A Far Away Home (9 page)

The men looked at this kid, this son of Hassan, with new respect. It was a good way.
Ali climbed the hill overlooking the bridge and canal, while the others went to work
removing all of the supports but one. They attached a rope to it, to yank it out
when the Russians approached.

Thankfully, no traffic came during the night so they were able to remove the supports
(except for one), and no one disturbed them. They attached the rope and crept around
the corner, waiting for the signal from Ali to remove the last support. Ali waited
on the hill, fighting sleep, nervous, and sweating. He never tried anything like
this before. He wasn't afraid, but kept trying in his mind to think what would happen
next. He thought he couldn't stay in Sharidure. He knew the way to Jungal, the next
town west, and thought he could hitch a ride on a truck. He wanted to stay, at his
home, his only ever home. He also wanted to obey his parents. He had been taught
that, all through his young life. He trusted his parents, and knew it must be awful
for them to send away their son. He thought about his sister, who also was suspected
of teaching at a secret school. She would be watched, but he hoped that even this
new invading group would not long watch and suspect a woman. She would be spared
and be able to stay in her home. He even dared to hope that by his leaving, suspicion
would fall heavier on him and so lessen the attention on his sister. All of this
was whirling in his mind, as he waited in the dark.

The sound of engines startled him to the now, to the job at hand. He had earlier
selected several stones, big enough to split the air and smooth enough to stay true
to his aim. He raised up a little, enough to see the road approaching the bridge.
It was the Russian UAZ Jeeps, two of them, just as his father's friend said. There
were four uniformed soldiers in each vehicle. The passengers were dozing. Their attention
was not on the hills around the road. They likely suspected no danger, no resistance
from this small town. Ali's aim was as always, dead on. The stone splatted against
the bank near the Mujahedeen, his new brothers in resistance. They heard the engines
and tightened the rope tied to the last main support to the Sharidure side of the
bridge. They waited as long as they could, until the front vehicle was on the bridge.
The rope went tight as they pulled. The bridge held momentarily, then collapsed under
the weight of the two vehicles and the soldiers. The bridge, the two vehicles and
the soldiers plummeted down to the canal below, the soldiers tumbling out of the
UAZs and landing hard in the water. The Mujahedeen scrambled down to them, hoping
they wouldn't have to fight, but ready if they did. They didn't have to worry.
All
of the Russian soldiers were unconscious. The Afghans pulled them out of the shallow
water. They wanted them to be alive to tell about how this little town wasn't such
an easy target and how they had been left alive to tell about it. There were eight
new rifles, plenty of ammunition, and some grenades. All were welcomed by the Afghans,
since weapons were hard to come by.

Ali had run down the hill to see what happened and to help the mujahedeen. In his
mind, he wasn't, yet, one of them. They gave him one of the rifles and some bullets.
Because he had never handled a rifle it felt awkward in his hands. After tying up
the soldiers, the Afghans hurried away, before they might be seen by one of the soldiers
and before the darkness turned into daylight.

Chapter Seven

Ali Leaves for Iran and Starts a Family

As the mujahedeen hurried away from the bridge, Ali jogged along, still thinking
about what to do and where to go. The group stopped briefly at Askgar's home on the
edge of Sharidure, where they agreed on meeting that evening at another home. Then,
one by one, they walked away into the darkness. Ali had made his decision about leaving,
so he gave his rifle to Askgar, then walked away but not to his home. He headed west,
out of town, first up to the airfield, where he would spend the remaining hours of
darkness, not sleeping, just thinking.

Soon after dawn, he walked down to the road and stopped a truck heading west, away
from Sharidure, away from his early life. He knew now what to do. The truck was headed
west toward Iran. The journey was to be three days, made on
the back of trucks loaded
with bags of wheat, other travelers, rolls of cloth, every kind of item appearing
in the shops of the small towns along the way. Greetings were polite, the tea was
hot at the teahouses where he waited for the next truck, and most of the talk was
about the Russians. When he approached the last teahouse, gas stop, and small hotel
at the Afghan-Iranian border, he saw the lights in the distance, small beacons of
hope in the darkness. He found out it was called Islam Qala. That's where he spent
the night, falling asleep wondering how he would get into Iran. He didn't have a
passport, but he had heard that Afghans were allowed into Iran without one. The Iranians
were particularly accepting of Afghans who were Shia. Most of the people from Sharidure
were Hazara, and Shia. That's what Ali was. That's why he went to Iran, rather than
the predominantly Sunni Pakistan.

