Читать книгу Voice of Rebellion - Roberta Staley - Страница 10

CHAPTER 4

A Waiting Game

THE PLAN WAS to travel to Islamabad, a day’s drive. But first, the families would stop in the city of Mīrāmshāh in the Pashtun tribal area of North Waziristan. Mīrāmshāh was only an hour from Terai Mangal. There was a hotel in the city that, their driver told them, was the first overnight stop for many Afghan refugees, mainly because it was cheap. An hour later, dusty, thirsty, and bruised from days of rough roads, Nasrin and the others gratefully disembarked outside the hotel. Never again, Nasrin thought grimly, would she travel in the back of a truck. The families said goodbye to their driver, who nodded curtly in response to their profuse thanks and wheeled the truck around, which belched more black diesel exhaust into the air as it lumbered down the road, returning to Afghanistan.

The four families stayed in one large room in the hotel. It had a flush toilet, a luxury after the days spent in the back of the truck. This was countered by the stench of an open sewer just outside the window. The next day, they rented a van big enough to fit all seventeen people and drove for two hours to their next destination, Peshawar, where they stopped for breakfast at a roadside kiosk that sold naan. In Peshawar, they rented two smaller vans for the 120-mile leg to Islamabad, where they would arrive at their final destination: the home of Rokai, brother-in-law of Hafiz. Rokai and his family rented part of an enormous house that otherwise stood empty. The landlord had agreed, at Rokai’s request, to rent out the rest of the home to the families. Nasrin felt blessed; most Afghans ended up in tents in one of Pakistan’s many refugee camps.

Pakistan grew warmer and more humid the farther they drove, the craggy mountains softening into rounded green hills. The motorways became congested with motorcycles, cars, and ornately decorated jingle trucks, so named because of the clinking metal trinkets they were adorned with. The vehicles roared only yards away from unflinching men and women clad in shalwar kameez, walking along the roadside.

It was near dusk when they reached Islamabad, Pakistan’s capital, which, at the time, was a small city of just over 300,000 people. The air was filled with a cacophony of beeping horns, engine exhaust, and the enticing scent of street food: spicy rice, meat, and vegetable dishes. It took nearly an hour to find Rokai’s house, and it was dusk by the time the vans parked in front of the home. Hafiz got out, walked up to the high iron gates, and called out a greeting. Within a minute, the gates swung open. Rokai joyously threw his arms around Hafiz and beckoned everyone inside.

A yard light illuminated the broad and shiny leaves of a laburnum tree, and pink bougainvillea bushes framed the wooden front door of the three-story house. An older man, Hafiz’s father-in-law, Mohammad Ali Hasanzai, stood on the porch.

“Welcome to Pakistan!” Mohammad said. “You must be exhausted—and hungry! I will show you to your rooms and then take you to the kitchen for food. We’ve given each family their own bedroom and bathroom. Come quickly, before all the insects of Pakistan fly in.”

Stiff, hungry, and thirsty yet excited, the families spilled out of the vans, dragging their worldly possessions in the dirty burlap sacks.

As she walked through the home, Nasrin stared in awe at the cavernous hallway with its gray marbled floor and high ceilings. Mohammad pointed out the bathroom for Nasrin and Bashir, then escorted them to a bedroom containing toshak cushions for sleeping on and some blankets.

“Here,” Nasrin said to Bashir, handing him Safee. “I’m going to have a bath.”

Bashir was about to protest, then laughed and said, “Take your time. We’ll eat in the kitchen.”

The bathroom was just down the hall. Nasrin opened the wooden door. It felt like she had stepped into heaven. There was a rusty claw-foot soaker tub and a pile of towels lying on an elegantly carved round rosewood table. She smelled sandalwood soap. As warm water gurgled into the tub out of the taps, Nasrin peeled off the layers of travel clothing: the now-hated vest with its two hundred heavy coins, her tunic and shalwar trousers, hardened with dust and sweat. When had they left Kabul? Was it only five days ago? It felt like five years, she thought, slipping into the clean bath water.

“We made it, Gul,” Nasrin spoke aloud, as if her mother were in the room. “No one was hurt. You should have come with us. Why didn’t you come?” she said, tears slowly hitting the bathwater.

SIX MONTHS LATER, the laburnum tree was a sunburst of bright yellow flowers that filled the air with sweetness. Mozhdah played in the front yard with her cousins: Farzana, Mina, Vida, and Nadia. Bored, the girls decided to slip through the narrow gap between the hedge and the cement column of the front gate to see if their friends were home from school. Walking to an adjacent house, they saw sisters Asma and Bushra, and siblings Qudsia and Faisal, still in their school uniforms of light blue shalwar pants and tunics. They were sitting on the front step of their home.

