Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

“Madar- jan, the wedding is three days away.”

“What if it doesn’t fit? Better we know now than on that day.”

The pants were undeniably short and the shirt hung loose on his shoulders. Madar- jan let out the one-inch hem and restitched it so that his ankles were not completely exposed. The pants and shirt would have to do.

On Friday night, Saleem walked the fifteen minutes to Kamal’s house, his palms sweaty. On his ride back from the farm, he’d started to imagine what it would be like as a total stranger amid a Turkish family’s private celebration. He had serious doubts about going. Afraid of disappointing Kamal, he chose to push his apprehensions aside.

Saleem would be joining Kamal and two of his cousins to drive to the wedding together. The rest of the family had already left. The celebration was being held at a farmhouse outside of town, and the boys were eager to get there before dinner was served.

Kamal’s cousins were older, in their twenties, but cut of the same unruly cloth. They were chain-smoking young men who told lewd jokes and went home to mom’s cooking every night. The cousins barely raised an eyebrow to see Saleem, reassuringly disinterested. They parked the car and headed into the house, hoping that they had timed their arrival well to miss the religious ceremonies and make it for the food and music that would follow.

They were right on time. The bride’s and groom’s families were shaking hands and congratulating one another. The smell of roasted meats and baked cheeses wafted through the air. Food was to be served shortly and this left time for the guests to wander around, for relatives to catch up on gossip, stories of the old days, and complaints about the unseasonably hot weather.

Saleem drank it all in. This could be an Afghan wedding, he thought to himself. It really was no different. A circle of men chatted in one corner. Women were laughing in another. Turks and Afghans were more alike than he had thought.

The food was delicious. Since Saleem had barely had time to eat anything when he came home from work, he arrived at the party ravenous. He kept his eyes on his plate. Quite a few girls in the room had caught his attention, but he did not want to be caught ogling them. Although they were dressed modestly, their calf-length dresses showed off the shapes of their youthful curves. One girl had chestnut hair that curled around her face and brushed against her cherry lips. Saleem made extra effort not to stare in her direction.

“Do you want some more food? I’m going for seconds. Or maybe you’re worried you’ll split your pants?” Kamal said, nudging Saleem with his elbow as he stood up.

“No, I’ll come with you. I would gladly split my pants for this kebab.” They walked over to the long tables where trays of food were laid out. Off in the corner, the bride and groom stood chatting with a few guests.

“The family’s been waiting a long time for this wedding,” Kamal explained. “The bride is my cousin. The groom comes from a family that lives nearby, a neighboring farm. He’s been in love with her for years. There’s another family that wanted her to marry their son so that they’ll inherit this land eventually, but she wasn’t interested and her father doesn’t like them anyway.”

Just like Kabul, Saleem thought.

They filled their bellies, listened to music, and watched the men grow rowdy as the hour grew late. There was clapping, feet and elbows bouncing to the music blaring from a stereo system, the rhythm and the instruments reminiscent of the music of Kabul’s past. Tea and syrup-soaked pastries were passed around. Saleem, more sated than he could ever recall being, still did not turn down the flaky baklava or the pistachio-coated nougats offered to him. If only he could have shared this feast with his family. He licked his sticky fingers and wondered if there was a way to slip something into his pockets without being noticed.

“Hey, let’s get a smoke. It’s too hot here, no?” Kamal suggested. Saleem agreed and followed his friend out to the back of the house. His eardrums buzzed. Saleem took a deep breath of fresh air, stretched his arms out, and smiled. Kamal looked amused.

“Having a good time, are you?” Kamal asked, taking out a cigarette and matches.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a party. A really long time.”

“Yeah, well. This is life in Intikal. Every day is a party,” he said sarcastically, the cigarette casting an orange glow in the night. The boys began to stroll around the shed behind the house when they stopped short.

Explosive sounds thundered through the night — followed by screams.

Saleem’s instincts kicked in first. He grabbed Kamal by the shoulder and pulled him to the ground.

“Stay down!” he yelled. On their knees, the boys crawled around the side of the shed to get a look at the house. Kamal did as he was told. There were loud pops, more screaming, and the sound of breaking glass.

“What’s happening?” Kamal screamed, panic in his voice. The screams were more familiar than the gunshots to Saleem. Those were the screams of people under attack.

“My parents!” Kamal yelled, his voice breaking.

“Quiet,” Saleem warned, throwing his arms around his friend to keep him calm. “Quiet for a minute.”

Three shadows ran out of the house, leaped into a car, and roared off. Kamal and Saleem ran back into the house as the car lights faded down the road. The screams had melted into wails.

Blood. Saleem’s stomach reeled at the smell of gunpowder and metal. People were huddled in two corners of the room, groans echoing over the sound of festive music made for a macabre cacophony. Two women snatched curtains from the windows to make bandages. Kamal’s mother was one of them, shouting her son’s name even as she tore at the fabric.

“Mother!” Kamal ran over to her. She dropped the fabric and grabbed him by his shoulders.

“You’re not hurt? You’re all right? Oh, thank God!” she cried.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Where’s Father?”

“Helping your cousins over there.” She picked up the curtain and ran over to a mass of people crouched over one woman.

Saleem stood locked in place.

People were yelling, walking around him as if unaware of his presence. He saw their mouths move and heard a noise, the sound of frightened, hurt people. He saw people running. Arms and legs moved around him, sometimes pushing him out of the way. He couldn’t move.

Saleem was back in Kabul. He heard rockets, saw people burying young children and families crying after disappeared fathers. His breathing slowed, and his eyes grew blurry.

There was no escape. The bloodshed had tracked him down to Intikal. How naïve he was to think he had left it all behind. It danced around him, taunting him and poking at his sides. It had followed him all along, waiting for him to grow complacent. Saleem had buried his head under a pillow as a young boy to muffle the sounds of the rockets. Now he put his hands over his ears to deaden the cries.

Saleem caught a glimpse of one of the victims, the bride’s father, his white shirt turned crimson. The color drained from his face as his daughter lay over him shrieking.

Everywhere he turned, Saleem saw his father.

HIS MOTHER BARELY STIRRED AS SALEEM CREPT INTO THE BEDROOM, his heart still pounding. He could hear Samira’s soft breathing. His eyes tried to adjust to the dark as he felt for his mattress on the floor.

“Thank God you’re home,” Madar- jan whispered. “It must be so late. Get some sleep, Saleem- jan .”

“Yes.” That was all Saleem could get out without his voice breaking.