Читать книгу Voice of Rebellion - Roberta Staley - Страница 9

CHAPTER 3

The Road to Terai Mangal

THE ENGINE GROWLED as the truck climbed the rock-strewn, dusty dirt mountain roadway. The families sat silent, shaken by their narrow escape from the air assault. When she thought back to the urgency in Commander Rawani’s voice as he saw them off, Nasrin had a sense that he knew an attack was imminent. Quite possibly he had evaded it. But she wondered if the elderly housekeeper who served them their tea, as well as the two men who baked the naan, had also eluded the bombing.

Nasrin turned to Bashir. “What route are we taking to Pakistan?”

“The road to Terai Mangal, a pass almost directly on the Durand Line dividing Afghanistan and Pakistan,” Bashir responded. “Mujahideen bring supplies into Afghanistan through there—food, weapons, money, medicines. Afghans also bring illegally cut lumber over Terai Mangal into Pakistan.”

“It doesn’t sound very safe,” Nasrin said quietly so that the others in the truck wouldn’t hear her.

“No, it’s not,” Bashir said. “Groups of mujahideen hide along the path, and they can be as dangerous as the Soviets, especially if they suspect you are a spy for the PDPA. But we have no choice—it is the only way for us to get through the mountains with children.”

Nasrin bit her lip. Surely the mujahideen would let women and children pass safely; they posed no threat. As the day wore on, Nasrin felt boredom mix with trepidation as she listened for the sound of approaching planes. Everyone complained about their aching backs from the constant slam of body against metal as the truck plunged in and out of potholes, over rocks, and around hairpin turns, belching black diesel into the air with each gear shift. But there was beauty too. When Nasrin handed Safee to Bashir to hold so that she could stand and stretch, she stared in awe at the craggy, precipitous gray and brown rock faces of the mountains, patchy with ice, their peaks partly hidden by hoary, brooding clouds. Far in the distance she could see blue mountain peaks enveloped in an opaque mist that made them appear two-dimensional. Putting her face into the wind, Nasrin inhaled pure air—the breath of ancient rock—as clean and fresh as new snow.

It was late afternoon when the autumn sun disappeared behind a mountain peak and the air became frigid. Nasrin shivered and her hands quickly stiffened in the cold. Within minutes, they were plunged into darkness, and Nasrin wondered if they shouldn’t halt their journey for today—but where? It wouldn’t be safe, she thought, to keep traveling along the narrow road with its steep drop-offs and unexpected turns. Then the vehicle stopped and the ignition was turned off. The engine sighed, like an animal relieved of a heavy burden. She heard male voices, speaking in Pashto.

“Can we get out now?” Nasrin asked Bashir.

“Let me check,” said Bashir, groaning as he used the slats to pull himself upright. Their guard, Mahboob, had already leaped onto the ground.

“Mommy, I want to get out too,” said Mozhdah.

“Me too!” said Masee, and before Nasrin could respond, the pair jumped out of the truck after their father.

Nasrin looked at Safee and nuzzled his cheek. “Let’s get out of this horrible thing,” she said, handing Safee off to one of the other women so that she could stretch, muscles and tendons creaking and popping, then slip on her burka.

Nasrin gingerly climbed down out of the truck and took Safee back. Several yards away a group of about a dozen mujahideen sheltered in a lee of rock. A campfire was burning, its smoke fragrant. Over the low orange flames hung a black iron pot on a wooden spit, and cast-iron teapots sat on the edge of the fire near the hot embers. Mozhdah and Masee came to stand close to Nasrin, watching as Mahboob and the men joined the intimidating group of guerrilla soldiers, who were dressed in long shabby vests, shalwar kameez, and sandals. Several lit cigarettes, and the smell of burning tobacco mingled with the scent of campfire.

Most mujahideen were culturally and religiously conservative, so they considered it inappropriate for women they didn’t know to come anywhere near them. Mahboob had told the group, should they encounter mujahideen during their journey, that all they had to say was “Kada da,” meaning, “There are women and children—it is a family moving.” The presence of women meant the mujahideen would neither approach the group nor even look inside the truck. Bashir and Mahboob strode back to the women and said that the soldiers had received communications via radio that the families would be arriving.

