Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

I learned slowly, once I met them, that my sister had no idea he had discouraged us from coming to England. She’d even saved up some money and set it aside so that we would have something for food and clothing, until we were able to file the right papers and apply for asylum.

Her husband sees me as an intrusion. He wishes us to disappear. He cannot look me in the eye and fumbles for even simple conversation.

I want to tell him that he needn’t be so anxious. Those days, when his flirtations and romantic promises filled my sky, are part of a time I can barely recall. So much has happened between then and now. Though Mahmood, my hamsar, no longer stands by my side, my years with him are larger than girlish dreams. I am grateful for the time we had together, short as it was, and for the children we raised.

Hameed, the boy from the orchard, played a role in bringing me to Mahmood. The betrayal I felt at the time melted away once I got to know Mahmood. It was not the straightest road, but it led me home.

Hameed does not understand that. And I cannot explain it to him because he is my sister’s husband and I do not want to open doors that were rightly closed long ago. Najiba’s heart is welcoming and wide. I do not want to stir any ill will.

Even KokoGul. Even to her I must be thankful for it was she who nudged Najiba under Shireen- jan ’s nose. It was she who thought her prettiest daughter, her true daughter, was more deserving of our esteemed neighbor. And I know that when his mother told him of Najiba’s beauty, he changed his choice readily and stopped visiting the orchard. He kept his choice a secret, too much of a coward to say anything himself.

I wept for days when I should not have. We are too shortsighted to rejoice in the moments that deserve it.

Khala Zeba, Mahmood’s beloved mother, saw what others did not. And my husband trusted his mother. How lucky I was to have both of them. Allah chose my naseeb wisely. In our wedding photograph I am solemn and unsure. Khala Zeba lifted my green veil and looked at me with warm, motherly eyes.

Mahmood’s hand joined with mine that day, my mother’s bangles delicately clinking against one another in their own private toast. My father had looked on somberly.

You look just like her, my daughter.

I remember the way my throat tightened, missing the mother I’d never met, the grandfather who had watched over me, and the old man in the orchard who promised to light the path before me. I was nervous about the man at my side, my new husband. But those people I missed so much, those faces I would only see in my dreams, whispered in my ear that all would be right.

Najiba’s children have inherited their mother’s delicate features and sweet disposition. From their father, only his restless nature. I watch them at the park, climbing ladders and laughing as they fall on their backsides or slip down a slide. Samira feels too old to play alongside her cousins. She’s nearly a young woman now and the only playgrounds of her youth were places of hiding on rainy nights. I wonder if that’s what she sees when she watches the children on the swings.

She speaks now. Just short sentences, but she is coming along slowly. She waits, as I do, for Saleem to join us. I know when she sees him, she will be complete again, a whole and perfect child.

Aziz is too nervous to wander far. He watches the other children play and imitates their actions from a distance. His legs have thickened and hold his weight comfortably. He is thin but he smiles with pink lips and eyes bright enough to make mine water. Thank you, God. Thank you.

Something tells me my son is close. I continue to wait for him, and it occurs to me that’s what being a mother is, isn’t it? Waiting for a rounded belly to tighten in readiness; listening for the sound of hunger in the moonlit hours; hearing an eager voice call even in the camouflage of traffic, loud music, and whirring machines. It’s looking at every door, every phone, and every approaching silhouette and feeling that slight lift, that tickle of opportunity to be again — mother.

I saw Saleem in my dream last night, swimming across a brilliant, blue ocean with ripples that sparkled under a warm sun. The breeze blew a salty mist onto my cheeks as I watched him. There was water all around him, and he glided through, swimming in smooth, strong strokes as if he’d been raised by the ocean. From afar, I could see his mischievous grin, the proud triumph of a boy who’d found his own way home.

It was a good dream for a mother to have and I woke with a buoyancy I’ve not felt in a long time. Thank God for the water, for water is roshanee, water is light.

“HOW MANY DID THEY CATCH? WERE THEY BEATEN?”

“I don’t know. Maybe fifty. . sixty. I’ve no idea what happened on the other end of the tunnel either.”

It was morning and Saleem was telling Ajmal about what he had seen for the second time. Although he had recounted everything last night, Ajmal wanted to hear it again in the light of day.

“I knew it was a bad idea.” Ajmal shook his head. “I would have been caught. I have no luck when it comes to the police.”

“But we’re not in much better shape. Look at us. How long do you think we can live here? People are getting sick. The town wants the Jungle gone. Even the Red Cross workers say trouble is coming soon.”

“Where else can we go, Saleem? We have no documents. We have no money.” Ajmal sat on the floor, his knees to his chest. His forehead touched his folded arms. “If I’d known how things were here, I don’t know if I would have left Afghanistan. Maybe it would be better to die on our own soil than to be chased out of everywhere we go like stray dogs.”

The same thought had crossed Saleem’s mind, but now he quickly dismissed it.

“You’re talking like the old and gray haired. We had to leave. If we don’t plan for tomorrow, there won’t be one.”

Ajmal looked up. His ears tingled at the conviction in Saleem’s voice.

THE COMMOTION BEGAN NOT AN HOUR LATER. AJMAL AND Saleem went outside to find out what was going on. A crowd of young French protesters had gathered in front of the camps. Some chanted. Some waved their fists in the air. Some carried signs.

BAN BORDERS

NO PRISON FOR IMMIGRANTS

HUMAN RIGHTS NOW

“Look at them all!” Ajmal exclaimed.

There had to be hundreds of people out there. Men and women. There were also at least thirty police officers with stern black uniforms and half-shell helmets, scrambling to surround the group and control the chaos. The situation was odd. The police were here because of the protesters. And the protesters were here for the Jungle.

“Their own people shouting for us!”

But Saleem saw more when he looked at the mass. They must know something. Maybe they had gotten word about that something. Saleem watched as more activists began to join the group, two or three at a time.

“Ajmal, this is not good. We should get out of here.”

“Now? When we’ve just found hundreds of friends? I bet things will get better. We just have to wait and see.”

“I don’t want to see. We’ll be caught in the middle of whatever this is. Just like in Afghanistan.”

Ajmal sighed.

“Maybe we should set up camp somewhere else in town, like the other boys did.”

“No,” Saleem said. “I think we should make a run for the tunnel.”

“The tunnel? Have you lost your mind?”

“I know. . but look at where all the police are now. They are here! This might just be the perfect distraction.”

Ajmal was as desperate as Saleem. His silence said as much.

“Listen, Ajmal. I’ve been thinking about it. There are two entrances to the tunnel. The men all went through the entrance for cars and trucks. But there is the other entrance.”