Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

Mahmood felt just as defeated as I did.

“You’re right, Ferei. It’s time for us to go. Whatever hopes I had for this country are dead. Every day is worse. I’ll find a way out for us, and I pray it’ll be before this child is born. God, I wish I had followed everyone else. Now we could be in England, just like your sister and my cousin. I never imagined I wouldn’t be able to send my daughter to school.”

I was relieved to be planning our escape and fearful of leaving home. Without Khala Zeba, I felt no obligation to stay. Mahmood met with Rahim, who knew a government official, a title that meant less with every passing day. In exchange for nearly half our meager savings, we were promised stamped Afghan passports. Rahim acted as liaison in exchange for his own envelope of bills.

Crossing the border would be a hazardous venture even with passports. Rahim cautioned us to secure foreign passports as well since our Afghan documents would not get us very far. Rahim also knew a counterfeiter called the “Embassy.” He was a crafty man who had once worked as a supervisor in Kabul’s printing press. When the Taliban silenced the whirring of the press, the Embassy had quietly carted home a cloaked typewriter, stuffed bottles of ink into his coat pockets, and planned for his own family’s future. He, like Mahmood and me, was a professional stripped of his profession.

There was a difference between us though. While the Embassy was too scared to leave Kabul, we were too scared to stay. It was still unclear who had made the wiser choice.

THREE MONTHS BEFORE I WOULD BRING MY THIRD CHILD INTO the world, I sent Saleem to the market to pick up salt. My back ached and Mahmood would be home soon, eager for dinner. Without a grain of salt in our cupboards, the rice and stew would be a wasted effort.

Time often escaped my adventurous boy. I watched the clock and reassured myself that he had run into friends. The sun dipped below the mountain peaks. Saleem had been gone for two hours when he should have been back after twenty minutes.

I sat on a chair and tried to rub a knot out of the small of my back. My nerves were on edge. I hurried to the living room when I heard the front gate open, ready to lay into Saleem for dallying and anxious to have him back at home. But it was Mahmood, home a bit earlier than usual. He took one look at my face and rested his briefcase on the sofa. I saw his eyes scout the living room for a clue.

“What’s wrong, Fereiba? Where’s Saleem?”

I burst into tears. I hadn’t been sleeping well in the last week, and I was feeling exceptionally run-down. My legs and back ached, and worrying about Saleem had put me past my tipping point. But I was home alone with Samira and she was sensitive to my moods, so I had tried to put on a happy face.

With his arms around me, Mahmood reminded me that Saleem had to pass by the street where his friends typically played and that rarely had our son taken the direct route home when he’d been sent for an errand. Mahmood and I were very different in that regard. I worried prematurely. He worried too late.

At my husband’s suggestion, we sat down for dinner. I spread the vinyl tablecloth on the living room floor. Samira, more eager to please when her brother caused trouble, set out the bowls and spoons. It was a tasteless meal, with or without the salt. My heart leaped when I heard the gate clang shut. I was about to stand when Mahmood put his hand on mine.

“Let him come to us, janem, ” he said softly. I nodded, moving the rice on my plate aimlessly. I looked over at Samira. Her dark eyes twinkled at the sound of her brother’s footsteps.

Saleem entered the living room sheepishly.

“ Salaam, ” he mumbled.

Mahmood looked over, his face calm and composed.

“Saleem, go and wash up. You are covered in dirt. I hope your soccer game was worth making your mother worry.”

Saleem bowed his head. He put the bag of salt on the counter and muttered something close to an apology. By the time he returned, we’d cleared the dishes of everything but a small bowl of rice. Embarrassed but hungry, Saleem sat cross-legged at the tablecloth. Samira and I had cleared the other dishes. Mahmood sat in the armchair to read as was his nightly routine.

I peeked in and saw that Saleem had devoured his food in a breath. He stared blankly at the carpet. I felt his dread. The anticipation of a reprimanding was always worse than the reprimanding itself.

“Saleem, isn’t there something you’d like to say?” I blurted, drying my hands on a dishrag. Saleem’s head hung low, his body apologetic though he couldn’t bring his mouth to form the words.

Mahmood lowered his reading glasses and put his book on the nesting table to his right. He was reading the poetry of Ibrahim Khalil, the prolific Kabul poet who was beloved by many in the Waziri family. As university students, Mahmood and Hameed had taken a course taught by Khalil. While I loved his verses, I couldn’t help but think of Najiba’s husband when I heard them. That I’d once allowed my husband’s cousin to recite Khalil’s poems to me made me wildly embarrassed. He tried, from time to time, to engage me with a quatrain or two, but it was not something I could share with Mahmood. It felt dishonest.

“Look up, bachem, ” Mahmood said.

Saleem sat cross-legged before his father and slowly lifted his head. Mahmood paused, reconsidering whatever it was he was about to say.

“Let me read something to you,” he said and picked Khalil’s book up from the table.

Know that your fortune is not polluted

As infant you nursed of milk undiluted

The labyrinth of woe behind which you are gated

From your own fancy, was borne and created

For punishment is not the Almighty’s intent

Nor does He disrupt, mislead or torment

Upon our shoulders, all malaise and grief

Are naught but the harvest we have chosen to reap

“Do you understand what these words mean?”

“Yes, Padar- jan .”

“Then tell me, Saleem- jan, what do they mean to you?”

“That I should not act like a child.”

“Saleem- jan, I’m sorry that when you wake up every morning, this is the world that you see around you. I’m sorry that this is the Kabul, the Afghanistan that you are seeing. I wish you could have learned to take your first steps without rockets firing over your head. This is no place for a child, but because of that, it’s all the more important for you to step up. You must find a way to make good of this situation — to reap a noble harvest.”

I could see the resentment on Saleem’s face. All he was ever told was no. This much he’d shared with me on more than one occasion. The things he could do were few; the things he couldn’t do were endless. But Saleem bit his tongue and did not protest the injustice that even Mahmood admitted.

“Saleem- jan, my son, now is the time to learn to look after your own actions. Your mother and I watch over you, but every day you are less and less of a boy.”

Sometimes I argued with Mahmood that he needed to be firmer with the children. Why they feared his punishments, I could not understand. He did little more than lecture them and give them disappointed looks. But the children respected him, as did I. So many nights the children and I nestled around him, vying for space to listen to his stories. His arms wrapped around us all, tying us together in one package.

I lost myself in those moments, loving my husband more than I’d ever imagined I could. I often missed Khala Zeba and wished I could have thanked her for putting me in his arms.