Translated from the Pashto by Zarghuna Kargar
She opened the wardrobe, took out her skirt and suit jacket, and shut the doors. After getting dressed, she looked at herself in the three-piece mirror, brushed her hair, and looked again. She admired her reflection. Her long hair touched her shoulders and shone in the afternoon sun that came in through the window.
There was a pen on the dressing table that she put in her handbag. She looked at her watch. It was five in the afternoon. Hearing the car horn, she opened the window and looked down from her second-floor apartment. The gray car was waiting near the stairs of the building. The driver looked up and, seeing her, stopped pressing the horn. Sanga slung her handbag over her shoulder quickly and left the room. In the corridor, she called out, “Mother, I am going now. Bye! The car’s here.”
Her mother rushed into the corridor. Sleeves rolled up, she had a knife in her hand and tears in her eyes from the onion she had been cutting.
Sanga turned back. “Please look after Ghamai. I don’t want him to hear me leave—he’s riding his bike on the balcony.”
She quickly went down the stairs. Her mother watched, praying for her daughter’s safety until Sanga got in the car and shut the door.
Sanga reached the National Radio and TV headquarters, where she worked in the evenings. By day, she was a student at Kabul University.
She went straight to the makeup room on the left side of the building, at the end of the corridor on the first floor. The makeup lady, Maryam, was in the room. She was tall, with curly hair she had dyed brown. Her glasses were pushed to the top of her head and their string hung in a loop at the back of her neck. She was standing at the middle mirror, busy removing curlers from another newsreader’s hair.
Sanga stood in front of the basin and washed her face with warm water, then, looking into the mirror, dried it with a paper napkin. Maryam asked the woman whose hair she was styling, “Should I do your makeup or do you want to do it yourself?”
“You will be busy with Sanga’s hair now. There isn’t much time—I will do my own makeup,” the seven o’clock newsreader said.
Sanga sat down beside the seven o’clock newsreader and Maryam stood over her. She touched Sanga’s soft hair and examined her outfit. “It is good you are wearing modest clothes.”
Sanga didn’t like this comment. She wanted to say that she always wore modest and suitable clothes, but at that moment there was a deafening rocket explosion and they all jumped. The seven o’clock newsreader whispered: “That sounded like it landed very close.”
“God save us, I hope it is not the first of many attacks,” Maryam said.
Sanga looked at Maryam. “If you do my makeup and hair quickly you will be able to go home soon. I will be here until late.”
It was 1985. The opposition was busy fighting the Afghan army, firing rockets and targeting government buildings and institutions. People used to call them blind rockets because only one in a hundred would hit its target.
Sanga’s heart was beating hard and fast. She hadn’t kissed her two-year-old son goodbye, because when she did, Ghamai would cry and insist on going with her. She couldn’t take him to work, so she usually left the house without letting him know.
Maryam spoke angrily now. “What kind of country is this? They can’t let us live peacefully—how can we live and work in such a situation?”
It was twenty past six in the evening now. The telephone rang; it had a cord, as they all did in offices at that time. Maryam picked up and listened, nodding. She said to the seven o’clock newsreader, “They want you in the newsroom now. Hurry.”
Then, too, radio and television were important institutions. This newsroom produced pieces about the leader, his cabinet ministers and their work, as well as reporting the victories of the army, which was fighting the opposition. At the end of the broadcast, there was some international news too. At that time, there was only one TV channel in the country that broadcast live news in Kabul city.
The newsreader quickly took her pen out of her handbag, looked at herself in the mirror again, put on another layer of red lipliner, and left in a hurry. As she closed the door, another rocket struck. Maryam was panicking. “This is definitely a continuous attack; more rockets will land.”
Sanga was worried that Maryam might leave without finishing her makeup. The female newsreaders would always have their hair and makeup done before they appeared on TV. Maryam took the metal comb, divided Sanga’s hair into sections, and curled each one. Then Sanga sat calmly underneath the hair-drying hood, which felt as if a warm breeze was blowing through her hair.
Soon enough, the seven o’clock newsreader opened the door of the makeup room and came in to get her handbag. She had finished her work and a car was waiting to take her home. Maryam said quickly, “I want to go with you. We live in the same direction.”
Sanga was alone in the room. Looking out of the window, she saw that it was now dark. She didn’t like being alone, so she made her way to the newsroom. At the top was the editor’s desk. He usually stayed beyond his eight-hour shift. This was an important office and everyone from the editor to the reporters, producers, and support staff, even, were paid for overtime.
As Sanga entered the newsroom, she greeted her colleagues and went straight over to the long desk in the middle of the room. One of her colleagues told her that not all her notes were ready yet, but she could have the ones that were. Sanga was busy marking the script and reading it aloud when there was another whistling sound, followed by a huge explosion. This time the rocket had hit the technology building, newly built, just behind the National Radio and TV headquarters. The explosion was so powerful that it shattered the windows of the newsroom. A sharp breeze blew in; it was still autumn but the weather was cold. Someone opened the door and said, “All of you go to the lower floor now! It’s possible that more rockets will strike.”
