The Dressmaker of Khair Khana (10 page)

She didn't know how she was going to find a place for all of them, but she was determined to. With the city's economy shrinking and almost no other chances for women to earn money, how could she turn them away?

In the morning she would return to Lycee Myriam with Rahim. She would talk with Ali and Mahmood and ask them to introduce her to a third brother of theirs who had just arrived in Kabul and opened another tailoring shop nearby. She hoped that he too would become a regular customer.

As she approached Malika's room to wish her a good night, an idea occurred to Kamila. We are seamstresses, yes, but we are also teachers. Isn't there a way we could use both talents to help even more women? And then those women could help us grow our tailoring business so that there would be more work for everyone.

We should start a school, she thought to herself as she stood in the hallway, or at least a more formal apprenticeship for young women, who would learn to sew and embroider with us. We'll teach them valuable skills that they can use here or with other women, and while we're teaching them, we'll be building an in-house team that can help us fill large orders quickly--as many as we can secure.

She stopped in front of Malika's door, lost in her dream. Most of all, she thought, we won't have to turn anyone away. Even the young ones who have no experience and aren't qualified to work yet can join our training program and work for a salary helping us with our orders as soon as they are able. If we have our own school, then no one who comes to our gate will leave without a job.

She had discovered her plan.

Too impatient to knock, Kamila strode into Malika's room nearly bursting with excitement. For the moment she would simply ignore all the obstacles that could prevent her project from becoming reality. She wanted her sister's support and couldn't wait to tell her about the idea. There was no one whose talents and temperament were better suited to such a teaching venture and no one of whose trust she could be more certain. She folded herself up on a pillow next to Malika, who was sorting the day's wash for her husband and four children. With the hurricane lamplight filling the space between them, Kamila eagerly began.

“Malika,” she said, looking directly at her sister, “I need your help. . . .”

Class Is in Session

“Rahim, let's go!” Kamila called to her brother. She looked at the living room clock and saw that it was nearly 9 A.M. They needed to get out the door now. They had deliveries to make at Lycee Myriam, and besides that, Kamila was eager to talk with her brother alone.

The boy put down his half-eaten piece of naan and tea, grabbed his jacket from the hook near the door, and caught up with his sister. She was already in the courtyard.

Kamila had been up most of the evening after her talk with Malika thinking about her plans for the school: the classes they would offer and the pool of talented seamstresses they would create. Once she and the girls had the program running smoothly they would be able to take on new customers. They needed more orders, that was clear; there had to be enough work for all the girls they were training as well as the others who were sewing in their own homes for the Sidiqi sisters.

Kamila wanted to use this morning's outing to hear Rahim's thoughts about the tailoring school. She had faith in his judgment and trusted him to serve as her sounding board; often the two would hatch plans for the sewing business during their long walks to the bazaar, which he now knew nearly as well as Kamila did. He had met all the shopkeepers with his sister “Roya” and earned their trust with his unassuming manner and his unfailing reliability. If Kamila was busy at home finishing up an order or managing the next round of garment making, Rahim would make deliveries in her place, passing along messages from her customers and picking up the next batch of sewing materials on his way home.

Negotiating, however, he left strictly to his sister. The siblings had just taken a battered station wagon taxi all the way downtown to Mandawi Bazaar, the historic market in the old city, where Ali had suggested they could find sewing supplies for much less. Kamila had marched confidently through the bazaar's narrow stalls searching for fabric she liked and haggling with shopkeepers about their prices, which Rahim knew were well below what they usually paid at Lycee Myriam. “Rahim, I think shopping here could lower our costs by ten or maybe even fifteen percent!” she exclaimed, clearly invigorated by their new discovery. “Roya Jan,” he said, waiting for the weary fabric salesmen to realize his sister would never budge from the two lak afghani (four dollars) she had already offered for the bolts of material lined up against the mud walls, “I think if you have your way that number will soon be twenty!”

Working alongside the girls, Rahim had come to know the rhythms of their workweek and the cycles of their incoming orders: which dresses needed to be where and when, and whether filling a shopkeeper's rush order entailed just a few extra hours of work or required an all-night sewing session. A few weeks earlier he had even asked Saaman to teach him the basics of beading and embroidery, enough to assist his sisters in making the batches of dresses and pantsuits they were now under contract to produce each week. He would sit with them in the now overcrowded living room during the evenings, the only male in a group of intensely focused women, ready to learn whatever skills he needed to so he could help contribute to the business.

“Rahim, I have a new idea I want to discuss with you,” Kamila said.

“A new idea?” he replied. “Why does this not surprise me, Kamila Jan?”

