Authors: Howard Faber
A Far Away Home (13 page)
There was one more trip needed to bring up the propeller and parts for the wing-tip.
Ali and Reza sweated to remove the damaged propeller, and it was even harder to lift
up and bolt on the new one. The wing-tip was worse than Reza thought, but they did
manage to get on the new parts and make the surface smooth enough for Reza to think
it would stay together. As they returned down to the town, with Shireen and Reza
riding, they talked about when the best time would be for Reza to fly out. It was
decided he would
leave in the morning.
Shireen went to see if anyone knew any more about the Taliban coming.
She was back in ten minutes, running, out of breath. “The Taliban are coming.” Her
eyes were wide with fright. “One of my friends just came on the bus from Bamiyan.
They passed Taliban in pickups at Bondi-Amir. The Taliban stopped to eat there. The
bus driver didn't stop at all for fear the Taliban would search the bus or just harass
them. They must be coming here, because there's no other town on the road. Ali, you
have to leave and fly the plane out, now!”
Ali jumped to his feet and ran outside, then came back in to say goodbye to his sister.
Both were crying. It might be the last time they saw each other. Then he ran up the
path to the airfield. When he got there, he yelled to Reza that they had to leave
now, because the Taliban were coming.
Reza didn't say anything; he just climbed up into the
plane. He shouted to Ali to
remove the chocks that anchored the plane where it sat. Ali did that and was just
about to climb up when he thought about something that would be just as deadly to
the people of Sharidure as the plane itself, the tracks. The plane would leave tracks
as it sped down the runway. Reza waved to him to get aboard, but Ali just waved back
and pointed to the town. He would have to stay behind. Reza shrugged and turned the
plane uphill, according to their plan to gain as much speed as possible. Ali ran
over to the small building at the top of the runway, hoping there might be a broom
inside.
Reza turned the plane around at the top of the runway, trying to maintain as much
speed as possible. The engines and propellers roared, pulling the plane down the
runway. The plane surged forward. Ali just hoped it would be going fast enough at
the end of the runway. Maybe, the light load (no supplies and only one person) would
help it get airborne. Meanwhile, he did find a broom, one of the local jaru, handmade,
just right for a fast sweep. He started sweeping out the tracks of the plane at the
top of the runway.
He stopped to watch when the plane got to the end of
the runway, to the edge of the
cliff overlooking the river valley. His heart stopped as it disappeared off the edge,
dropping down below the edge of the cliff. He ran to see it smashed into the valley,
a terrible sight, one that would not only doom Reza but also the people of Sharidure.
The Taliban would know a plane from Iran had been here, and would search and threaten
until he and his sister were found. Then he stopped, because just as it had disappeared,
it rose into view, first level with the runway, then gradually rising higher, turning
west toward Iran, out of sight of the Taliban. He stopped a moment to thank God.
He also spoke a brief prayer for his sister's safety. The Taliban might have already
arrived in town, possibly hearing and seeing the plane.
He ran back to where he left off sweeping away the tracks of the plane. He kept hoping
that the Taliban had not come in time, hoping he would have time to sweep away the
tracks. He also kept looking over his shoulder toward the path down to the town.
His arms were getting tired, but the thought of the black-turbaned Taliban finding
him drove him on. At last, he approached the cliff where the last of the tracks disappeared
at the edge. That's when he heard the sound of
engines approaching the airfield from
the town. Where could he go? Where could he hide?
Then he remembered the times he and his friends used to climb the cliff, daring each
other to go higher. He crawled over the edge, broom still in hand. He couldn't leave
it behind. He was maybe ten feet down when he heard the engines on the runway. They
got closer, maybe halfway down the runway. Then the engines slowed, soon stopping.
He heard voices, Pushtu voices. The Taliban. Ali had studied Pushtu in school. All
Afghan schoolchildren first study only in their native language, Pushtu or Dari,
depending on where they lived. In fourth grade, they begin studying the other language,
in his case Pushtu. The voices were talking about where the plane was. It was soon
evident they had not seen or heard a plane and were doubting whether it ever existed.
They seemed to be mocking one of the group, whose voice spoke Pushtu with an accent
like that of someone who didn't speak it fluently. After more questions, some cursing,
and more muttering, the engines started up again, and the vehicles (it sounded like
two) left. Ali waited a while, then peered cautiously over the edge onto the airfield.
There was no one in sight. He
decided to wait until it was dark to go anywhere. He
stayed on the face of the cliff, eventually finding a small depression where he could
hide from anyone above or below.
***
For a while, Ali felt sorry for himself. He wasn't going to see his family, and he
was in great danger. He was hungry and thirsty, but he had no other place to go.
On the other hand, his sister was nearby. She thought he had left to Iran, but he
knew she would be overjoyed to see him. He could help her and protect her from the
Taliban.
The imminent danger from the plane was no more, although the cloud of the Taliban
still hung over Sharidure. While the Taliban were still around, he would be in danger.
Maybe they would go away soon.
As it got darker, he climbed down to the river valley. He bent down to get a drink.
Now, he was just hungry. Then he remembered his slingshot. He couldn't remember having
to use it to hunt for food, having only hunted for fun.
The sight of two rabbits focused him on relieving his hunger. He stalked them and
found his aim was as good as ever. He carried the rabbit back to the river to wash
it. How
could he cook it? Maybe the little building up on the airfield still had
the matches and charcoal he and his friends used when they stayed there overnight.
He was really hungry, so he walked around to the west side of the cliff, where it
wasn't as steep and climbed back up to the runway. He peered cautiously into the
darkness to see if possibly someone was watching the airfield. He couldn't see anyone,
so he crawled up over the edge and walked as quietly as he could around the edge
of the runway to the small building. He knew there was no light in it, but that was
better anyway. He opened the door and found everything just as he remembered. In
one corner was the box where they kept the matches and charcoal. To his great delight,
matches and charcoal were still in the box. About an hour later, he was feasting
on roast rabbit.
