Under an Afghan Sky (33 page)

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Do not speak,” Khalid said. My heart was pounding and my
skin was clammy. That must be the feeling of raw fear. I’d never felt anything like it before.

“We going away from here,” Abdulrahman told me.

“Why? Where are we going? Why are we going now?” No answer from anyone. We just kept walking. Around walls, over bumps on the road, through alleys between houses.

“Sit down!” Khalid pushed my left shoulder down, and I dropped to the ground. So did my captors. We sat for a while, and they spoke in hushed tones in Pashto. They must have seen someone walking in the vicinity.

“Get up!” I felt Khalid’s hand on my elbow, pushing it up, so I stood up. “Go!” And we continued rushing through the village—I assumed—with me blindfolded, unable to make out even the brightest of lights from under my scarf. I tripped several times and stubbed my toe. They seemed impatient, hauling me up again, all the while talking among themselves in rapid Pashto. We finally stumbled into an open area. The ground felt a bit sandy and I sensed there were no buildings around us.

“Do not stop,” Khalid said quietly, still leading me by the elbow. We kept walking, and I kept stumbling over my feet, even on the sand. I felt awkward walking. It had been so long since I’d been able to, and now I was being forced to do it blindfolded. It felt like we were climbing a hill. The sand was slippery under my running shoes and it was difficult to go very fast.

“Sit down now.” I did as I was told, and sensed my kidnappers sitting down next to me. “I am taking your scarf.” I felt hands reach behind my head and the scarf came off. I blinked and looked around. We were in a sandy open area, and there was a small hill about thirty metres away. I could make out mountains farther ahead and to the left. I turned to look at where we had come from.

“Do not look!” Khalid turned my head around to face forward. It was just him and Shafirgullah with me. Abdulrahman must have left us somewhere along the way. Shafirgullah was carrying a big sack on a stick, like a hobo sack. Khalid also had a big pack with him, which he unpacked, looking for something. I saw that his pack held several plastic bags, which looked like they contained about a dozen juice boxes, a few packages of cigarettes, fruit creme cookies, and Afghan bread. Shafirgullah’s pack was bigger but lighter. He sat down on it while Khalid fished out a package of cigarettes and put them in the pocket of his jacket.

“Khalid, where are we going?” I asked.

He lit a smoke and didn’t answer right away, instead saying something to Shafirgullah in Pashto. “Where are we going? What is going on?” I insisted. I was running on adrenaline. My heart was still pounding, as it had been since they’d dug me out of the hole, about an hour before.

“We go away—to a better place,” Khalid told me.

“Why?” I asked. “What was wrong with where we were before?”

“It is not safe,” he said.

“Where are we going?” I kept repeating. “Where?”

“Walk! Go!” Khalid ordered. He yanked the chain that was still tethered to my right wrist, and the metal dug into my skin.

“Ow!” I cried. “Don’t do that!”

I couldn’t believe he was treating me like this. Even though he was the one who had chained me to myself two days before, I still found it difficult to accept that the one person out of the gang of kidnappers, the one I had come to rely on, had turned on me the way he had. I’d spent the last three weeks trying to build a relationship and gain his trust, and I thought he actually cared a little about my well-being. He’d called me “sister,” promised not to kill me, talked to me about his wedding plans. I’d listened to him, told him
about my family, gave him the little mirror in my makeup bag as a gift for Shogufa.

And in the last two days, we had reverted back to the relationship we started with on day one. Kidnapper and hostage. Gunman and captive. Fundamentalist and foreigner. I felt betrayed, but I realized I had been betrayed only by my own naïveté, if anything.

He yanked the chain again, not as hard this time, and led us toward the small hill. We trudged through the sand and up the hill. It wasn’t very high, and over the edge I could see bushes, and mountains in the distance. I turned around and looked at the village we’d just left. It was bigger than I had thought, definitely not a village, but a town. There weren’t many lights, and it was sprawling and flat, checkered with mud walls and mud houses.

“Do not look back,” Khalid ordered, so I turned back around and looked ahead. He had been holding the end of my chain but dropped it to pick up his pack. I caught up to the end and picked it up. The chain was maybe twelve feet long, and it was heavy. Khalid led the way and Shafirgullah walked behind me, carrying his hobo sack, his gun pointed at my back. We veered left along what looked like a dried-up creek bed, and I could feel small branches rub against my raw ankles.