Everyone began panicking and left their seats. Most of the staff took their pens and papers with them as they hurried out, but Sanga left her notes behind on the table. Someone came close and whispered in her ear: “Don’t be scared, everything will be fine.”
Sanga said, “I have seen many rockets, they land every day. I am not scared of rockets, I am scared of God.”
No sooner had she finished her sentence than another rocket landed, striking the front of the nearby administrative building. If you looked down from the newsroom window you could see the building’s rooftop. As Sanga reached the door of the newsroom, a piece of shrapnel hit the chair she had been sitting on only a few seconds earlier.
Everyone had left by now. Sanga went quickly to the corridor, took a deep breath, and ran down the stairs, nearly falling. It was now five to eight and she had to go to the live studio.
Before she entered the studio, she took off her shoes and put on the special sandals that were kept in a metal cupboard. The people in charge of the studios didn’t want anyone bringing in dust that could harm the equipment. Sanga had left her notes behind in the newsroom and was empty-handed. She went inside the studio, feeling the warmth of the lights as she sat down. The editor carried over the script and gave it to Sanga. It was time for the eight o’clock news. As Sanga picked up the script, she saw her face on the monitor in front of her and heard the signature tune of the news going live. She read the news bulletin, finishing on time. The studios were soundproof; no sound from explosions could enter from outside.
Sanga waited in front of the Radio and TV building in her makeup and styled hair. Other staff were also leaving the building in groups, big and small cars waiting to take them home. Everyone looked worried. Many workers were lowering their heads as they walked towards the cars, as if walking that way would save them from the rockets.
One of the drivers told Sanga to get in the car quickly. As soon as she was in, the driver sped towards the Third Macroyan, the residential blocks built by the Russians in the 1950s and ’60s. Before the car had reached the first roundabout, a rocket landed in front of them. Sanga’s heart started beating fast. She could hear the screams of men, women, and children. There was panic and chaos all around. She promised herself that, if she reached home safely, this time she would quit the presenting job.
She had decided to quit a few times before, but each time that she had thought it over, she had concluded that a life without work would be hard. That thought seemed as bad as death to her.
As they approached the second roundabout, another rocket landed near them. It went past the car and landed on the edge of the roundabout. The driver and Sanga both ducked. Scared and panicking, the driver nearly lost control of the car. He stopped briefly, then set off again.
Now the car had entered her part of the Macroyan area. Along the way, they heard wounded people screaming and calling for help, but no one ran to help them.
At nine o’clock Sanga finally reached her home. She went quickly up to her apartment and knocked forcefully on the door, but it wasn’t locked—her mother had been standing behind the door for some time, waiting for her return. As she opened the door for Sanga, her eyes welled with tears, which she tried to hold back.
Sanga went into her room, followed by her mother, and stood close to Ghamai’s bed; he was fast asleep. She kissed him gently, touched his hair, then sat on her bed, taking a deep breath. Her mother now had a smile on her face. Sanga asked her, “Moor, was Ghamai scared by the rockets?”
“No, he was sleeping,” her mother said. “He didn’t even stir.”
“I was worried that a rocket might have landed near our block.”
As her mother listened carefully, Sanga told her that wherever she had gone today the rockets had followed her. “I had just got up off a chair and hadn’t even reached the newsroom door when a rocket landed and its shrapnel hit that same chair. It was a matter of seconds. I got up and, when I looked back, the chair had been destroyed.”
Her mother cried with fear, her voice echoing through the room. She went up to her daughter, hugged her, then kissed her. Sanga felt calm in her arms. Her mother wiped her tears with the edge of her scarf. She went out of the room and seconds later brought back a glass of lemon juice. As Sanga drank the juice, she felt her energy return. Her mother left the room, telling her to rest.
It was eleven o’clock; the dogs could be heard barking far away, the roads were busy with ambulances. The rockets couldn’t be heard anymore. Sanga knew that the opposition had run out of rockets. They must be tired like her, she thought. She thought that they would be sleeping now and getting ready to launch fresh attacks the following day. But no one knew where the next attack would be and when it would happen.
Sanga held her head tightly between her hands. Her mind was full of news, loud explosions, and ambulance sirens. She pulled the duvet over Ghamai so he wouldn’t get cold.
She opened the wardrobe next to her bed and looked at her clothes before taking a few pieces out and hanging them on the door. She closed the curtains so the room couldn’t be seen from outside, and turned on the TV. A song by Mahwash was playing. Before it ended, the power went out.
Sanga got up and drew back the curtains. Moonlight brightened the room. She switched off the TV in case the power came back on later, then lay down on her bed, but she couldn’t sleep. Ghamai’s beautiful face was shining in the moonlight; he looked like an angel child when he was asleep.
I saw Sanga the next day. She got out of the gray car in front of the National Radio and TV headquarters. She was wearing a khaki jacket with a black skirt, and carried a few books and her handbag. She adjusted her handbag on her shoulder, took off her sunglasses, and placed them on her head. Before entering the building, she looked around at the damage from the day before. She observed the scene carefully and calmly, then went inside.