As for a place to go, he decided he would stay away from the town, but he could probably
stay here. No one seemed to have been here for a long time. “That was enough for
one day,” he thought to himself. He would see what else to do in the morning. The
walls protected him from the cool evening breeze, and he slept until morning.
***
He meant to wake up before sunrise, but when he got up and stretched, the light was
seeping through the cracks around the door of the little building, his new home.
He would have to wait another day, until dark, to go back to talk to Shireen. The
Taliban might still be in Sharidure. When he opened the door and started out to return
to the river for a drink, he saw someone coming up the path from town. He jumped
back behind the building, hoping that someone did not see him. He waited, then lay
down on the ground to take a peek around a corner of the building. It was a woman,
not so surprising since there weren't any grown men in Sharidure. At first, he couldn't
see who it was because her back was toward him. Then, she turned to go back down
to town. It was Shireen! He wanted to call out, but someone else might be close by.
He stepped slowly out from behind the building and softly called, “Shireen, it's
me, Ali,” then quickly added, “Don't say anything. Just walk over here.” Shireen
turned and gasped, then walked over to Ali.
“Ali, why are you here? Why didn't you leave?”
“I had to sweep out the tracks of the plane so the Taliban wouldn't know a plane
was here. They did come; I heard
them, but they didn't see me. They had someone with
them, a Dari speaker, who must have told them the plane was here. I couldn't see
or tell who it was. They went back down to the town.” The words were tumbling out.
“I stayed up here last night. I was afraid to come into town. Are the Taliban still
here?”
“No, they left. But they said if a plane ever came, or if anyone came to help us,
they would find out and come again. They said no one should have resisted them, reminding
us of that awful day when they shot all the men.”
Ali shuddered to think what might have happened if the Taliban had found the plane.
“Shireen, it's not going to happen. Their time will come to leave. I don't think
they want to live up here. They will lose interest and leave.”
Shireen looked at him, and her tears dried up. She wiped her eyes, straightened up,
even smiled, and added her own hope. “They can't hurt us any more than they have.
All of my friends are determined to restore our town. We have a school for the children,
we are growing wheat, and now we have started gardens. She looked down, not sure
if she should tell Ali what else she wanted to say. “My brother, my greatest
sorrow
is that my husband was also killed by the Taliban. I watched him stand, tall and
proud, facing the Taliban. He was the son of Askgar, the leader of our local Mujahudeen.
His name was Ahmad Nabi.”
“I knew him. He was part of the group that wrecked the Russian UAZs. He was a good
person. I'm so sorry, Shireen.”
“It's in the past. That time has gone. Now, we have to make a plan to get you back
to Iran. The best way is by truck because the Taliban aren't so worried about people
in trucks. They do search the buses. Ali, you have to leave today. There might be
other informants around.”
“But what about you? How will you survive?” Ali started to ask if she needed a man
to help her, but he only thought it, then thought better of it. Maybe she could be
all right by herself. He thought back about when they were growing up, and smiled
at remembering when she fought some other kids when they made fun of his bent leg.
“What are you smiling about?”
“I was just thinking about how you fought those kids who were teasing me about my
leg.”
Shireen smiled, then laughed. “Those stupid girls. Some
of them are still here, and
they're still stupid.” They both laughed. It felt good to laugh.
“The trucks come in from Bamiyan in the afternoon and leave as soon as they can.
They go from here over the Shahtoo pass to Pahnjwak. I'm sure they would give you
a ride. There won't be any Taliban along the way until you get close to Herat. Make
friends with the driver, and he'll hide and protect you. Maybe you can get all the
way to the border. If a truck comes in, I'll come to get you, but for now, wait up
here, and I'll bring you some tea and nawn.” Shireen left to go get Ali something
to eat. What she said made complete sense. Ali wasn't worried any more about his
sister. He would make her safer by leaving, just as they discussed when they thought
he would be leaving on the plane.
She came back soon with some hot tea, nawn, and even an egg. They talked about meeting
again, though both wondered if that would ever come true. Ali told her more about
his own new family and how they would love her and be a family for her. They talked
about when they were young and the world was good and life was easy. “God willing,
it will be good and easy again, Shireen Jahn.” Ali was trying to give
hope to his
sister. She slowly walked back down to town to wait for a truck.
That afternoon Shireen came back to get Ali. A truck was leaving soon for Pahnjwak.
Brother and sister talked about what might lie ahead in their lives, as they walked
down to Sharidure. Shireen gave Ali some nawn and apples for his trip. He climbed
up into the back of the truck and waved, as the truck rumbled out of town. His last
sight of his sister was her waving goodbye, as the truck rounded a curve in the road.
In Pahnjwak, there were no Taliban, just two more passengers. They were going to
Jungal. When they arrived, late at night, the driver told Ali he might be able to
stay in the weather station. It turned out to be empty, so no one objected to his
staying. There were several rooms to choose from. The driver promised not to leave
without him, but Ali
got up as soon as it was light. He was grateful for the nawn
and an apple Shireen gave him.
He found the truck parked outside a teahouse. The driver was just up and invited
Ali to some hot tea. So far, his journey was as good as he could have hoped. That
day, as the small towns went by, he and the driver talked about everything from the
Taliban to the price of nawn to their schools. The driver was from Bamiyan. He told
Ali about how the Taliban ruined the giant Buddhas and how it had saddened all of
the people from Bamiyan. “No one can understand it. There was no reason. They were
part of our ancestors, part of our hearts. It made everyone hate the Taliban even
more. A fight is a fight, a war is a war, but the Buddhas were not part of this war.”