“Khalid, please tell me, what is going on?” I called out to him. “Did your father tell us to leave? Are we going to Kabul?”

He ignored me, but I was dogged, like the legislative reporter I once was, grilling a minister who was trying to avoid answering a question. Finally, he had had enough. He stopped walking and turned back to face me. “It is not my father!” he shouted. “I have no father!”

“What?” I was completely confused.

“It is not my father!” he repeated, a little louder this time.

“What are you saying? Then who have you been talking to all
this time? You told me it was your father.” I still wasn’t sure what he was telling me.

“I lie to you. The one in Pakistan. He is not my father.” He started walking again.

I followed, running a little to catch up to him. “You lied? If he’s not your father, who is he? And where is your father?”

“I have no father!”

“Did you lie about your mother too? She’s not dead, is she.” Khalid’s only response was to walk faster. I was almost running to keep up.

“Khalid, if that person in Pakistan is not your father, who is he? And what about your mother?”

“My father is dead! I have no father!” He was yelling again.

I yelled back. “Then who is the person in Pakistan you are talking to?”

“It is my friend! My friend, okay?”

I was confused, but it was clear he wasn’t going to give me any more information, so we continued walking. Soon we were in front of what looked like the base of a small mountain beyond some trees and bushes. I was getting tired. Three weeks of sitting in a hole had no doubt weakened my muscle strength considerably, and I was carrying around a chain that probably weighed close to seven kilograms. I was huffing and puffing when we finally stopped behind the trees.

“Sit,” Khalid ordered. We all sat for a while, and my captors lit cigarettes. They offered me one and I took it, lighting it only after I had caught my breath. We sat for a while, and the two Afghans spoke to each other in Pashto, pointing at the mountains in front of us. I wished I could understand what they were saying. After a few minutes, Khalid stood up. “We go!”

I struggled to stand up. My legs felt like jelly. I didn’t know
how much farther we were going to go, but I knew I couldn’t walk any faster. My kidnappers didn’t seem to care. We started walking up another hill toward the mountain. The ground was rocky, the stones like shale, brittle and angular. The mountain was getting closer and closer, and I wondered if we were going to go around it, through it, or under it. I tripped several times as the hill got steeper, the rocks crumbling under our feet. I tried to step in the same places Khalid had stepped, but his legs were longer than mine and I couldn’t match his strides. A rock gave out under my left foot and I stumbled. Unable to catch my balance, I fell and tumbled several feet down the hill.

“No stop!” Shafirgullah yelled at me.

I tried to get up but my chain was caught under the edge of a boulder. I stumbled again and didn’t get up.

“I can’t go any farther,” I protested. “I can’t.”

Shafirgullah prodded me with the barrel of his Kalashnikov.

“Don’t do that!” I told him. “It’s not nice.”

He looked at Khalid, who looked down at me and sighed.

“Come, we stop a little little up there.” Khalid pointed farther up the hill. I followed his finger and saw nothing but a big mother of a mountain.

“We’re going up there?” I asked.

He nodded. “Come.” He came down and held out his hand to help me up. A small glimpse of the Khalid I knew. I took his hand, and he hauled me to my feet.

We continued hiking for at least an hour, straight toward the mountain. After a while, we came to an open area, where there was a creek. Khalid stopped, and he and Shafirgullah said a few words in Pashto before setting down their sacks. Shafirgullah opened his to reveal three blankets—two like the kind he had used in the hole, and one like my softer blue duvet. He gave one to Khalid,
who was already wearing a jacket, and one to me. I laid mine out and sat on it, wondering if this was where we were going to spend the night.

Khalid brought out three boxes of juice from his pack and handed one to each of us. I hadn’t even realized that I was thirsty. I drank the contents in one big gulp and wiped my mouth with the dirty sleeve of my kameez.

“Sit,” Khalid told me, even though I was already sitting. He had spread out his blanket and was lying down, one hand on the other end of the chain that was fastened to me.

Shafirgullah had wandered away, and I could see he was washing his face in the creek. He spread his blanket in front of himself and got on his knees to pray.