“They have food ready for us,” Bashir said.

“I’m starving,” Nasrin confessed.

Just as it was inappropriate for the women to stand near the mujahideen, it wasn’t tolerable that they should come close to or eat at their campfire. So Mahboob and the men got a small blaze going a little way away from the soldiers, using embers and cached twigs and branches, to keep them warm while they ate. Bashir, Hafiz, and Haji went over to the mujahideen and came back carrying large plates, called ghorie, piled high with palaw, a traditional rice dish. Seated on the ground, the four families dug in, using the fingers of their right hands to ravenously scoop food into their mouths.

“Mommy,” exclaimed Mozhdah. “This is delicious!”

“I know!” Nasrin said, giving Safee rice grains on the tip of her finger. “Eat all you want—there’s lots.”

After the meal, Mahboob told the families that the mujahideen had heard what happened to Commander Rawani’s headquarters. All the mujahideen had escaped the air attack, but the two naan makers had been killed, the house and compound obliterated. Nasrin’s stomach heaved, and she thought she might throw up. She glanced at her fellow travelers—their faces stricken, eating slowed.

Nasrin forced herself to finish her palaw and glanced surreptitiously at the guerrilla soldiers’ campground. At the edge of the light thrown by the campfire, she could see about a dozen machine guns lying on a piece of canvas. They would be safe with this group of fighters but might well freeze to death in the mountain air without shelter.

“Where are we going to sleep tonight?” she asked Bashir.

Bashir shrugged and directed Nasrin’s question to Mahboob. “Is there a shelter for the women and children to sleep in?”

“There is a chaikhana—a teahouse—a half mile or so away,” Mahboob said. “The road is fairly straight, so we can drive there safely in the dark.”

“Then we should get going,” Bashir said, and the families murmured their assent, having cleaned the ghorie of any last bits of rice.

They stood up, brushed the dirt off their clothes, hoisted the children into the back of the truck and climbed aboard. Mahboob and the men walked over to the group of mujahideen to thank them and wish them well.

The journey to the overnight shelter took about twenty minutes. The abandoned chaikhana was a hut with a flat corrugated iron roof that looked too small for ten people to lie down in, let alone seventeen. Mahboob walked slowly around the area, his hands ready on his weapon, then popped inside and came out a few seconds later. The building, Nasrin realized, must have been used by thousands of refugees who had escaped to Pakistan over this pass since the Soviets invaded ten years ago.

“It is safe,” Mahboob announced. “The women can start a fire in the stove. There is wood on the other side of the building. There is also water in a storage tank,” he said. “We’ll sleep here and rise before dawn. It is very close quarters, but you will manage. I will stand guard outside.”

Nasrin ducked inside the black interior with the other women. Surely there were candles or oil lamps? They felt around inside, bumping into one another, stepping on toes, which made them giggle.

Bashir ducked his head inside. “What’s going on?” he said cheerfully. “Some matches would help,” he said, handing Nasrin a box.

“I found a kettle!” Nasrin said, groping around a clay cook-stove. “Go get water, Bashir, so we can make tea.”

An hour later, with a small fire warming every inch of the room, except the dirt floor, which remained ice cold, everyone arranged themselves for sleeping, somewhat like a marketplace display of eggplants, Nasrin thought, smiling at the image. Nasrin let her thoughts drift to her past excursions with Bashir, hunting for another exotic coin to add to the collection. These bloody coins, she thought, as they poked into her body through the vest. Why hadn’t they collected something soft?

Safee’s hungry gurgles nudged Nasrin out of her doze. The fire in the stove had gone out, and the air in the chaikhana was musty with the odor of dirty bodies. She needed fresh air. Trying not to wake those still sleeping, Nasrin grabbed the burlap sack with the baby bottles and thermos and tiptoed over the bodies, opening the door just wide enough to slip through, softly murmuring, “Shhh” to the hungry infant. Bright stars hung in the graying darkness. Nasrin jumped at the silhouette of Mahboob, crouched on the ground, alert, his machine gun across his lap.

