Nine days passed before I saw Hamida and Sufia. They had kept away, afraid that somehow they might lead someone to me. Hamida became tearful when she saw me. Sufia let out a triumphant yelp, with an energy I’d never seen her display in the parliamentary sessions.
Ms. Franklin and I had gone directly from the teahouse to a women’s shelter she had located. It wasn’t the shelter that we’d heard about. It was another one, one much further from the parliament building and on the western outskirts of the capital.
The shelter was both sad and uplifting. There were stories there, stories that made me cringe, scars that would never heal.
I met a woman who lived there with her three children. When her in-laws learned of her husband’s death, they accused her of killing him. About to be jailed, she decided to run rather than risk losing her two daughters and one son.
Another woman had escaped a heavy-handed husband, a husband who was having an affair with her younger sister. One night, while he snored beside her, she crept out softly and walked two days and two nights to reach a police station.
And there was a girl. She was my age and her story made me realize that I wasn’t alone. At twelve years old, she’d been married off to a man five times her age. Her family had put her in a white dress and taken her to a party. At the end of the night, they left without her. Four years later, she had run off, escaping the in-laws who treated her as a slave.
I wasn’t ready to share my story with them yet. Even here, in this open room with Afghan carpets and the smell of cumin, I felt my husband’s reach. If he knew where to look, it would only take him a day to reach me. The thought made me so nervous I could barely eat.
Hamida and Sufia only came once. I missed them but I could expect nothing more, knowing the route was long and that they had obligations to their own families. Visiting a shelter could attract the wrong attention and endanger everyone involved. I would always think of them warmly and with deep gratitude, remembering how they and Ms. Franklin had formulated a plan to help me escape the naseeb that awaited me had I returned to my husband. My plan, though, didn’t account for what might happen to Badriya. Hamida and Sufia had seen her once the day after my disappearance. She looked furious and suspicious, they said, but she seemed to believe their surprise to hear I was missing. I was sure Abdul Khaliq would never let her return to Kabul and I hated to think what Abdul Khaliq had done to her when she’d returned to the compound. Though she hadn’t been kind to me, I wished his wrath on no one.
I had time in the shelter, time to finally sit down and contemplate all that had happened. I felt embarrassed, remembering the day I’d argued with Khala Shaima, snapped at her that all the education she’d pushed me to get hadn’t done me one bit of good.
It wasn’t true.
It was only because I was literate that I was able to join Badriya in Kabul. It was only because I could hold a pen with purpose that I was able to be her assistant and feel comfortable joining Hamida and Sufia in the resource center. It was my few years of school that allowed me to read the beauty shop flyer in the store window, to locate the street where Ms. Franklin waited nervously to help me make my escape.
I’m sorry, Khala-jan. I’m sorry I never thanked you for fighting for me, for everything you taught me, for the stories you told me, for the escape you gave me.
My only regret was that I hadn’t been able to send word to Khala Shaima, to let her know that I had made it out and that I was safe. I hoped she didn’t think Abdul Khaliq had killed me. I prayed she would not try to visit me at Abdul Khaliq’s compound, knowing she would be met by my very angry husband. But I wanted to send her a message, somehow—I had to try. I would take pen to paper and write my dear aunt a note, a few words, so that she could share in what I’d managed to do, what she’d given me the strength to do.
I finally was able to convince Ms. Franklin to mail her a letter.
The letter, addressed to Khala Shaima, was from her second cousin and it talked of nothing but the smell of fresh air, the delightful sound of birds chirping, and the hope that the family could pay a visit sometime soon.
I had no way of knowing if it had arrived, so I could only hope that the letter found Khala Shaima. It wasn’t until many years later, a lifetime really, that I heard it had been discovered in her hand by her older sister, my khala Zeba. Khala Zeba couldn’t make sense of it anyway, since she’d never gone to school or learned her letters. She was too distraught at finding her sickly sister cold and breathless to give it much thought then anyway. But two weeks later, when the rhythm of her life returned and the birds had prayed all they could over Khala Shaima’s grave, she would ask her husband to read it for her and be puzzled, wondering which cousin would write to her crippled sister of things as mundane as birds and the weather.
The letter was signed Bibi Shekiba.