Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

“Turn around.” Saleem did as he was instructed, his eyes glued to the ground. “No passport? No papers?”

Saleem shook his head again. His three-hundred-dollar Belgian passport was in his rucksack, back at the hotel. He’d left it there, fearful he would lose it before the next leg of their journey.

“Come.” The instruction was simple. Saleem thought his chest might burst. He could not go with them! What about his mother? Saleem looked at the officers and stole a quick glance at the cobblestoned path busy with souvenir hunters and locals. Was there something he could say to dissuade them? Could he buy his way out? If he followed, he’d surely be whisked away to jail, probably even shipped back home.

He was fast. He had always been fast, but in the last few months he had probably become even faster. He was unmistakably lighter on his feet and felt stronger, having carried his siblings and their modest baggage. The more he thought about it, the more convinced Saleem became. He could do it. He should do it. If he went with the officers, there would be no one to take care of his mother, sister, and brother.

Saleem’s feet sprang to life, almost without his consent. He ducked under the officer’s arm and ran furiously. He raced past the pawnshop, past the corn seller, his shoulders bumping against startled tourists. He heard yelling behind him. Off the main pedestrian way was a hopeful maze of side streets. Saleem ran down an alley on his left with smaller shops and fewer people. Just a few meters and it ended. He could go right or left. With nothing promising in either direction, he went left. He needed to put distance between himself and the officers, but he couldn’t head back to his hotel.

Saleem turned another corner. A resting stray dog lifted his head curiously as Saleem panted and surveyed his options. Which way? This part of Athens was disorienting; there were no guiding landmarks but Saleem knew a main road was just a few blocks away. He rounded a corner and ran directly into a couple, their arms encircling each other’s waists. They stumbled, cursing as Saleem steadied himself and raised an apologetic hand. The alley opened into a plaza with an old church in the center, a relic surrounded by posh modern shops. His eyes scouted the intersection, looking for the next twist in this labyrinth. He felt conspicuous, wild eyed and exposed.

The metro, Saleem thought.

But where was it from here? Saleem pressed his back against a wall as he searched for a clue. The street sloped downward and, from what he remembered, the metro station was lower than the rest of the market. He hadn’t been on it since that first day, not wanting to squander their funds while his own feet carried him fine. He took a deep breath and set off running again, his eyes scanning the scene in search of blue uniforms. He didn’t see any. He kept his head low and wove through people, hoping for human cover. His mother’s voice echoed through his thoughts, just long enough to propel his shaking legs.

My mind is restless today. I wish you would leave the pawnshop for tomorrow. We can stop by on the way to the train station. We could all go together.

It’s not far and we don’t have much cash left, Madar- jan. Who knows what will happen in Patras. We’ll need money for food and the ferry or else we’ll be stranded.

But today. .

I’m going, Madar- jan. If we hide in a room every time we are nervous, we will never make it to England.

Saleem would later regret being short with her, but he could not think of that now. The metro sign loomed in the distance. His pace quickened. He stopped short at the arched entrance, a bridged staircase that led to the open tracks. His calves burning as he listened for the rumble of the approaching train. He could see nothing in the distance yet. Saleem did his best to appear calm, wishing he could better conceal himself, but he needed to stay close.

The vibrations passed through his thinned soles. He stole a nervous glance at the booth just inside the entrance and rehearsed his plan. Jump the turnstile just as the train pulled in, board it before anyone could stop him, and take it as far as he could possibly go. Even better, he’d switch at a connecting station and stay on the system until he was sure he had lost the officers. Saleem could not help but break into a smile as he saw the steel giant turn the corner. He would not tell his mother about the police officers.

Just as he lunged for the turnstile swearing he would listen to his mother’s intuition every time going forward, angry fingers clawed into his shoulder and pulled him back. He spiraled around. His arms flew outward, but there was nothing to catch.

The train was loud enough to muffle Saleem’s cries as it pulled in and out of the station.

MAYBE THIS IS HOW IT IS MEANT TO BE. A WIFE WITHOUT A HUSBAND. Children without a father. Perhaps incomplete is the very definition of a normal family. Where did my lofty expectations come from anyway? Afghanistan is a land of widows and widowers, orphans and the missing. Missing a right leg, a left hand, a child, or a mother. Everyone was missing something, as if a black hole had opened in the center of the country, sucking in bits and pieces of everyone into its hard belly. Somewhere under our khaki earth is everything we’ve ever lost. I’ve heard the gray-haired Afghans living in foreign lands say, “Bury me in Afghanistan when I die. Return me to the land I came from.” They say it’s for love of country, but maybe it’s because they think they’ll be reunited with all they’ve lost there. Others stubbornly refuse to leave Afghanistan, no matter what is happening in our streets. Maybe because they think the earth will open up and return to them all that has been stolen.

I believe in no such thing.

What is gone is gone and will not come back. When the earth swallows, it swallows forever and we are left to stumble along feeling the absences. These are our burdens.

My son is hardened. He is becoming a man without the guidance of a father. I let him run with boys because he cannot be around women only. I can only teach him what I know. He needs to learn the ways of men and I pray that he will be safe while he does so and that I will be able to pull him back if he strays too far. He will resent me more if I do not give him this space. Already his words and accusing eyes are those of a man while his face and body remain that of a boy. He’s not the boy he was a year ago.

I miss the boy Saleem once was, mischievous and coy. I miss his laughter. I miss having his arms around my neck. All these were lost back home, in the land of the missing. Even if we reach England and settle into a new life, I know Saleem will never be that boy again. What is gone is gone.

My children inherited from me the misfortune of a missing childhood, as if the time they spent in my womb stained them with a naseeb of hardship.

Now I wait for Saleem to return from the pawnshop. My gold bangles, the only piece of my mother I had, are gone now and can be counted among the missing. I hated to part with them, but how could I keep them while my children are put to work or hungry? What Saleem brings back will be my mother’s gift to my children. It will not glitter or sing like wind chimes, but it will be her soft kiss on their cheeks.

KokoGul had never known about the bracelets. Unlikely they ever would have graced my wrists if she had.

“So what else have you hidden from me, dear husband?” she’d asked in a half tease. “Maybe these walls are full of treasures gathering dust. Why did you not let me keep those bangles in a safe place?”

“What place could be safer than somewhere unknown to you?” my father had retorted.