Shooting Kabul: Chapters 3–5

Zafoona sat in shock, and then she screamed, “Nooooooo!” The raw sound reverberated through the back of the truck.

The intense rhythm of drums and the discordant clang of cymbals could be heard from his seat, and he wondered if she was going to go deaf.

Zafoona slept, slumped in her seat, while his father reviewed the forms they’d received from the American consulate in Peshawar.

“Come, jaan, eat,” cajoled Habib.

Shamim hurried to get tea for their guests while the group exchanged pleasantries and settled down on the cushioned floor of the living room.

“But the men at the bazaar said Osama was a good friend to Afghanistan,” piped up Mariam.

“There is the smell of war in the air,” said Zafoona ominously. “The Northern Alliance is bringing together warring factions to resist the Taliban. Shamim was telling me the rumors he overheard in the market.”

“There is the smell of war in the air,” said Zafoona ominously. “The Northern Alliance is bringing together warring factions to resist the Taliban. Shamim was telling me the rumors he overheard in the market.”

Many of the groups didn’t get along and were led by corrupt warlords with unsavory reputations.

Fadi could see the disillusionment in his father’s eyes.

“Jaan, my student visa runs out in a few months and we have to leave,” Habib had told her.

“I could try to find a job here—that would extend our stay—but don’t you think it’s our duty to go back? We are educated. We can help the country get back on its feet after so many years of war. I can help the farmers improve their crop yields, so fewer people will be hungry. You can open a school, like you’ve always wanted to.”

Zafoona had smiled and relented.

She knew her husband was an idealist, and in the end she’d agreed to his plan.

The once respected and honored Taliban became what they were fighting against, the oppressive warlords and dictators that had preceded them.

When the Taliban gave Habib the ultimatum to join them, Habib knew the family could no longer stay.

There are a lot of people looking for her, he thought. But, niggled a dark voice in the back of his mind, she shouldn’t have been lost in the first place.

WELCOME TO SAN FRANCISCO, announced the sign at the head of the cavernous international arrival hall.

Noor’s lips tightened into one of her perpetual frowns.

Fadi looked down the long hallway with bleary eyes.

A jovial, smiling man, Uncle Amin had been a doctor at Kabul’s main hospital.

After it had been bombed during one of the many skirmishes between battling warlords, he had decided to leave the country.

He didn’t want her to get breathless and succumb to a fit of coughing.

“But perhaps we are our own worst enemy,” commented Habib quietly. “We are always fighting, either with others or among ourselves. No one has defeated the Afghans, but centuries of war have left our country full of strife—one of the poorest in the world.”

He gazed in trepidation at the white-crested churning water of the San Francisco Bay as they headed across the San Mateo bridge.

A seagull flew low over the waves seemingly motionless, buffeted by the wind.

The water below undulated in shades of blue to green to purple in some spots.

With a burp of smoke billowing from its tailpipe, the Dodge exited the bridge and hopped onto Interstate 880.

Founded in 1931, the university had once been the finest in Asia, the intellectual heart of the country. But after years of war it was in shambles and had to be shut down.

“Salaam Alaikum,” he said reverently.