The Dressmaker of Khair Khana (6 page)

But there was little time for the sisters to enjoy their success; the afternoon had passed quickly and evening would soon arrive. Malika gently folded the new dress into a plastic bag while Kamila secured her chadri. With a curfew in effect they had to get Kamila to the bus stop soon to make certain she would be back in Khair Khana long before dark. Without a mahram, Kamila faced an even greater chance of being stopped. The sooner she was home, the better.

“Malika, thank you so much for all your help,” Kamila said as she hugged her older sister good-bye in the doorway she had been so grateful to reach just a few hours earlier. “You always take such good care of all of us.”

Malika reached behind her for a folded piece of white paper, which she handed to Kamila. Inside lay a thick pile of colorful afghani.

“This should be enough to help you buy fabric and materials to get started,” Malika said.

Kamila embraced her tightly. The money was an incredibly generous gift at such a time.

“I will repay you as soon as I can. I promise it won't be long,” she told her sister.

On the bus home, Kamila held her black plastic bag closely to her, beneath her chadri. Inside was the folded blue dress, the first piece of clothing she had ever made. She couldn't wait to show Saaman and the others when she got home.

As she bounded into her house, grateful for Allah's protection, Kamila heard the sounds of her sisters' lively chatter coming from the sitting room. Their mother sat smiling with them.

Kamila had arrived just in time to hear the good news.

At last they had received word from Mr. Sidiqi; a cousin who had just returned from Parwan had passed his letter on to Najeeb. The note was written on worn, thin paper that was already turning yellow.

Thanks be to Allah, I have arrived in Parwan. The fighting continues, but I am well. I will soon see you here, Inshallah.

Kamila watched her mother's eyes well up as she read her the letter, and she saw the release of a worry that had gone unspoken for so long. Mrs. Sidiqi folded the letter into fours once more and placed it on the low wooden table in their living room. Then she returned to the family's dinner. Soon she would leave for Parwan, with Najeeb beginning his journey to Pakistan not long afterward.

The Plan Goes to Market

“Oh, this is so pretty,” Saaman proclaimed as she held the blue dress in her hands and marveled at Kamila's work. “I just love it, especially the beading.”

And then: “What are you going to do with it?”

“I am going to sell it,” Kamila answered with a big smile. “Tomorrow I'll take it to the Lycee Myriam bazaar to show the tailors there what we can do. I'm going to see if we can get some orders from one of the shops there.”

“Why you? And why there?” Saaman asked. Her dark brown eyes grew larger as her imagination conjured the worst possible scenarios. “Can't someone else sell it for you? You know what things are like now; you could be beaten or taken to jail just for leaving the house at the wrong time. Who knows what could happen, and with father no longer here to help if something goes wrong . . .”

Saaman's voice trailed off as she halfheartedly waited for her sister's answer, but she knew what was coming. Everyone in the family knew that Kamila was not easily moved; her strong will and determination were famous among the Sidiqi clan. Once she had committed herself to an idea she wouldn't let go, regardless of the danger. Sayed Jamaluddin was a perfect example: Her older sisters had pleaded with her to stay home from school during the civil war years while rockets regularly fell on Kabul. It simply wasn't safe to go to class. But Kamila had insisted it was her duty to her family to finish her studies and that her faith would help to protect her. In the end, she won her father's blessing to remain in school, unlike so many other girls whose studies were cut short by war. After all, he was the one who had taught her that learning was the key to the future--both her own and her country's.

As Saaman expected, Kamila had no intention of backing down from her plan, but she promised she would take all the precautions Malika had insisted on: She would stay out of Lycee Myriam during prayer time and she wouldn't speak to anyone she didn't know. She would take Rahim as her mahram. Anyway, she asked her sisters, if she didn't go, who would? Her work would help her family, which was a sacred obligation of Islam. And she firmly believed her faith would protect her and keep her safe.

There was no arguing with Kamila. Instead, Saaman buried her concern beneath a litany of questions.

“Where will you start?” she asked. “Maybe you could try Omar's tailoring store inside the bazaar? Or maybe it would be better to try the one we usually go to along the main strip of shops, where we know people?”

“I don't know yet. We'll have to see how it goes,” Kamila responded, trying to seem unfazed by the risks she faced as she launched the second stage of her new venture: finding shops that would do business with her. “I'll start with one or two of the stores inside the bazaar; maybe they'll be interested. I'm sure someone will. Look how lovely this dress is!”

Kamila held the garment up to her shoulders as she spoke. For just a moment she allowed her imagination to run, envisioning the woman who might wear it someday for a special occasion. But she quickly forced herself back to the matter at hand.

