Shooting Kabul

It was a blustery day in January as the family sat together at breakfast, trying to keep warm under layers of clothing. Fadi’s mother set down a plate of old bread she’d reheated, along with chunks of white cheese, a rare treat.

“Ooooh!” said Mariam. Her hazel eyes sparkled as her fork inched closer to the plate. “Something to go with boring old bread…. Come to me, my yummy in the bummy tummy.” At Zafoona’s nod she speared a large sliver.

“Hey!” squawked Noor in mock anger. “Leave some for us.” She poked Mariam in her ticklish spot, under the ribs, and got a loud giggle.

“I only took a tiny, tiny piece!” squealed Mariam, and wiggled out of the way.

“Girls, behave yourselves,” said Zafoona, casting them a weary disapproving glance.

While Mariam spread cheese on the bread, her expression turned serious. She glanced at Noor with pursed lips. “Hey, Noor,” she said in a loud whisper.

“What, Ms. Yummy in the Bummy Tummy?”

“I need your help with something.”

“With what?”

“Will you teach me how to sew Gulmina a new dress?” Next to Mariam’s plate sat a Barbie that was the envy of all her friends. She’d inherited Gulmina from Noor when her older sister had outgrown it. And now, even though the doll’s features had faded and she was missing her left hand, Gulmina accompanied Mariam everywhere.

Noor took a piece of cheese and looked at her younger sister with a raised eyebrow.

“Please, please, pretty please?” begged Mariam. “I’ll do your chores this whole week-peel the potatoes and turnips, take out the garbage, and iron the clothes.”

“I don’t know…,” began Noor. “You’re not even allowed to use the iron-“

“Please,” cried Mariam. “I’ll do whatever you want.” She put on her sad puppy-dog face and flashed two dimples at her older sister.

“Oh, all right.” Noor sighed. “I guess there’s nothing better to do than design a new wardrobe for Gulmina the Glamorous.”

“Sure,” said Mariam eagerly. She chattered on about what colors to use, mostly lavender and pink, while braiding Gulmina’s patchy honey-colored hair.

Fadi tuned out his sisters’ phenomenally boring conversation, added a chunk of crumbly brown sugar to his watered-down hot milk, and stirred. He watched fat snowflakes swirl through the crisp air and land in the backyard. He shut his left eye and pretended to look through the viewfinder of his father’s old camera, which Habib had given to Fadi for his eleventh birthday, a few months before. He squinted, framing the old plum tree against the cloudless blue sky. He wished the weather were better. Maybe he could have convinced his father to take him to the quiet back hills of the city to take pictures. But, no. It was too cold-and too risky-to be caught with a camera. His eye fluttered open as his father cleared his throat.

“I have something I need to tell you,” said Habib. Fadi glanced away from the accumulating snow with a frown. His father didn’t sound like himself.

“The situation has become too dangerous for us here,” said Habib. There were deep circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept for many nights.

“Situation.” That’s an understatement, thought Fadi as he resumed stirring his milk. Over the past year things had gotten more and more frightening. Even going out for bread could get you in all sorts of trouble.