I was surprised to see my cousin Kader Popal at my door on a cool and breezy October day, the kind of day that used to be for flying kites. He looked much older than I remembered, his hair thinner, his once smooth face now lined with worry. Kader walked like Daoud—always leaning forward as if charging into life.
My cousin was a well-known political and short story writer who had worked for the Ministry of Education before the coup. For generations his family had been one of the most important in Kabul, and at fifty he was one of the most respected people in the city. Kader looked at me with his deep-set black eyes and spoke in a frantic voice, which was not like him.
“Bar, you must leave immediately. National Security and Russian soldiers are now searching house to house. The Russians don’t even respect our women. They break in unannounced. They have searched half of Karta-i-Char. You must come to my house. It’s the only place that will be safe for you now.”
I did not know what to think. I wondered if I could trust him—he could have given in to the Communists, or he could be telling me this because they were holding someone in his family hostage. I hated the Russians for making me doubt him, and I hated myself for doubting him. I thanked him for his concern and explained that I had a special hiding place where National Security guards never searched.
“You must come to my house,” he insisted.
“Tashakor,” I said. “I will have to think about it.”
“There’s no time!”
“I have to think of my family—Afsana and the children.”
“You won’t be much use to them dead.”
“What you say is true, Kader,” I said. “But first I must speak with my father.”
Looking dejected, he said, “I understand . . . God be with you.”
Baba always told me that one should make decisions with the head, not the heart, and that one cannot make a decision with the head if one has no time to think. That night I lay on the floor unable to sleep as National Security guards in the street outside my house shouted, “What is tonight’s password?” If there was no response, there would be the sound of gunfire, and I would flinch as if the bullet had ripped through me.
As soon as the sun appeared, I went up to my father’s bedroom and told him about Kader’s visit. “Things have changed,” I said. “Every house is being searched now—they will search the general’s house. There’s nowhere for me to hide from these crazy people any longer.”
“So you think you should go stay with Kader?” Baba asked.
“We don’t know who’s honest anymore,” I replied. Then the words I had dreaded saying for so long escaped my lips. “The time has come for me to leave.”
Baba didn’t say anything at first. He just lay there.
This unsettled me—Baba was never at a loss for words. When he finally did speak, his voice was weak. “I was afraid it might come to this.” Then he looked at me as if considering his next words. “I’ve spoken with Abbas. He’s agreed to go with you. I will get word to him. You can leave at first light.”
That night Walid and Mariam slept on the couch cuddled next to Afsana. I lay on the floor next to them, listening to their steady breathing. I had to tell Afsana I was leaving—but couldn’t find the tongue to do it. Finally, I whispered, “Afsana?”
“Baleh?”
“It’s not safe for me here anymore. . . . I must leave tomorrow.”
“What do you mean?” she asked. I could hear the panic rising in her voice.
“Kader came to see me. Things have become too dangerous now. Abbas is coming for me in the morning. He’ll make sure I get out safely. I’ll send for you and the children as soon as I can.”
Afsana stared at me in shock, as if she were looking through me to the shattered remains of her life. She tried to speak, but words failed her.
Then I told Babu. Her whole body shuddered. My mother was never able to sit still when she was nervous. Now she began pacing. She walked from one room to the other, pacing back and forth and peeking out the front door until I could take it no longer.
“Sit!” I told her. But she never sat.
As dawn approached, my mother and I climbed the stairs to Baba’s bedroom. His door was closed—as if he wanted to shut out the reality of what was happening.
I went in alone.
Baba raised himself up, looking old and tired. “Ah, the time has come,” he said. He seemed to be searching for something to say. “Be careful” was all he managed.
Suddenly I knew I could not leave my family. “I won’t go without you!” I said. “We’ll all go together!”
He looked at me for a moment before he spoke. “Nay, you know that’s not possible.”
“I can get friends to help us. They can take all your things. We’ll go to Jalalabad. Everything will be all right.”
“Nay, Bari. I’m too old. And they won’t hurt Babu or Afsana or the children. We’ll be safe here. If we try to leave, none of us will survive. Things are very bad, but I still have my house and my writings. It’s no longer safe for you here. You must leave. Let’s pray that in a few months, things will change.”
We both knew they wouldn’t.
“If that’s your wish,” I said.
“Say good-bye to me now,” he said. “I’m afraid you won’t see me again.”
“How can you say that?”
“My father said the same thing to me just before I left for Paris. It was the last I saw of him. History has a way of repeating itself.”
How could I leave everything I had ever known, everyone I had ever loved? It was out of the question, as impossible as tearing out one’s own heart.
Baba hugged me with what little strength he had left.
At the door to his bedroom I turned for one last look, one final snapshot of him to hold in my memory. He just stared straight ahead, shrunken and defeated. Then, suddenly, he roused himself. “One more thing, Bari. The Russians have been here a year. We have been here for over a thousand and have always found a way to prevail. We are survivors. Remember that. Never give up.”
I could barely find the voice to speak. “Don’t worry, Baba. I won’t. I will always think of you.”
My mother stood crying outside the bedroom door. She hugged me close as if she never wanted to let me go. I helped her down the stairs.
A sharp knock at the front door like a gunshot. Afsana leaped up from the couch, looked at the door, then back at me, staring. Babu woke up Walid and Mariam. “Say good-bye to your Baba.”
I kissed Mariam and gave her a last hug, then took Walid into my arms and hugged him close, his tears falling on my face.
Suddenly Abbas was standing next to me. “Let’s go,” he said. “We must hurry.”
I quickly handed Walid to Babu. Afsana stood there as if in a trance. I took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “Don’t worry,” I said, “I will send for you and the children as soon as I can.” But even as I said these words, I knew she would worry every minute of every day and every night. A married woman without a husband in Kabul in the middle of a war with two young children to care for and no end in sight—how could she not?
“See you soon,” I whispered and kissed her cheek for what I feared would be the last time.
“Baleh . . . soon . . . ,” she said, but her words rung as hollow as the feeling in my heart.