Andrea Busfield - Born Under a Million Shadows

A few days after he moved out, James actually left Kabul altogether—to chase the sunshine and bombers in Kandahar for a couple of weeks, he said. It was sometimes easy to forget that James actually worked for a living. In fact I think he also forgot this quite a lot, until his newspaper rang to remind him.

Throughout the month of February, May also spent more than a few evenings away from the house, even though she didn’t smoke. I later learned this was because she was visiting Philippe. When I was told this, I wondered whether the Frenchman was staying away from our house because he was scared of me or scared of coming face-to-face with my mother.

So that left pretty much only my mother and me to take care of Georgie’s sadness.

“Haji Khan is probably stuck in the mountains,” I said to Georgie one evening as we both ate with her in the big house to stop her from feeling lonely.

Georgie smiled, but I caught the look she swapped with my mother and it didn’t match.

When James finally returned to the house he didn’t do much to brighten anyone’s mood as he filled our heads with talk of rocket attacks and fighting in the south.

“The insurgency is starting to gain momentum,” he told Georgie as she made herself a sandwich in the kitchen, and though I didn’t know what momentum meant, I didn’t think it sounded good. “By the way, Georgie, a second on the lips, a lifetime on the hips,” he added, which again I didn’t understand.

“Oh fuck off, James,” snapped Georgie, which I understood perfectly well.

Two weeks after James returned to tell us about the troubles he had seen, a massive bomb blew five people to smithereens and wounded thirty-two more in Kandahar city, which added some power to Pir Hederi’s opinion that the country was “once again going to shit.”

“But why are the Taliban bombing Afghans?” I asked as I read the story out loud from the Kabul Times .

“Because they’re all bloody Pakistanis,” Pir Hederi replied, which I knew wasn’t true because, for one, they were led by Mullah Omar, and though he had only one eye he was still an Afghan.

“They’re not all from Pakistan,” I corrected.

“Okay, maybe not,” Pir accepted with a grumble, “but the bastard suicide bombers are. Afghans don’t go blowing themselves up. It’s not the way we do things here. This is something brought in from the outside. In my time we fought because we wanted to see victory, not to watch our legs fly past our bloody ears.”

“It’s a combination of things—a lot of little things coming together all at once,” James explained as we walked home together after he had come to the shop to buy some cigarettes for himself and a package of biscuits, a Twix chocolate bar, and some Happy Cow cheese for Georgie. “First of all, the coalition—those are the Western troops, Fawad—never finished off either the Taliban or al-Qaeda in 2001, giving them the chance to disappear for a while and regroup, to come back together again. Then, the reconstruction that was promised has been slow to make an impact—to be seen—especially in places where it is more dangerous, like in the south and east. And then there is growing resentment—anger—about the government. The Pashtuns think there are too many members of the Northern Alliance in top jobs, the Northern Alliance feel they have been sidelined—had power taken away from them—even though they credit themselves—give themselves a pat on the back—for winning the war. Then there is the corruption problem, with money talking loudest in government departments, offices, and on the streets with all the bakhsheesh -taking policemen. When you add it all up, people are bound—are sure—to get pissed off. Then along comes the new Taliban, and the fighting starts again and people begin to question—ask—where all the security and promises went until pretty much everyone is spoiling—everyone is ready—for war again.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” I admitted.

“No, it doesn’t especially, does it?”

James flicked his cigarette into the thawing alley of waste and rubbish that lined the road back to our house.

“Why doesn’t President Karzai fix it and stop all the corruption, and then the people will be happy with him?”

“I guess it’s not that easy, Fawad. He has so many powerful men here and abroad to keep happy, and he needs support from all of them if he is going to make your country peaceful again.”

“Then why don’t the army and the Western soldiers just go and kill the Taliban properly?”

“Well, that’s not so easy either. They keep bloody hiding!”

With that, James swooped down, grabbed me by the legs, and raised me to the sky on his shoulders, catching me by surprise and nearly losing me down his back as he stood up again.

“Come on, Fawad! Maybe we should go to the south and fight jihad against the bad guys!”

“Yeah!” I laughed. “Let’s go and kick Mullah Omar in the ass!”

“Why don’t you stab him there instead? That’s usually your modus operandi, isn’t it?”

Although I didn’t quite get the words, I understood James’s meaning and I laughed out loud because for once my attack on Philippe seemed quite funny. Then together we galloped toward the house, just like the Afghan warriors from my country’s past, except I was on the shoulders of an Englishman instead of trying to kill him.

As we ran to the gate, Shir Ahmad saw us coming and saluted as he opened the metal side door, swinging it wide as we rushed inside. James came to a stop with a stamp of his feet and a lip-splitting neigh.

“James?”

Georgie’s voice rang out from behind the door.

“James?”

“God, she’s impatient for her biscuits, isn’t she?” James laughed. “Coming, dear!”

But before he could get to the door it opened in front of us and Georgie fell into our path, holding her stomach. There was blood on her skirt, and it covered her hands where she’d touched it.

“James?” she cried, holding her hands out to him.

“Oh Jesus, darling. Jesus. No.”

WHEN GEORGIE LOST her baby, it was as if a little something inside all of us died, even those of us who didn’t know a baby was coming in the first place.

But because Allah is merciful, even to unbelievers like Georgie, he took away her baby and gave her Dr. Hugo instead.

Of course, it took Georgie a long time to see the good doctor because her eyes were clouded by tears and bad dreams for weeks after the baby left her. She was like a ghost living in our house, a white space of sadness that ate all the happiness from our lives—and for a while I was convinced she would leave us too.

After James brought Georgie back from the hospital, he walked her to her bed and gathered the rest of us in the front room downstairs to tell us she had suffered something called a “miscarriage.” James explained that although there was nothing wrong with her body and that a miscarriage was quite normal for women whose babies are still so tiny in their stomachs, Georgie’s mind would be broken for a while and she would need all of our help to make it better again.