I would happily drift off in a trail of numbers. Anything to keep my mind from the rivers of sweat that ran down my back and matted my hair inside the hood of my burqa.
As the heat of the day began to wear off, the mountains turned lilac. The landscape softened, and now and then we passed a shepherd squatting near his flock of goats and sheep as they grazed the sweetest grass around the riverbeds and shadier spots. Donkeys snuffled among the wild poppies, and every few miles the burned and abandoned remains of a Soviet tank or truck littered the side of the road.
When we approached the outskirts of Kabul, tired, still damp with sweat, and irritated by the layer of dust that tickled our noses and made our skin itch, our bus slowed to a crawl in a long line of traffic that stretched out in front of us. Hundreds of cars blocked the road, packed bumper to bumper. We waited, uncertain of what was happening. Without air flowing through the windows it became unbearably hot once again. Many of the children were crying, pleading with their mothers to give them water. A man with an AK47 rifle approached the bus, sticking his bushy black beard and brown paqul hat (a wool round shaped hat, usually grey or light brown in color) through the door. His shalwar kameez was sweat-stained and dirty. The passengers strained their ears to hear the conversation. The delay, the gunman told the driver, was because a mujahideen commander, Abul Sabur Farid Kohistani, was being appointed prime minister of the new government, and the roads in the capital had been closed as a security precaution to let his convoy through. I took it as a bad sign. Not even the Russians had needed to bring an entire city to a halt to move dignitaries around. Kabul was in the hands of the mujahideen; they were veteran fighters, not politicians or civil servants. How could they run the country efficiently?
When the roads were eventually opened again we made our way through the city. There were signs of recent fightingâdestroyed buildings and burnedout vehicles, and mujahideen stood at checkpoints, guns at the ready. We went to my brother Mirshakayâs apartment in an area called Makrorian, a series of Russian-built apartment blocks. He lived on the fifth floor, and the apartment was very busy. Heâd had been given a very senior job at the Ministry of the Interior, where he was helping run the police force. He was a very important man, and when we entered the apartment the living room was full of guests, men mostly, waiting to speak to him. Some were there on official businessâ police policy and organization. Others were there to plead the case of friends or relatives who were in jail; while others, many from Badakhshan, were making a social visit. It was a chaotic scene. He came to meet us on the third floor and I burst into in tears. The city was so different from the last time I was here, and I was afraid of what it meant for my family and my country. But I was most concerned that my brother Muqim wasnât there to greet us, too. It played to my worst fears. I knew in my heart he was dead, but his absence confirmed it to me. Still, nobody seemed prepared to acknowledge the fact.
When I asked where he was, I was told he had gone to Pakistan and planned to go to Europe. When? I asked. About 40 days ago, I was told. But I knew I was being lied to. Then I saw his photograph on a shelf in the living room. The frame had been decorated with silk flowers. It was an ominous sign, and the first outward confirmation of my worst fears.
âWhy did you decorate the photo frame with flowers?â I asked my sisterin-law. She squirmed uncomfortably. âBecause, you know, since Muqim went to Pakistan I just miss him so much,â she replied. My heart sank and I knew she was lying. In Afghanistan we decorate a photograph with flowers as a sign of mourning, as a tribute. My family was trying to protect me. But I didnât need protectingâI needed the