In the morning, the truck rumbled toward the building at the actual border. It wasn't
much to look at. The two guards who emerged to stop and look at the truck asked the
driver where he was going. “I'm going to Muhshed.”

“What do you have in the back?”

“Wheat, some rolls of cloth, tea, nothing unusual.”

“Are there any passengers?”

“Yes, some men going to the mosque in Muhshed.” That was a good answer. The mosque
was famous, sacred to the Shia. It was very usual for Afghans to be traveling to
the mosque. Ali heard all of this and was relieved to hear the truck shift into gear
and start forward. He was safely in Iran. When the truck got to Tyabad, the Iranian
border town, he got down to stretch and take a look at Iran. He soon realized it
was very much like Afghanistan, though with some more sophisticated items than in
Sharidure. One thing was the paving and sidewalks. Another was the electricity. The
language sounded the same, although with some words he hadn't heard. The people of
Tyabad recognized he was from Afghanistan by the sound of his voice and his vocabulary.
To Ali, Iranian Farsi sounded somewhat sing-songy, sort of Farsi with an accent and
endings sounding more lilting than his own. He could be readily understood and could
understand them in turn. There were questions about the Russians. Iran was not part
of the Russian plan, at least not yet. They seemed interested in any small thing
he had to say about the Russians and seemed to understand how much he
wanted the
Russians to leave. He didn't tell anyone of his encounters at the school or the bridge.

***

Muhshed was where Ali was going. His father gave him the address of one of his friends
there. After a night in a teahouse, Ali found a truck heading there. He was getting
used to riding on the back of trucks. It almost seemed like part of his daily routine.
The truck arrived in the afternoon, and Ali climbed down to see a large city, not
as big as Kabul, but still a true city.

He started out asking people how to find the home of his father's friend. As he got
near the address, he found several Afghans living there. It was common for Afghans
to live close together, sort of making a small community. One of the Afghans he met
knew his father's friend, whose name was Akbar. He was originally from Sharidure
and was his father's boyhood friend. Akbar came to the door to answer the knock,
and Ali introduced himself. “I am Hassan's son, Ali. I have come by truck from Sharidure,
and my father gave me your address.”

“Hello, Ali. You are most welcome in my home. Your
father and I were good friends
in Sharidure. Please, come in.”

Ali was greatly relieved, both to actually find Akbar and to have him be so welcoming.
“Thank you very much. I am sorry to be trouble for you.”

“You must stay with me and my family. Let's have some bread and tea. We will have
a real meal later. Tell me about your father and about you and about Sharidure.”
Akbar was guiding Ali into another room where there were other people. Ali assumed
they were Akbar's family. “Ali, this is my wife, Anisa, my son, Mohammad, and my
daughter, Sara.” Ali bowed to each and shook hands with Mohammad. “Ali is the son
of Hassan, my good friend from Sharidure. He has come to stay with us. He can tell
us about Sharidure. Ali, we have had some news, but not for a while. Are there Russians
in Sharidure?”

As tea and bread were served, Ali and Akbar's family sat on the floor around the
tablecloth and talked about Sharidure. Ali told them everything except about his
hitting the principal's teapot with a stone and about the bridge and the Russian
soldiers. They all assumed he had left Sharidure because of the suspicions about
him teaching in his home.
They had many questions and listened and talked far into
the night. Later, Ali fell asleep for the first time in several nights and felt safe
and warm.