“No, I am very serious,” she said, allowing just a little laugh at her own expense. “I want us to start a school. To teach tailoring. This way we can support all the new orders, grow the business, and also support a lot more women in the neighborhood.”

She quickened her step. “I've thought the whole thing through and I think this is how we should organize it: We'll have two shifts of girls each day, one in the morning and one in the afternoon, with a break for prayer and lunch in between. Saaman and Laila will teach the students sewing, beading, and embroidery; I will help at first, of course, but I really want the two of them to lead the classes--then I'll be able to focus more on finding new customers for us. Sara Jan will supervise. I spoke with Malika about it last night--she's the only one I've discussed it with other than you--and she thinks it's a very good idea.”

She waited just a moment.

“So what do you think?”

Kamila couldn't read Rahim's reaction. When they were out in public he always wore an inscrutable expression that he had begun cultivating the very first day they walked to Lycee Myriam: that of a much older man watching over and protecting the women in his family while they faced the dangers that came with being out in public.

But he was nodding his head in agreement.

“Yes, I think it's a very good idea. For me, it won't make much of a difference, since I'll be at school--at least most of the day. But we are stretched so thin right now. You and the others are working almost all the time--at least eleven or twelve hours a day, and then sometimes the all-nighters for everyone when we get hit with a big order. It's a great problem to have, but I've been worried about how we'll keep up with it over time. You're right, we definitely need more help.”

They walked on a bit in silence. Kamila knew he had more to say.

“There's one thing about this, though, that makes me worry,” Rahim continued. “How are you going to have all these girls coming and going to our house all day without anyone noticing? The Amr bil-Maroof are everywhere and you know they're always on the lookout for people who are bending the rules. Especially women.”

Kamila was expecting this; it had been Malika's concern as well.

“Well, I've thought about this, too,” she replied. “First of all, a lot of women are working at home now, like Dr. Maryam. The Taliban know she is just treating sick ladies and trying to help the community, so they don't ever come to her clinic. We'll operate the same way: we'll make sure everyone in our section of Khair Khana knows we are only women sewing--we won't tell them about your embroidery at night!--and that we don't ever, ever allow men or strangers to come to the house. We'll send all the girls who come from the neighborhood home well before dark, so no one coming from our house will ever be seen wandering the streets after hours. Or at the time of prayer. And we'll work as discreetly as possible: we'll be quiet, of course, and we'll keep the gate closed at all times. Plus all the girls will be required to wear the full chadri whenever they come to our house. If we're strict about following these rules, and only work with honorable girls from around here, I think we'll be okay.”

“That's true,” Rahim agreed. "A lot of my friends from school have mothers and sisters who are working at home. Most of them are teaching the Holy Q'uran and math and Dari lessons. They're not really running businesses, as we are. The tailoring school might actually be easier to manage, since you're just teaching women traditional kinds of handiwork they can do in their own houses.

“So,” he continued, “when will you begin?”

“Next week,” Kamila said.

“Of course!” Rahim said, unable to suppress a quiet chuckle. “You're Kamila: why wait when you can start right away?”

Kamila grinned back at him from behind her chadri.

“You mean Roya Jan.”

“Yes, of course! Let me know how I can help you get things started. And be sure to keep leaving me piles of work I can do when I come back from school. I'm actually getting pretty good at it, you know. A bunch of the boys in my class are learning embroidery and sewing, too, but I don't think any of them has as good a teacher as Saaman.”

Instinctively, as they approached Lycee Myriam, they both fell silent.

After they entered Ali's store, Kamila unloaded her bag and waited quietly as the teenager opened the square bundle and counted the garments inside. Kamila was relieved to see he looked pleased.

Ali placed a handful of the dresses and pantsuits on the wooden shelf behind him, and after glancing at the door he turned back to the siblings.

“I have some news about my older brother Hamid,” Ali said, and he began another family story, one Mahmood had hinted at during their delivery trip to his shop the week before. “For years he sold women's perfumes and cosmetics and things in Jabul Saraj, but when the fighting got close, everyone stopped shopping. So he started driving a taxi to help his family. One day he picked up a man who worked with Massoud's forces, and he warned my brother that another Taliban offensive was about to begin. Hamid rushed home to get his wife and his children--he had already tried to send them here with other families to escape the fighting, but their driver had gotten lost during the trip and his wife was too scared to travel without him again. Anyway, at last they've all made it safely here to Kabul.”

Ali glanced out the window and continued. “Mahmood and I helped Hamid to open a tailoring shop close by; we figured that would be easiest for everyone, since we have a lot of customers, including Talibs who come to buy dresses for their families. And we know reliable seamstresses like you and your sisters, so stocking his store won't be a problem.”

