Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

When the bombardments back home were at their worst, a teacher I considered a friend made crazed decisions each night. One night, she made the children sleep with her and her husband, all in the same room. Another night, she put each child alone in a different room. Every night was a gamble. They could all endure or perish together. Or they could gamble that perhaps one or two of them would survive. Each night, without fail, she prayed most fervently that God not spare her if her children were taken. These were pleas she could only make to God in her quiet thoughts because to speak them aloud would have blackened her tongue.

In the last year, as I’ve tried to give my children a safe life, I’ve felt more like a criminal than anything else. Even righteousness is an ambiguous thing.

From Greece to Italy, from Italy to France. It is now the last leg of our journey, from Paris to London on a silver-and-yellow train that looks like a rocket blazing through an underground path. It is on this last voyage that I leave Aziz in Samira’s care and gather our Belgian passports. I slip them into my black leather handbag and take them with me to the restroom in our car, a narrow square of stainless steel. One by one, I rip each page of the passports into tiny shreds and let them fall into the toilet like the snowflakes that will meet us in London. I tear them apart and undo our false identities. I am again Fereiba. My children are again Samira and Aziz.

I’ve been cautioned by the people who had gotten me this far.

They must not see your passports. Do not tell them how you got there. Tell them only that you want asylum. Tell them why you had to run. Tell them how they came for Mahmood — what happened to him might be the only thing that saves you.

The customs check in London will go very differently than all the others. This time we will be honest and put ourselves in our most vulnerable position yet. Thus far, we’ve cowered and ducked and lied every time we passed an official. In less than an hour, that will change.

My hands shake as I stand over the toilet and watch to be sure every last flake vanishes into the swirl of water. I lean against the wall and steady myself with a hand on the steel sink. It is refreshingly cool to the touch.

Metal. It is everywhere. The trains, the rails, the stations. Each train stop is a beast of permanence. Soundly constructed with the glint of modernity. This sink, the tracks, the roof over the station — they are the difference between the Afghan world and this world. This world stands strong and shiny and capable. From our homes to our families, Afghanistan is made of clay and dust, so impermanent it can be sneezed away. And it has been, over and over again.

I want a life that won’t crumble between my fingers. I’ll be returned to dust one day, but until then let me and my children endure.

I think of my father, alone in his browned orchard, sleeping in a grove of organic rubble. I don’t know if he is alive or dead. It’s been so long since I last heard his voice. I know why he refused to leave. He learned to love the transience of everything, an acceptance that can only come when we near the end of the road. Whether the end comes today or tomorrow does not matter to him. He is ready to be returned to the earth. In and out, he will breathe the dust of the crumbling orchard walls and the soil of the gardens every day until, like an hourglass, his lungs fill. Time will stop then.

It is easier to love my father from a distance. From here, I do not see his weaknesses or his failures. From here, I see only those glimmering moments when he looked at me as his best and most precious child, those moments when he talked about my mother and made me feel whole. The rest of my childhood. . well, maybe it’s best if it crumbles to nothing.

I meet my reflection in the mirror. I look much older than I remember. I touch the skin of my face. It feels rough. I’m almost glad. I never was a very delicate creature. Every day, my skin thickens and I find myself doing things I never imagined doing, not even with the help of my husband. The stronger I am, the better our chances of survival.

I’ve left them too long. I need these moments though, moments when I can step away, collect the pieces of myself and return to them as a mother.

But the seconds tick on and I must return to my two children. The moment we’ve been preparing for is almost here.

A HALF WEEK LATER, ROKSANA RETURNED. SALEEM SCRAMBLED for what he would say to her. He hadn’t felt good about the way their last conversation ended. He hoped she hadn’t detected the ugly twinge in him. She did the usual distributions with her colleagues before making her way over to Saleem.

“Can you meet me in the playground where you stayed with your mother? Later tonight — around eight o’clock?” Saleem agreed, ready to apologize, but she moved on quickly. Before he could attempt any further conversation, she and the other volunteers had left.

Saleem did not want to miss his meeting with her. He spent the afternoon listening to Abdullah and Hassan tell the same tired mullah jokes they’d told a thousand times before. The one about the mullah and the pumpkin. The one about the mullah and the one-eyed donkey. Afghans loved to poke fun at their clergymen.

“The guy walking along the riverbank sees the mullah on the other side and calls out to him: ‘Hey, how do I get across?’ and the mullah says: ‘Are you a fool? You are across!’”

Hassan chuckled. To laugh at a joke he’d laughed at as a boy in Afghanistan was to call to mind better times. There was a sweet nostalgia to these droll vignettes. Had Saleem been less anxious about the hour, he might have appreciated them more.

He spun his watch around his wrist. Judging by the sky, it was probably nearing seven o’clock.

“My friends,” Saleem yawned. He rose to his feet slowly, hands on his knees for support. He arched his back and let out a soft grunt for good measure. “My back is so stiff. . I think I need to walk around a bit.”

“You sure you want to walk? If you’d like, I can have my chauffeur take you for a drive.”

Saleem forced a smile.

“Maybe next time.”

AT THE PARK, THREE YOUNG GIRLS PROPELLED THEMSELVES upward on the swings, pushing their legs out and bringing them back in as they swooped back down. Two school-age boys climbed a wooden ladder and crossed a play bridge. Their parents watched on, stealing sidelong glances at Saleem.

He made them uneasy. It might have interested them to know that they terrified him.

He consciously stayed back, sitting on one of the farthest benches and keeping his gaze off into the distance. He considered walking away and coming back when they had taken their children home. But he did not want to risk missing Roksana. She made him feel human again, and he was not willing to pass that up. There was a newspaper on a nearby bench. Saleem picked it up and returned to his seat, pretending the Greek characters on the page made sense to him.

Roksana finally came, standing behind him without saying a word. The children had gone by then, led away by their parents who shot one final look over in Saleem’s direction. She was probably late. Maybe she knew Saleem would have waited all night for her.

“Saleem.”

He spun around at the sound of her voice. Why did it feel wrong for them to meet like this? Why did he feel so awkward about it? There was something clandestine about the hour and the setting.

“Here, try this,” she said, handing him something wrapped in a folded sheet of wax paper. She took a seat next to him on the bench.

“What is this?” he asked, undoing the paper.

“Kebab. My mother makes great kebab. Thought you should try some yourself.” She slid onto the bench, moving the newspaper and taking a seat beside him. The kebab was still warm — the ground meat and spices made Saleem’s mouth water. “So you’ve learned how to read Greek, eh?”