Khalid’s eyes were closed, and soon I could hear his deep breathing. Was he going to sleep for the night or was he just taking a nap? I looked over at Shafirgullah. He was still praying. I tried to lie down, but I couldn’t get comfortable. The blanket was too thin to stop the rocks from poking into my back. And I was shivering. It was very cold, and I didn’t have a coat. I looked down in the direction from which we came, and I could see the faint glow of the town kilometres away.

Then I looked up, and for the first time in three weeks I saw the night sky. It was clear and the stars were in the millions, like little pinpricks through which you could see the bright light of heaven. I could make out the Big Dipper, but it looked upside down to how I was used to seeing it back home. I thought I could also see the Milky Way, a hazy band of white light against the black sky.

Then I saw a shooting star, whooshing across the darkness, and just as I was about to make a wish, another one shot through my line of vision.

God, if you’re up there, please help me. I don’t know where they’re taking me, but I’m scared, and I need you to keep me safe. I know you’re up there. Please watch over me tonight. Please.

After about half an hour, Shafirgullah came over and roused his friend. Khalid woke up and rubbed his eyes. Shafirgullah motioned toward the mountain and Khalid told me to get up. I did, watching as the Afghans packed the blankets back into the hobo sack. We started hiking again, with only the moonlight to guide us. Rocks gave out beneath my feet. We kept climbing—higher and higher, until we came to the face of the mountain. The Afghans stopped, unsure of which way to go. I sat down and waited as they pointed to either side of the rock face. I must have been shivering because Khalid took off his scarf and put it around my shoulders, and I thought I saw another glimpse of the young man I had come to know. I was happy for the warm scarf. It was dark in colour and made of thick wool, and so big that I was able to wrap it around myself twice, layers of warmth I welcomed as the temperature continued to drop.

We hiked on for a long time, stopping once to smoke, although Khalid made us put out our cigarettes after only a couple of drags when he heard an airplane—he was afraid we’d be given away by their glowing orange ends. We kept climbing and climbing, and made it over the ridge through a small opening in the mountain wall.

I was exhausted but forced myself to keep up. Khalid and Shafirgullah had traded places, so now I was following Shafirgullah, and Khalid was behind me. I thought about running away—breaking from them and just running. It didn’t matter where to, maybe back to the town we had come from. Or maybe this side of the mountain—there had to be another town not far away. I wondered what they would do if I suddenly darted. Would they chase me?
Shoot me? Should I try? Maybe three weeks ago, I could have outrun them, but now I wasn’t so sure. My legs felt thin and weak, my lungs congested, like I couldn’t get enough air down to them. I concluded after a few minutes that I wasn’t going to be able to outrun either of the two Afghans. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to face the consequences of a failed attempt at escape. So I continued to follow them. We kept hiking, into a valley, on either side two tall mountains, both taller than the one we had just scaled.

We headed for the mountain on the right and started up its slate slope. The shale was loose, and our steps were triggering minor rockslides. My legs were shaking, threatening to collapse underneath me, as I followed Shafirgullah’s nimble footsteps from rock to boulder to rock. I slipped and fell some more, and was pretty sure I had bruised my left shin. I was more worried about my right knee, which isn’t so good after years of wear and tear from running and skating. I should wear a knee brace while exercising, but I hadn’t been, and I’d felt it after the Army Ten-Miler that Paul and I had run a few weeks earlier. Still, going up the mountain was better than coming down, and I tried to favour my left leg while we climbed.

I was now sweating underneath the thick wool scarf, so I took it off and stuffed it into the plastic bag filled with my belongings. The cold mountain air cooled me off immediately, and the sweat running down my back felt like rivers of cool water. It was getting harder and harder to breathe—the air had become cold and thin with the elevation. Khalid and Shafirgullah must have been in pretty good shape. They continued to scamper uphill, breathing almost normally, while I was—uncharacteristically—huffing and puffing.

The adrenaline from several hours before was now starting to wear off, and I was feeling more confident that I hadn’t been marched out of the hole to be executed. Still, I’d have felt better if
I’d known what was going on, and Khalid wasn’t telling me much. I’d stopped asking, knowing I wouldn’t get an answer. At least not that night. As we reached the top of the mountain, Shafirgullah pointed to an alcove in the rocks. I followed him as he clambered up the loose shale at a great speed.