“Salaam, Mahboob. Sobh bakhair—good morning,” whispered Nasrin.

“Sobh bakhair,” Mahboob responded.

About fifteen feet from the chaikhana, Nasrin spied a round boulder where she could sit to feed Safee. She wrapped him tightly in his blankets and her burka to keep him warm, shaking a bottle filled with now-tepid water until the infant formula powder dissolved. That Safee didn’t protest about the lukewarm milk showed how hungry he was. By the time she returned to the hut, everyone in the chaikhana had woken and was stretching outside in the growing dawn. All wanted tea. Everyone groaned how hungry they were and dug into sacks and bags for leftover naan.

Yawning, Bashir walked over to Nasrin and kissed Safee on the forehead. “If all goes well, we’ll be at Terai Mangal on the Pakistan border tomorrow,” he said.

Warmth. Food. Safety. Freedom. But, until then, many unforeseen dangers, worried Nasrin.

THE MORNING SUN, gold and pale, hung in the eastern sky, warming Nasrin’s face. She grimaced as the truck hit a pothole, causing her to bite her tongue. The driver slowed the vehicle and stopped, then turned the engine off and jumped out. Had the huge pothole snapped part of the undercarriage or given them a flat tire? She could hear the driver and Mahboob talking, then detected a strange voice. Bashir and the rest of the men jumped out of the truck. Nasrin strained to listen but couldn’t make out what was being said. She handed Safee to Mozhdah and, pulling her burka down over her head, jumped out. Bashir and the rest of the men were standing near an empty truck that had its hood up, the engine emitting an acrid smell.

“What’s going on?” Nasrin asked Bashir.

“This truck has broken down. Our driver is from the same village as this man. We’re going to have to help him get the truck going again,” Bashir responded.

“How long could that take?” Nasrin said worriedly.

“Until it’s fixed.” Bashir sighed.

“But we don’t have food,” said Nasrin.

“None?”

“We ate all the palaw from the other night. We have a bit of naan left. Safee still has powdered milk. But I have to boil more water.”

Bashir shook his head with worry. “I’m sure we’ll get the engine going again soon.”

“Let’s hope,” Nasrin responded.

The sun crept west across the sky, and still the two truck drivers tinkered and hammered with their tools, occasionally jumping into the cab to try the ignition. The engine refused to turn over.

The children dug holes in the hard ground with sticks and made houses out of piled stones in the bright sun. Gradually, the light began to change, throwing deep, cold shadows onto the rough track. Nasrin felt a growing fury. They had paid their driver a fortune to take them to Pakistan. She walked over to the men, whose heads were deep in the engine, while sockets, wrenches, and screwdrivers lay on a dirty, oily cloth on the ground.

“Salaam,” Nasrin said politely.

The drivers ignored her.

“Nasrin!” Bashir called out in warning.

Nasrin didn’t look at Bashir. “We have been here for hours,” she told the drivers. “The children are hungry. They are thirsty. We must get going.”

No response.

“Night will fall soon and we have only traveled a few hours today. We won’t arrive in Pakistan tomorrow. It is too dangerous, staying here,” Nasrin’s voice rose in frustration.

Bashir hurried over and grasped Nasrin’s arm, pulling her firmly away and down the path. “You must understand, Nasrin,” Bashir said urgently. “They are from the same village—the same family. Our driver would as soon join the Afghan army as leave a relative stranded. We have no choice. We must stay until the truck is fixed.”

“But they’re not going to get it going. They’ve been at it most of the day,” Nasrin protested. “Maybe the driver should come with us and look for a mechanic—or engine parts—in Terai Mangal,” she said.

Bashir suddenly snapped his head around and began scanning the rocky terrain. “Where are those voices coming from?” Shouting could be heard from far away.

“I don’t know,” Nasrin responded nervously.