Mozhdah waved them over. “We’re going to buy some pakora fritters and chutney. Come with us,” Mozhdah said in Urdu, which she was picking up from the neighborhood kids.

The group walked several blocks until they reached a busy thoroughfare where the street vendors congregated, selling everything from popsicles to freshly crushed sugarcane juice, walnuts, and sweets. The children sought out the pakora vendor, who served the treat with bright green chutney in a paper container for two rupees. Sharp and tangy, the chutney went perfectly with the spicy, crunchy snack. Mozhdah received a small allowance from her dad, most of which she spent on pakora. She spied two women in blue burkas hurrying down the street, and wondered if they might be from Afghanistan. She wanted to speak to them in Farsi—ask them if they were from Kabul. Maybe they knew her grandmother, her aunties, uncles, and cousins. But she was too shy, and the women scurried quickly past, with too much purpose.

Bashir had found a job in Peshawar, an ancient city founded in the sixth century BCE by nomadic Kushans. Just six months previous, he and the other escaped families had stopped here for a breakfast of naan on their journey into Islamabad. Only forty miles east of the Afghanistan-Pakistan border, Peshawar had been inundated with thousands of Afghan refugees during the Soviet occupation. It also bustled with foreigners who worked for international non-governmental organizations (NGOS) and aid agencies. About ten miles from the city was the famous Nasir Bagh refugee camp, one of the biggest of about 150 safe havens for Afghans that had sprung up. Bashir worked as a translator there with the International Medical Corps (IMC), teaching English-speaking expats such as nurses and physicians basic Farsi. He made 6,000 rupees a month—about USD$300—enough to support his family. The IMC provided Bashir with accommodations at its compound during the week. At the end of each workweek, Bashir jumped on a bus for the 120-mile journey back to Islamabad to spend the weekend with Nasrin and the kids.

Despite their relative security, the Jamalzadah family was in limbo. Pakistan didn’t grant citizenship to Afghan refugees. Bashir and Nasrin knew they could never return to Afghanistan, so as soon as Bashir arrived in Pakistan he applied for an identification card—the all-important Shanakhti Pass. It was a simple piece of paper, written in Urdu, the lingua franca of Pakistan, with a photo, one’s name, and the names of family members. None of the foreign embassies would accept a refugee claim without it. As soon as he received a Shanakhti Pass, Bashir applied to the American, Australian, and Canadian embassies as a refugee. At the Canadian office in Islamabad, he was given a short form to fill out that included space for the names of family members. He made photocopies of his post-secondary degrees and teaching certificates and submitted them as a package.

One weekend, after returning home from his IMC job in Peshawar, Bashir received a letter from the Canadian office. It was another form, a much longer one this time, asking for details about his refugee claim, including any threats or actual harm he had suffered while in Afghanistan, and the possibility of mistreatment by an individual or group should he return to his home country. One question asked whether Bashir required an English translator if selected for an interview with embassy staff. Bashir jotted down “No”—grateful for his fluency in English. Once again, he returned the form to the embassy, along with photocopies of his degrees and diplomas.

Now it was a waiting game. As Bashir sat on the bus to Peshawar, he stared unseeing, lost in thought, at the passing landscape: flat farmland with neatly ploughed fields, turgid rivers, and the outline of blue mountains like a mirage on the horizon. What would Canada be like? Would the people be friendly? He couldn’t think about Canada too much, for fear of getting his hopes up. What might make his refugee application stand out among the thousands that the embassy was deluged with? How were people picked?

The months crept by, and Nasrin began homeschooling Mozhdah, who had turned six. Nasrin taught her math, reading and writing, and geography. Mozhdah stared in awe at a map of Canada and tried to imagine what it was like to live in such an enormous country, which could fit more than a dozen Afghanistans into its expanse. On weekends, Bashir would tutor Mozhdah and Masee in English: “Hello. My name is Mozhdah. I am from Afghanistan. Thank you.” Making her repeat the words over and over—like a mantra of hope.

It was a late afternoon one steaming summer day. Bashir had just returned from Peshawar. He was hot and tired, his dress shirt sticky with sweat from the walk home from the bus stop. Opening the gate into the yard, he watched the children, including Masee and Mozhdah, as well as some neighborhood kids, seated on the grass in the shade of the laburnum tree. They were enthusiastically rubbing the heels of their bare feet.