He handed Kamila an envelope with payment for the clothes. “Hamid is just back from Pakistan; he went to buy dresses to sell at his store. But I'd like to introduce you to him; he probably will still want to order a few things from you.”

Kamila nodded in gratitude, and in moments the three of them were making their way down the block to a cramped storefront with one rectangular window and an entryway three steps above the street. Inside a man was standing on a stack of boxes putting the final touches on a display of dresses that was hanging from the ceiling. He was taller than Ali and clearly several years older. Heart-shaped red plastic containers and portable grooming kits with small metal scissors filled the display case beneath the glass counter. A stack of black flat shoes with dainty bows sat on their pink boxes against the wall.

Exchanging greetings, the brothers briefly embraced in a loose shoulder hug. Then Ali turned to Kamila and Rahim and announced the reason for their unexpected visit. “Hamid, this is Roya and Roya's brother, Rahim. Their parents are from Parwan and they started a tailoring business with their sisters here in Khair Khana to help support their family. Roya and her sisters are among our best seamstresses; they've made a lot of pantsuits and dresses, and some very nice wedding gowns for my store and Mahmood's. If you have work for her, I know you will find her an honorable and trustworthy person.”

Hamid was indeed ready to place an order; his trip to Pakistan had been productive, he told them, but difficult with all the checkpoints. “I don't think I'll be going back there anytime soon.” He ordered eight dresses like the beautiful beaded ones he had seen hanging in his brother's shop.

“Once I get more settled, and I know my customers' tastes a little better, we can discuss some other designs,” Hamid told Kamila. “Right now I've got my hands full just trying to unpack all the boxes I've brought from my old shop in Jabul Saraj.” He handed Rahim a plastic bag that held several bundles of light-colored fabric. “To help your sisters get started on my order.”

Time was passing and Kamila was eager to be on her way, but Hamid turned to his younger brother.

“Ali, I saw something terrible the other day,” he whispered. “I was delivering the dresses I had brought from Pakistan, and I was in a store over there on the next street waiting for the shopkeeper to pay me. There was a woman shopping with her daughter. She was very old, very small, and she could barely see. So she opened her chadri for only a moment to look at the dresses on the display case. Just then the Amr bil-Maroof came running into the store yelling about how women should never show themselves in public, how it was forbidden. The Talib hit her in the face, knocked her onto the ground. I couldn't believe it. She cried out, asking him why he would hit an old woman who could easily be his grandmother. But the soldier just smacked her again. He said she was an indecent woman and called her all sorts of names. It was unbelievable.”

The five of them stood in silence until Ali finally said, “Roya, you'd better be going. We've all been talking for too long. . . . It's not safe.” His voice drifted off as he finished his sentence.

“Thank you, both,” she replied, while Rahim gathered up their bags. “We'll be back next week with your dresses, Hamid.” She and her brother left the store, grateful for the cold spring air that greeted them.

“Please be careful,” she heard Ali call out as the door closed behind them. “May God protect you.”

They walked without speaking for the next half hour.

Within a week, the school began to take shape. The neighborhood grapevine spread the word that young women were gathering for classes at the Sidiqi home, and students started flocking to the house each morning, ready to learn and to work. Though some schools in the neighborhood were charging a small fee, Kamila had decided it was better not to; the girls would pay nothing while they were learning, and in exchange they wouldn't earn a salary until their training period ended. During their apprenticeship they would help make garments that Kamila could take to the market, so their work would contribute to the business almost immediately. How soon a girl completed her training depended on both her skills and her commitment to her work. Only Kamila and Sara would have the final say on that question, with input from their teachers, Saaman and Laila.

Enthusiastically assisting Kamila and her sisters was their new helper Neelab, a young neighborhood girl whose father was a tailor. Neelab's mother had cornered Kamila in the grocery store across the street one afternoon while she and Rahim were buying oil and rice. She had begged Kamila to take the young girl in. “My husband has no work and we can't afford to feed everyone in our house,” the woman had told Kamila, her voice thick with despair. “I hear you and your sisters are running a good business. Can you find work for our daughter? I promise she will work hard for you and do whatever you and your sisters need.”

Kamila had agreed on the spot, unable to refuse a neighbor's entreaty. She knew the girl to be a lovely child, respectful and well behaved, and she felt for her mother, who was clearly carrying a heavy burden. But there was another benefit to having her around: she could serve as a mahram who could go out in the street and see what was happening when Rahim was at class or away from home. Young girls needed no chadri and often functioned as boys, moving freely in public without being bothered so long as they dressed modestly and looked well below the age at which they must be veiled, which now seemed to fall somewhere around twelve or thirteen, though no one knew for certain.