“Listen,” Bashir said softly.

They turned at the sound of shouting from Mahboob, who had cupped an ear with his right hand, the better to hear the faraway voices. He grinned broadly, waving at a craggy hilltop several hundred yards away.

“Yes! We would love some food!” he yelled. “Thank you!”

Bashir and Nasrin looked at each other, puzzled, and walked towards Mahboob.

“Who are you talking to?” Bashir asked.

“Some mujahideen have been watching us from their lookout and noticed that we have children and no food,” said Mahboob. “They are going to send a large plate of palaw and potatoes to feed us.”

“The mujahideen lookouts don’t miss much,” Bashir remarked.

“No, they don’t,” Mahboob agreed.

A mujahideen soldier, carefully navigating the treacherous boulders and scree, arrived about twenty minutes later carrying a ghorie heaped with palaw. The drivers took a break to eat as well, scooping the rice and potatoes into their mouths with hands dirty with grease. Nasrin was pleased that the potatoes were soft enough to feed to Safee. It was as if the food were a restorative for the moribund engine too, as it roared to life only fifteen minutes after the drivers returned to their tinkering, causing everyone to choke on the cloud of black, oily diesel exhaust filling the air. They cheered through their coughing. Five minutes later, the two trucks resumed their respective journeys, one uphill and east towards Pakistan, the other downhill and west towards Logar.

It was twilight now, and Nasrin looked up at a sliver of a new moon in the sky between mountain peaks. She thought of the people she loved who were left behind in Kabul and wondered if they were looking up at the same beautiful, pale light.

“We’re still alive, Gul,” she whispered. “We’re still alive.”

Trying to make up for lost time, the driver drove well into the night, but at a crawl over the rocky, twisting road. Nasrin’s nose and ears felt like ice. Safee, at least, was warm and asleep, cradled tightly against her chest in a nest she had created with the diaper-stuffed burlap sack. Eventually, the truck bumped to a stop. The driver opened his door and jumped to the ground, calling out: “We have arrived at the chaikhana. Everyone can get out.”

Relieved chatter: “What time do you think it is? How close are we to the border?”

The chaikhana was a utilitarian square building with a flat roof and a stainless steel chimney from which tendrils of smoke wafted. Desperate for warmth, the families walked stiffly to the door and slipped off their shoes before entering. Small oil lamps in shallow recesses along the walls flickered as cold air blew into the room. The travelers entered the main area, which was covered wall to wall with a thin, worn Afghan carpet. A middle-aged man in a turban, his face deeply furrowed, came out of an arched doorway, murmured “Salaam,” and laid out an enormous pink, flowered plastic cover on the rug. The children and adults returned the greeting and plopped down on the hard toshaks, or floor cushions. He looks old, thought Nasrin, as well as sad. Mozhdah snuggled against Nasrin with tears in her eyes and held up her hands. Nasrin clasped her daughter’s icy hands in hers and blew warm air onto them until the tears disappeared.

While their host prepared a meal for them in the kitchen, Nasrin looked around, noticing a faded framed photograph of the charismatic commander Ahmad Shah Massoud, the “Lion of Panjshir,” a revered hero of the mujahideen resistance against the Soviets.

“Look! Tea!” Nasrin exclaimed to Mozhdah and Masee, who had been tugging at her sleeve. Their host carried a tray with two pots of tea and cups, placing it carefully on the pink plastic covering. Nasrin poured Masee and Mozhdah each a mug loaded with sugar. “Cup the mug like this,” she told them. “It will warm your hands. But let it cool a bit before drinking.”

About twenty minutes later, their host brought in a tray laden with numerous serving bowls and a large stewpot of shorwa. Instead of the traditional Afghan dish typically brimming with summer vegetables, chunks of meat on the bone, and tomatoes and spices, this was a watery brown facsimile, with a few potatoes and thin slivers of lamb meat. Each person grabbed a chipped porcelain bowl from the stack, and Nasrin ladled out helpings to Mozhdah and Masee, giving them fresh naan for dipping. It was delicious, and Nasrin gave tiny pieces of shorwa-soaked naan to Safee, who clapped his hands for more, eyes wide with pleasure.