“Malika told me that if we can get some steady orders from a shop she'll help us with more designs,” Kamila said, folding the blue dress once more and carefully returning it to the plastic bag that lay next to her on the living room floor where they all sat. “We can build a dressmaking empire, the Sidiqi Sisters!” she added, enjoying the sound of it.

“Kamila Jan, I know you know what you're doing, but please . . .” Laila, the youngest of the girls in the room, had been quietly listening to the conversation. She regarded her sisters with a mix of awe and fear; at fifteen, she was long accustomed to hearing the older girls discuss their plans, but the risks they faced had never seemed so formidable--or so close to home. The Mujahideen years had been dangerous for certain, but back then the violence had struck at random. Today everyone knew the risks that waited just outside their front door; what was harder to anticipate were the consequences. If Kamila got caught speaking to a shopkeeper she could be simply yelled at, or taken into the street and beaten, or, worst of all, she could be detained. It all depended on who saw her. And then where would they all be? Kamila was the oldest, and right now she was responsible for her remaining brother and four sisters at home.

Najeeb had left the house in Khair Khana two weeks earlier on a sunny winter morning. He carried only a small vinyl overnight bag with a few changes of clothing and some toiletries; he could find whatever else he needed in Pakistan, and he didn't want to risk losing anything he valued during the journey there. He left his books in his room and told Kamila to put them to good use while he was away.

“Everything will be just where you left it when you return,” Kamila promised. She struggled against her tears. She wanted so badly to be strong for her brother.

He promised to write as soon as he had settled in Pakistan.

Then a knock came at the front door. It was time to go.

Kamila walked him out through the courtyard they had played in together for so many years. He stopped for a moment before he unlatched the metal slide.

“Kamila, take care of everyone, okay?” Najeeb said. “I know it's a lot for you, but Father wouldn't have left you in charge if he didn't think you could manage. I'll send help soon, just as soon as I can.”

Faced with her brother's departure, Kamila at last gave in to her tears. She just couldn't bear the idea of Najeeb going out into the world without her. How much danger would the young man face before she saw him again? And when would that be? Months? Years?

She stood at the gate hugging Najeeb good-bye.

“God keep you safe,” she said quietly as she at last let him go and took a step back from the door so he could pass. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and tried to muster a reassuring smile. “We'll be fine here. Don't worry about us.”

At last the gate slammed shut and he was gone. The young women stood huddled together, staring wordlessly at the green door.

Kamila realized she really was in charge now, and she had to act like it.

“Okay, then,” she said, turning to her sisters and leading the girls back inside, “whose turn is it to make lunch?” That afternoon, without Najeeb's good cheer and their mother's comforting words to help pass the hours, Kamila realized how desperately the girls needed something else to focus on. They didn't just need income; they needed a purpose. She simply had to make a success of her dressmaking business.

The next morning was cloudy and quiet as Kamila and Rahim set out for the mile-and-a-half journey to Lycee Myriam. The blue dress lay in folded squares at the bottom of the black carry-all Kamila held tightly at her side. Under her chadri Kamila wore a large, dark tunic, ground-skimming baggy pants, and low rubber-heeled shoes. She wanted to give the Taliban no reason to notice her during this short trip. Her pulse raced and her heart crashed against her chadri with unshakable intensity.

With Najeeb gone, it now fell to Rahim to serve as his sisters' eyes and ears. Though only thirteen, he had suddenly become the man of their house, and the only person in the Sidiqi household who could move around the city freely. Today he was serving as Kamila's mahram, the chaperone whose presence would help keep her out of trouble with the Taliban.

Rahim walked close to his sister past the shops and stores along Khair Khana's main road. The two spoke little as they walked toward the market. Soon Kamila spotted a few Taliban soldiers patrolling the sidewalk ahead of them, and she quickly realized they would be better off using the back roads of the neighborhood they knew so well. She and Rahim still had the hometown advantage; the Taliban, most of whom came from the south, remained strangers to the capital. It wasn't unusual for traffic all over the city to be turned on its head by soldiers who drove their tanks and pickup trucks the wrong way down one-way roads, sometimes at high speed. Though they governed Kabul, they still did not know it.

Kamila guided her younger brother through the winding, muddy side streets that led to Lycee Myriam. He felt responsible for keeping his sister safe, especially now that his father and older brother were gone, and he tried to stay a few steps in front of her so that he could see what lay ahead. He still found it terribly strange to behold Kamila in full chadri; he confessed that he couldn't imagine how she could see the road in front of her through the tiny latticed window of her veil. Biting cold and fear kept their pace quick and purposeful.

Kamila didn't allow herself to think about the many things that could go wrong; instead she kept her mind trained on the work ahead as they passed rows of houses along cramped streets that were clotted with dirt and mud. She had not shared the reason for their unusual trip with Rahim, wanting to protect him in the event they were stopped. She would tell him later, as they got closer. In a different time her black tote bag would have been loaded full of schoolbooks, but today it contained a handmade dress that she hoped would be the start of her new business.

