Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

Abdul Rahim and Raisa agreed that it was best for us to leave. We had no family to help us. I feared my son would be swallowed by the Taliban, and as a woman, there was little I could do to help us survive.

“We’re going to leave,” I told my neighbors. “I have no choice but to get my children out of Kabul. Their stomachs are empty, their lips parched. There’s nothing for us here.”

Raisa nodded in agreement.

“There’s no telling if things will get better. They could get worse. As much as I hate to see you go, I can’t bear to watch you stay with things like this. If Mahmood- jan, God give him peace, were with you, it would be different. But like this, Kabul is worse than a prison for you.”

“I’m going to need your help.”

Abdul Rahim had nodded. He’d been anticipating this conversation.

THREE MONTHS AFTER AZIZ WAS BORN, I GATHERED MY CHILDREN and packed two small bags with what I thought we would need most: clothing, a parchment envelope with a dozen family pictures, and whatever food we had left. I’d said nothing to the children until two days before we were to leave. Saleem looked resentful that he’d been kept in the dark. We lived in the same space, with the same dismal thoughts, and yet, for the better part of our days, we were confounded by each other. We were a family beheaded and floundered around as such.

“What if they find out we’re leaving?” Saleem’s voice was quiet with fear.

“They won’t find out,” I promised. I had no other way of answering. His expression flat, Saleem held my gaze for a few seconds too long. He had seen through me.

I told myself things would be better once we escaped Kabul’s toxic air.

I sent word to my father that we would be traveling to Herat. I wanted to see him once more before we set off. But Padar- jan was a man who preferred to live in the comforts of yesterday. The letter I got back was nothing more than I had come to expect from my father. The orchard was in such bad shape I would hardly recognize it, he said. Armies of beetles had tunneled through the wood. He had taken to sleeping some nights in the grove, hoping his presence would scare them away but they were quite brazen. The past winter had been especially harsh and he would need to do much coaxing if he wanted to see even a single basket of apricots this year. They were more delicate than children, he believed. It saddened him that he could not do more for us now, but he looked forward to seeing us on our return.

People have different ways of saying good-bye, especially when it is forever.

A FEW WEEKS EARLIER, ABDUL RAHIM HAD KNOCKED ON OUR door and handed me a large envelope. Raisa was with him. Her moist eyes belied the encouraging smile on her face.

The passports Mahmood had purchased were enclosed, even his own. I had touched his photograph, the size of my thumb, and hurt anew that he was not here to make this journey with us. I made the painful decision to ask Abdul Rahim to sell it back to the Embassy for whatever he would give. There was no room for sentimentality. Now the time had come to leave.

“WEAR YOUR STURDIEST SHOES. TODAY IS THE DAY WE BEGIN OUR travels. And remember, if anyone asks you, we are going to visit your aunt in Herat. Say a prayer. We will need God to watch over us.”

When Saleem reached into the closet for his winter hat, I caught a glimpse of Mahmood’s watch on his wrist. I opened my mouth to say something but decided against it. It was best to leave the matter between father and son.

There was much we could not take with us: Saleem’s soccer ball, Samira’s set of plastic dolls, the fractured china set my mother-in-law had gifted us. I looked at my pots and pans, blackened with fire. The handwoven carpet in the living room had watched us grow from bride and groom to a full family, and then bore witness to the night we were undone. Tears of joy, tears of heartbreak had melted into its pattern. I left it all, the pieces of our broken life, for Raisa. I knew our home would not remain vacant long. Once Mahmood’s cousins learned of our escape, one of them was sure to claim it. Kabul had become a game of musical chairs with squatters, militants, and relatives plopping into an empty house before someone else could claim it.

Abdul Rahim checked his watch nervously. We were on a timeline. Our neighbors had offered to escort us to the bus terminal. If we were stopped, Abdul Rahim would say he was my brother.

I carried a bag in one hand and had Aziz tucked under my burqa . Saleem had a knapsack strapped to his back and held Samira’s hand, following behind Abdul Rahim but walking ahead of me. He and Samira both looked back frequently, as if they thought I might wander off.

The terminal was a widened road with buses parked in haphazard rows. At the front door of each bus, a man stood calling out the bus’s destination. We found our bus and saw that it was filling quickly.

“How long is the ride, Madar- jan ?” Saleem whispered.

“Very long. Try to sleep — the time will pass more quickly.”

The children and I filed on. I went to the women’s section in the back with Samira and Aziz while Saleem took an empty seat in the men’s section up closer to the driver. I kept Aziz on my lap, and Samira sat beside me. Seats were limited, and more than a few of the younger women were forced to stand.

The bus rumbled onto the main road. Burqas lifted like theater curtains as conversations picked up.

In the second hour, Samira fell asleep, despite the bumps and jumps the bus took on the rough road. Even Aziz and I dozed for a few minutes, waking only when the chatter grew in intensity. Then I realized we were no longer moving.

My right leg burned with pins and needles.

After three hours of tinkering and cursing, the bus driver was able to restart the engine. We were back on the road but moving at a snail’s pace. Twice more the bus driver had to disembark and curse the engine back into working order.

THREE DAYS LATER, WE FINALLY REACHED OUR DESTINATION, the cantankerous driver yelling for everyone to gather their belongings and exit.

We were in Herat.

“Your father used to come here a few times each year, on behalf of the ministry,” I told my children. “He was leading one of the projects in this area.”

Saleem kicked at the dirt as he followed the blue shadows off the bus.

“Why didn’t he ever tell me about it?”

“It was long ago,” I said, taking note of the resentment in his question.

We waited, as Abdul Rahim had instructed us, and an hour after our arrival, we were approached by a couple. A short man in his fifties whispered my name as a question.

“Khanum Fereiba?” he asked.

“Yes,” I confirmed with relief.

“Abdul Rahim and Raisa- jan have told me to expect you.” He motioned for his burqa -clad wife to join him.

I ushered my children ahead of me, and we followed Asim and Shabnam to their home. Shabnam was Raisa’s sister, their voices and matronly figures remarkably similar. We would stay with them for just a night. By the following evening we would be on a bus headed for the Afghan-Iran border. Saleem and Samira were disappointed, especially once they’d met the couple’s young children. Samira played with the girls while Saleem held Aziz and listened in on Asim’s warnings for the treacherous road ahead.

“You must be wary of the people you will meet,” he cautioned sternly. He swirled the tea leaves in his glass prophetically and continued. “Herat is the doorway to Iran, so we hear and see much of the traffic that passes. The Taliban are present here and look for any opportunity to make an example out of someone. You know, of course, their rules on mahram escorts. And they know that many people are trying to make their way into Iran, so keep your eyes open and try not to attract attention.”