When the dishes were removed and the last remnant of sweet tea drunk, the children curled up on the toshaks, falling asleep immediately. Nasrin went into the kitchen with her thermos and bottles to ask the man if she could boil water for Safee’s formula.

“Tashakur. Thank you for the meal. It was delicious.” She paused, not knowing how comfortable the man would be talking to her. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Ali,” he responded.

“How long have you had this chaikhana?”

“Four years now.” Ali sighed deeply and began talking. The Soviets had killed his two children and wife in their village in Mazar-i-Sharif. There had been a nearby garrison of Soviet soldiers, and one night four of them got drunk and stupidly wandered into the village to buy apples and grapes. The mujahideen captured and killed them. In retaliation, the Soviet soldiers attacked the village in the middle of the night—bulldozed their homes, shot at them, butchered as many people as they could. The bullets somehow missed Ali, who fled, returning later to find the bodies of his wife and children. He buried them, then escaped to Pakistan with a few other survivors. When they were coming through these mountains it snowed, leaving them stranded and near death. Afterwards, Ali said, he thought that by opening a chaikhana at this point of the journey, he could help other Afghans.

“I’m so sorry for your terrible loss,” Nasrin said in a stricken voice.

“You are blessed to have children. Keep them safe,” Ali said.

“I will,” Nasrin responded, her voice cracking.

After a night of restless sleep, the families were up by 5:00 AM and downed a simple breakfast of naan and tea. Today, they hoped, would be the last stage of the journey to Pakistan. They paid for the food and accommodations and climbed reluctantly into the back of the truck. Mahboob, as usual, stood up, scanning the landscape, machine gun cradled in his arms, alert and relaxed despite keeping guard all night long. Bashir held Safee, and Mozhdah and Masee snuggled against their mom, listening as Nasrin softly hummed Afghan songs from childhood.

The sun warming her face, Nasrin realized that she had dozed off. She licked the dust off her dry lips. It seemed warmer, and she was beginning to sweat underneath her heavy vest. The truck slowed to a stop. Another chaikhana? Authoritative voices—hard and commanding—the voices of army or police officers, sent a chill down her spine.

“Stay here,” Bashir said. “Don’t anyone make a sound,” he whispered to the women and children. He unlatched the door at the back of the truck and jumped out.

“Where are we? Why did we stop?” Mozhdah asked nervously.

“Shhh,” Nasrin responded.

In the stillness, Nasrin detected changes: the scent of vegetation, the trilling of birds—so different from the barren, cold mountain roads.

Bashir came back and beckoned to Nasrin. “Come out,” he said, a wide grin on his face. “We have made it to Terai Mangal. Wear your burka,” he added.

Nasrin pulled the blue cloth over her head and stumbled stiffly to the ground. She looked about. It was another world. Sparse grasses covered boulder-strewn hills while copses of stunted trees grew out of the rocky earth. Three nearby mountains rose into the air, their steep slopes covered in green.

A small group of armed men approached the group. Mahboob walked towards them, and they greeted each other warmly. Returning to the families, who stood uneasily about ten feet away, Mahboob explained he would continue on with the group into Pakistan, though he had to leave his firearm in Afghanistan, picking it up on his return. “This is the Terai Mangal pass—we have arrived in Pakistan!” he said, smiling as everyone cheered.

Mahboob handed one of the men in the group his machine gun and walked back to the truck. “Let’s go!” he said.

As they drove through the gate, the road sloped downhill and the engine’s growl eased slightly. Nadia, Nasrin’s fourteen-year-old niece, couldn’t contain her excitement and stood, holding tight to the top metal slats. Her chador blew off and her long black hair whipped around her face. “We made it!” Nadia screamed into the wind. “Yaaaay, we made it!”

Everyone laughed. It was, thought Nasrin, like being on a ship, sailing away from land onto a great big endless ocean, roiled by waves of hope.