In the morning, Akbar took Ali along with him to his job. He sold household items
in a small shop. During the day, Akbar introduced Ali to several of his friends,
also Hazzara, not from Sharidure but from that province. All of them eagerly asked
about the situation in Afghanistan. Many of them had relatives still in the towns
they left behind, and Ali tried to answer their questions. They asked him why he
had come. He told them about the school in his home and how the principal had come
to search it. They nodded their heads and agreed he had to leave his home. When they
asked him what he was going to do about a job, he mentioned that his father was a
carpenter, and he learned from his father how to be one, too. He didn't tell them
that he really hoped to be a pilot. One of the men, Sayeed, had a carpentry shop
and offered him a job there. “Thank you very much. I will work very hard. I could
start tomorrow.”

“Akbar knows where my shop is. I am glad to have you join me. Tomorrow is a good
day to start, so I will see you
at my shop. Try to come at seven.” Sayeed was smiling
at Ali and glad to help. Someone had given him a similar chance when he first came
to Muhshed.

***

The hardest thing for Ali was not seeing his family. He didn't know if they were
even safe. He was afraid of sending a letter because someone in Sharidure might tell
where he was, so he waited and hoped for some news.

Life in Muhshed was not so bad. He gradually learned the differences in the way Farsi
was spoken in Iran. Akbar took him to the holy mosque. He heard about it but never
thought he might see it. It was huge and beautiful. Having electricity twenty-four
hours a day was a new and happy experience, and he liked the music and movies. He
soon could afford to buy a bicycle, so he could get all around Muhshed. Akbar's family
made him feel welcome. Life in Muhshed was pretty good.

After two years in Muhshed, Anisa, Akbar's wife mentioned to Ali that Sayeed had
a pretty daughter. “She is beautiful like the moon and can cook and sew. She is educated
and has a job as a teacher at one of the local schools. Her
mother and I wondered
if you would like to meet her.”

At first, Ali just sat without speaking. He was really happy to have friends help
him meet someone. He wondered how he could ever meet a girl, since his family was
so far away. Usually, the mothers arranged marriages for their children, so he was
not sure how he could ever meet someone. He hoped these families kept the custom
of refusing the first offer, and he hoped she would ask a second time. He had been
taught that you should say “no” to the first request, “yes” to the second request
if you wanted to answer affirmatively, and usually a third request would come only
if they were insistent. To refuse a third request is always rude, but possible. It
might be necessary to say, “No thank you, but I appreciate your asking.”

To Ali's relief, Akbar's wife asked a second time. “She is a very pleasant and kind
young woman. Everyone thinks she is wonderful. Would you like me to talk to her mother
about meeting her?”

Again, Ali thought before speaking. He wondered if the customs here were the same
as in Sharidure. He thought it might be more modern here, and he didn't want to look
stupid and uninformed. Already he noticed that many Iranians thought Afghans were
“country cousins,” admirable but not very sophisticated or modern. He took a chance
and this time said, “Yes, I would be interested in meeting someone. Thank you for
asking.”

So it was that Ali met Nafisa. She was just as Anisa said, and Ali was enchanted.
Nafisa also was enchanted with Ali. They met several times, always with relatives
present. The marriage was arranged, the wedding held, with Akbar standing in for
Ali's family. Ali now had a real family, something he missed dearly. He told her
about Sharidure, about his family, but not yet about why he really left. He planned
to tell her but didn't want her to worry about anything. He was proud about her being
a teacher, and they often talked about ways to teach. She was surprised that he taught
some. He laughed and told her that the real teacher was his sister. She asked about
Shireen and hoped to meet her. She sounded a lot like her.

Chapter Eight

Flying Supplies to Sharidure

It was his father-in-law, Sayeed, who paved the way for Ali to return to Sharidure,
or at least get very close. One of their customers was a pilot in the Iranian Air
Force. In talking about what he was doing in the military, he mentioned that he was
flying relief missions to Afghanistan. Sayeed, knowing that the Iranians were particularly
interested in supporting the Shiites in Afghanistan, asked if any of the missions
were going to Bamiyan. The pilot said, “That's exactly where we mostly fly. We drop
food and other supplies to safe areas near Bamiyan. We don't have very good maps
of the area, so we aren't always sure where to make the drops. Do you know that area,
or do you know of anyone who does?”