After half an hour Kamila and Rahim arrived at the outskirts of Lycee Myriam. Through her chadri Kamila could make out the bubbling chaos of wooden vegetable carts, clothing stalls, and faded brown storefronts. Most of Khair Khana knew that a handful of the street-front shops doubled as photo and video stores, but these businesses had been officially outlawed by the Taliban, so there was no sign of the underground enterprises they hid behind copy machines and grocery counters. The smell of cooking meat floated through the air as they approached the sprawling bazaar, which stretched north for nearly half a mile. Kamila glanced around at a few stalls that sold shoes and suitcases, then shared her plan with her brother.

“Don't say anything, Rahim,” she cautioned him. “Let me do the talking. If the Taliban come, and if there are any problems, just tell them you are accompanying me as we do our family's shopping, and we will be heading home as soon as we're done.” Rahim nodded. Assuming the role of bodyguard and caretaker, the young man did not stray very far from his sister's side. He looked right and left every few steps, watching for any sign of trouble. Together the siblings walked into the covered section of Lycee Myriam, a giant indoor shopping mall that was filled with stands and small shops that sold all manner of goods, often in unwieldy piles haphazardly perched on tables and shelves: women's clothes, men's shalwar kameez, linens for the home, stacks of chadri, and even children's toys. It was a bewildering maze that first-time visitors found nearly impossible to navigate. Kamila looked around and noticed a few women coming and going from the stalls that sold shoes and dresses. She couldn't tell whether she knew any of them, since none of these women were recognizable except by their shoes. Turning left, she walked toward a small storefront just off the bazaar's main walkway; there she found one of the dress shops she and her sisters had frequented for years. Through the open door she saw a burly shopkeeper manning the counter. He had a clear view of the corridor outside and would be able to spot most of what was happening along the walkway that connected other shops to his. This would be helpful, Kamila thought, in the event the Amr bil-Maroof, the feared “Vice and Virtue forces,” came by while she was inside.

Pausing for a moment, Kamila waited in the doorway until a woman at the counter paid for her dress and left. Then she entered the shop with a strong, purposeful stride, hoping her nervousness would be undetectable beneath her show of confidence. She knelt down and pretended to examine a stack of dresses that were folded in tidy squares behind a glass case; together they made a cheerful rainbow of colors.

“Can I help you, miss?” the shopkeeper asked. He was a broad-shouldered man with curly dark hair and a bulging paunch. Kamila noticed that his eyes were fixed on two things at once: his front door and his customer.

“Thank you, sir,” Kamila said, speaking in a firm but quiet tone as she stood up to answer him. She checked to make certain Rahim was next to her. “Actually, I'm a tailor and my sisters and I make dresses. I have brought a sample of our work to show you. Perhaps you would be interested in placing an order?”

Before he could reply she reached into her bag and neatly spread the blue dress across the glass counter. Her hands trembled, but she worked deftly. She pointed to the beading. “It is very nice for weddings or for Eid,” she said. Her heart beat in her ears, and she leaned against the counter to steady herself.

The shopkeeper picked up the dress and began to inspect it more closely. Suddenly a large, blue-clad figure Kamila saw out of the corner of her eye approached the counter. The shopkeeper dropped Kamila's blue fabric in a heap on the glass but to his--and Kamila's--relief it turned out to be just another female shopper with her mahram. Kamila struggled to look busy while she waited. She didn't dare to look at her brother; she was sure he was as nervous as she was. What have I gotten us into by coming here? she thought to herself. I am always so full of ideas, but maybe I should have thought this one through a bit more. . . .

But at last the woman departed, and the shopkeeper returned.

“Another seamstress like you came to see me earlier this week,” he said, speaking in a low voice. “She also offered to make dresses for my store. I've never really bought much from local women before, but I think I am going to have to start now. Things are tough for everyone, and no one can afford the imported clothes anymore.”

Kamila felt a small surge of excitement. As she had seen during her last trip to Lycee Myriam, most shopkeepers no longer thought it worth making the risky trip to Pakistan for a handful of dresses that only a few Kabulis could buy. This was her opportunity.

“Okay, I will take it,” he said, putting Kamila's sample next to another pile of dresses on his side of the glass. “Can you make more like this? I don't need so many dresses, actually, but I could use some more shalwar kameez for women, simpler clothing that people use for every day.”

“Oh, yes, that will not be a problem,” Kamila said. She kept her voice quiet and even so as not to betray the wave of elation she felt. And she felt grateful for the anonymity of her chadri. “We can produce as much as you need.”