Laughing, he said, “What are you up to?”

“Daddy!” exclaimed Mozhdah, leaping up to hug him. “We’re trying to make it rain. They say that if you rub your heels and pray, then the rains come. We need rain, right?”

“Yes, Mozhdah, we need rain. It has been very hot. That is an excellent idea: rubbing your heels to make it rain. I am sure you will be successful,” he said, still laughing.

“Oh,” Mozhdah said. “Mommy has a letter for you. I think she said it was from Canada.”

Bashir stopped in his tracks, momentarily forgetting his fatigue. “Thank you, Mozhdah. I shall go find Mom.”

Bashir kicked off his shoes at the door and walked into the cool hallway, calling out: “Nasrin, are you here? Do we have a letter from the Canadian embassy?”

He strode to their bedroom and opened the door. Nasrin was hanging clothes in the closet. She turned to Bashir. “Shhhh. Nap time,” she whispered, nodding towards Safee, who lay on his back on a toshak, eyes closed, arms and legs splayed out.

“Letter?” Bashir whispered back.

Nasrin nodded again, towards a small table where a white envelope lay. Bashir picked it up, staring at the return address: High Commission of Canada.

He sat on the bed, slipped a fingernail underneath the envelope’s flap, and opened it slowly. The paper was thick, with Government of Canada letterhead. “Dear Mr. Bashir Jamalzadah . . .” Bashir closed his eyes, unable to read any further. What if it was a rejection letter? He couldn’t bear to think about the possibility.

Fearing the worst, Nasrin went over to him and placed a comforting arm around his shoulders. “Oh no, Bashir,” she said softly.

“I actually haven’t read it yet,” said Bashir, opening his eyes and smiling ruefully at Nasrin, who rolled her eyes.

Bashir scanned the letter twice to make sure he understood it. And then he broke into a huge smile and hugged Nasrin and kissed her on the cheek. “We have an interview. All of us. At the embassy office.”

“Really?” said Nasrin, her voice rising in excitement. “All of us get to go?”

Safee opened his eyes and blinked sleepily, looking at his parents curiously.

“Yes, they want us at the embassy office at ten o’clock next Wednesday. They are going to interview me, you, and the kids.”

“Finally!” Nasrin exclaimed.

“What do you mean, ‘finally’?” Bashir asked.

Nasrin moved over to the closet. “I can finally wear my beautiful shoes that I brought all the way from Afghanistan—hidden in the diaper bag!”

Bashir opened his eyes wide and shook his head, chuckling at Nasrin’s optimistic daring. Safee had woken up and rolled onto his bottom, putting his hands out, thrilled to see his dad after the five-day absence.

“Yes, you’re coming too, Safee,” said Bashir, grabbing his younger son and holding him aloft. “We’re off to the Canadian embassy!”

SEVERAL HOURS BEFORE their appointment at the High Commission of Canada on Embassy Road, Bashir called a taxi to pick them up at the house, rather than take a bus or minivan. It was better to be early than late, and a taxi would be more dependable in Islamabad’s infamously chaotic traffic.

Nasrin fretted about what to wear. She finally opted for a cream-colored dopatta scarf, a symbol of modesty for Pakistani women, light brown shalwar pants, and a satin tunic dress in lapis blue with blue flowers and satin cuffs that complemented the fashionable black high heels smuggled out of Afghanistan.

Mozhdah wore a traditional shalwar kameez outfit that Nasrin had sewn; the shalwar pants were red, topped by an aquamarine tunic. Her long hair was kept out of her face with a flowered headband. She couldn’t stop admiring herself in the bathroom mirror, making Nasrin and Bashir laugh. The boys wore new shorts, shirts, and runners. Bashir wore his only suit: gray, with a blue tie and white shirt. He polished his brown leather shoes to a high shine and carefully trimmed his beard.

The letter explained that each member of the family would be interviewed separately—even the children would have an interview without their parents present. Nasrin and Bashir briefed Masee and Mozhdah on what to say.

“Be truthful,” Bashir emphasized. “Say that living in Kabul was scary because of the missiles. The bombing often woke you up at night, so the family traveled to Pakistan to be safe. You can tell the interviewer that your parents were scared too,” Bashir said to Masee and Mozhdah, who nodded in understanding.

