many of the farms ran right up to the border markers, and some lay on both sides of the boundary. Indians in West Bengal were angry at the flood of illegal immigrants, so intruders were often harshly sent back across the border, sometimes beaten, other times robbed, or worse.

“Someone inside the store said the Indian Border Security Force had shoot-to-kill orders,” Ram said. “I have not heard of it, but it could be true.”

“I’m not taking any risks with the kids,” Padar said. “There has to be someplace safe to cross. The border is very long.”

“There is. Don’t worry, my brother, we will find it.” Ram started the car and returned to the highway. At dusk we pulled into a city along the banks of the Padma River, the wide one we had crossed earlier that morning by ferry. The smell of the river was strong, of fish and dampness.

We stayed in a motel that night. Sisters in one room and Zia and the men in the other. We gathered in the men’s room to eat, huddled on one of the two beds in the room. Ram sat at the small desk, speaking on the phone in hushed tones for quite some time. After he hung up, he and Padar went into the adjoining room and closed the door.

When they returned an hour later, Padar retrieved his backpack. He opened it on the bed and took out several bundles of bills that were tightly wrapped in rubber bands. He counted out thousands of rupees and handed all of it over to Ram, who stuffed the big rolls into his own backpack. Then Padar stood up as if he had an announcement.

“Gather around, children,” he said to us.

We sat up straight, dinners on our laps.

“Ram is going to take us to Nepal.”

“What?” Laila said.

“We’ve worked out a plan that will get us legally across the border into India, but we have to be in Nepal as tourists in order to cross over safely,” Ram said.

“Where’s Nepal?” Zulaikha said.

“This is the safest way,” Padar said.

“But where’s Nepal?” I asked. “Is it far from here?” I had heard of the country of high mountains, but I had no idea how we would get there or how far away it was. It seemed that every day, we got farther and farther away from India and Mommy. I sprang to my feet on the floor between the two beds; my dinner, which had been balanced in my lap, sprayed across the floor. “We’re never going to see Mommy. Never! Never! Never!” I couldn’t stop gushing out my angst. “We’re going to get arrested. Deported. Or shot. They’re going to kill us.”

Two strong hands gripped my shoulders. “Enjeela! Enjeela! Stop this now.” Padar knelt down in front of me. When I caught my breath, his dark-brown eyes were staring deep into mine.

“Listen to me right now,” he said sternly. “We are going to your mommy. Do you understand me?” His voice was strong, reassuring, and certain. “I guarantee that with my life. We will get there.”

We stared at each other for a long moment.

“Do you believe me?” he asked, his voice warm and urgent.

I bit my lip. His eyes pleaded with me to trust him. “Yes.”

He pulled me to him in a hard embrace. He spoke into my ear in a soothing manner. “I promise you, we will reach her. It may take us a few more days. A few more weeks. But we will get there. Trust me, my love. Trust me.”

My rigid body dissolved into his. I knew he meant every word of his promise.

I sat in the dark room at Padar’s feet while he sat on the edge of one of the beds and puffed on his pipe. Zia snored lightly, sprawled out on the other bed beside us. My sisters were asleep in the adjoining room. Ram had left to do some business surrounding our new plan to travel to Nepal.

Padar leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He smelled of tobacco and aftershave.

“You know, during my escape, Masood often spoke of you, Enjeela.”

Oh great. I was sure Masood had complained about me—a troublemaker, all over the place; at times, I didn’t listen to him.

“He told me of your bravery. How you helped that man who was being beaten by the soldiers on the bus. He said he called you his little lion.”

Something deep inside me began to warm; it flooded my stomach, my chest, and sent ripples of strength up my neck. Masood had said that to me often, and it had made me feel strong.