The taxi ride was uneventful, so the family was early. Nasrin (trying to keep a squirming Safee under control), Bashir, Mozhdah, and Masee disembarked carefully from the taxicab so as not to brush up against the dusty vehicle. A guard stood watch at the gate to the embassy compound, surrounded by a tall concrete wall. Bashir stated his name to the guard, who turned to another watchman seated in a tiny office just inside the fence. Their names were on the log of the day’s visitors, and the guards beckoned the family inside. The compound was lush, with artfully arranged flowerbeds, and bushes and trees in bloom. A flagstone walkway led to the front door.

“Smell the jasmine and roses,” Nasrin said to the children, inhaling deeply.

Inside, they were greeted by the rhythmic whump of a large slow fan that did little more than circulate the humid air. A marble floor led to a waiting area with several neat rows of chairs. A secretary sat behind a wooden desk that held some cardboard files, a container of pens and pencils, and a telephone. Other couples with children also sat waiting.

Bashir approached the secretary, who was Pakistani. “Good morning,” he said nervously in English. “My name is Bashir Jamalzadah, and my family and I are here to be interviewed.” He slipped his hand into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out the letter he had received from the Canadian embassy. “Here,” he said, unfolding and placing it carefully on the desk.

The young woman glanced at it briefly and looked at a typed list of names on the desk. “Your appointment is at eleven o’clock,” she said. “You’re a bit early. If you like, you and your family can take a walk in the gardens outside.”

“Thank you,” said Bashir. “But we are fine waiting here.”

Nasrin rolled her eyes at Bashir as he sat down in the chair beside her. “The children will squirm out of their skins if we wait here for very long,” she said. “I’m taking them into the gardens.”

“Don’t let them get dirty,” Bashir said anxiously. “And don’t be longer than fifteen minutes, in case they call our names early.”

Nasrin wandered the gardens for about twenty minutes, smelling the flowers while admonishing the kids not to pick them. When she returned, the children were still relatively clean, though Safee had grabbed a handful of dirt from a flowerbed and flung it at his brother. Nasrin brushed away the remnants of dirt from Masee’s clothing.

The hands on the large round wall clock crawled by so slowly Bashir was convinced it was broken.

“Mr. Bashir Jamalzadah,” the secretary finally announced. “Please go up the stairs and take a seat in the chairs provided. There is an interpreter there, in case you need one,” she said.

The family walked up the curving stairway, feeling the smoothness of the heavy, polished, dark wood banister. A row of chairs lined the wall of the hallway, and everyone took a seat. A secretary came out of a room and beckoned Bashir to follow her up another staircase, then down a long hallway. First, he looked back at Nasrin and nodded reassuringly. After all, they had been forewarned that they would be interviewed separately.

A slender middle-aged man in dress pants and a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck came out of an office. “Mr. Jamalzadah?” he said. “I’m an immigration official for the Government of Canada. Please come in,” he said, gesturing to a chair.

An interpreter, clearly Afghan, was waiting in the office, and Bashir and the man greeted each other in Farsi. The immigration official picked up a document that Bashir recognized as the long-form questionnaire he had sent in months ago. “It indicates here that you don’t need an interpreter,” the official said.

“No, I don’t,” Bashir replied.

“Good,” the man said, then directed his comment to the Afghan interpreter. “You can leave. Thank you for your time.”

The official moved around the corner of his enormous wooden desk and sat down. “So . . . tell me your story,” he said, looking keenly at Bashir. “What made you leave Afghanistan, and why do you want to emigrate to Canada?”

Bashir began his tale. He explained how he was a teacher at Kabul Pedagogical Institute and that his boss, Ghafoor Alipour, a PDPA Communist party supporter, tried to sign Bashir up for conscription to get rid of him. He talked about going into hiding and the desperate plan to flee to Pakistan through Logar province disguised as peasant farmers. He described how he and three other families bribed Afghan soldiers at checkpoints, how Commander Rawani housed and fed them, and how they narrowly escaped an aerial bomb attack at the commander’s headquarters. Bashir described the cold, cramped, bone-shaking journey in the back of the truck through the Paktia mountains, and how surviving the trip felt like a miracle. And although he was grateful to Pakistan for letting him and his family stay, he explained, the government would never grant them citizenship. He wanted a home for his three children, a place for them to grow up safely and get an education.

The official looked intently at Bashir as he spoke, never moving, never looking down at his papers. “Why did you apply to Canada?” he asked. “What do you know about the country?”

Bashir smiled nervously. He knew that the country’s capital was Ottawa. He also knew a bit about Montreal—how everyone spoke French. He also knew that Canada had universal health care and welcomed new immigrants. “It is a young country,” Bashir said. “It is peaceful. It welcomes refugees.”

The official smiled, got up from his chair, and came around the desk. “Well, I’ve heard enough,” he said, sticking his hand out to shake Bashir’s hand. “I won’t need to interview your family. Let me see you out.”

Relieved, but wondering if he’d said the right things, Bashir stood up and surreptitiously wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, following the official back down to the second floor.

The man shook his hand once again. “I will file my report. It’s up to the adjudicators whether to accept you into Canada—or not,” he said.

“Do you know when we will hear?” Bashir asked.

“I don’t know. We have a backlog of refugee applications. I wish you the best of luck,” the official said, turning away to trot back up the stairs.

“Let’s go,” said Bashir, turning to Nasrin and the kids. “You don’t need to be interviewed.”

“Oh,” Nasrin responded in a whisper, as they walked down the staircase into the main lobby of the embassy. “Is that good or bad?”

“I honestly don’t know,” said Bashir. “It’s a waiting game—a long one from the sounds of it. The man said there is a backlog of claims.”

Weeks later, the family had still heard nothing, aside from a request asking Bashir and the family to travel to Rawalpindi, a half-hour drive away, for a medical checkup.

After that, life resumed its normal rhythm. The summer monsoons came, turning roadways into streams. Bashir stopped wondering if a letter would arrive and began to think that the family had been rejected on medical grounds. He continued work as a translator and Farsi instructor at IMC. As fall approached, the weather cooled, and with it Bashir’s hopes.

Then, one October day, as he was working at his desk in the IMC building, he heard a soft knock at his office door. “Come in!” Bashir called, without looking up.

It was Nasrin’s seventeen-year-old nephew Najib from Islamabad. “What are you doing here?” Bashir gasped. “Is everything okay at home?”

“You have a letter, uncle!” Najib exclaimed. “It’s from the embassy. We decided to open it in case it was important. And it is! Very, very important!”

Bashir put his hand out to take the letter. He began reading: “Dear Mr. Jamalzadah.” His eyes went blurry and he had to reread the opening paragraph three times. His hands shook. He, Nasrin, and the kids were going to Canada. They would pick up their tickets at the airport this Friday.

Stunned, he put the letter on the desk. He had to take it to Todd Peterson, his boss at IMC. “Come with me, Najib,” said Bashir. “Thank you so much for opening the letter. I wouldn’t have been home until Friday and we would have missed the plane! But,” he added, “you could have called me!”

“We thought you should see the letter yourself,” Najib said, laughing.

Bashir strode down the hallway towards Todd’s office. His boss looked quizzically at Bashir, who was breathless with excitement. “Todd, this is Najib. He came here all the way from Islamabad today to deliver a letter.”

“It must be important,” Todd remarked.

“Here!” Bashir said, handing him the letter. “Read it!”

Todd read it slowly. “Congratulations!” he exclaimed, and got up out of his seat, moving around the desk to hug Bashir.

“I’ll take this as your resignation,” Todd said with a grin. “But before you jump on the bus, let’s get everyone together so they can say goodbye.” He strode into the hallway and began knocking on people’s office doors, telling them that Bashir was off to Canada and they were giving him an impromptu going-away bash.

Someone ran out to buy street food, and they all went into the lunchroom to sip soft drinks and eat fresh kebabs, chapati, and plump kachori dumplings.

Todd took Bashir aside. “Here,” he said, placing a stack of rupees in an envelope into Bashir’s hand. “The rest of this month’s salary plus one month extra. You won’t get out of Islamabad International Airport without paying bribes.”

Bashir laughed. “Thanks for letting me know.”

Todd chuckled. “As soon as this little party is over, I’ll take you and Najib to the bus station. Make sure that you write me when you get to Canada and let me know where you live, and tell me all about your new home. It’s pretty cold there, you know.”

“So I’ve read,” said Bashir. “We’ll survive. It gets cold in Kabul in the winter too, you know.”

“Not like Canada,” Todd said.

A short while later, with dusk falling, Todd dropped Bashir and Najib off at the busy bus station. After final handshakes, the pair climbed aboard the crowded bus, pushing past passengers with shopping bags and packages. Bashir kept his hand on the letter throughout the three-hour drive, opening it to reread it, feeling light-headed and giddy. He wanted to stand up in the bus and shout out to all the passengers that he—Bashir of Afghanistan—was taking his family to a new home called Canada.