Text copyright 2019 by Enjeela Ahmadi-Miller
All rights reserved.
The events expressed in this book, while true, were composed from the authors memory. Some of the names and identities of people in this book have been altered or composited for the sake of simplicity and to protect privacy.
Poems by Hafiz translated into English by the author
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Little A, New York
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ISBN-13: 9781503903784 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1503903788 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781503903760 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1503903761 (paperback)
Cover design by Faceout Studio, Jeff Miller
Cover illustration by Christina Chung
Interior map by Mapping Specialists, Ltd.
First edition
It was the birth of my beautiful son, Alexander Miller, that inspired me to write my memories of Afghanistan, the country of my birth.
Contents
HOW BIRDS FLY
Once in the past, I asked a bird
In what way do you fly
in this gravity of wickedness?
She responded,
Love lifts my wings.
Hafiz
Prologue
A T APESTRY OF T IME AND P LACE
I had not thought about Afghanistan in years. I had forgotten, buried the images of death and war under the busyness of an American life.
There was the party to prepare for; five hundred invitations were in the mail to local fashionistas for the introduction of my new line at a posh gallery downtown. Everyone who is anyone in Dallas, even my husband Henrys influential real estate friends, will be there.
We arrive at the party, Henry and I, celebrities on this night. Beautiful people greet us, coiffed, dressed to dazzle, each of them elegant and striking. The gallery is brilliant with light; the modern art pieces hang like illuminated gems on the white panels. Waiters with trays of appetizers and flutes of champagne serve the guests. Anticipation builds as we mingle, hugs and kisses all around. I look around in wonderthis is perfect, the apex of my dreams. Even if I had climbed the highest mountain and stood on top of the world breathing in the heady air, I could not have been more elated. All these movers and shakers here to see my designs, the work of my imagination.
The music takes on a new beat, thrumming and dramatic, and the first model sashays in. There are twelve in allgorgeous, thin, leggy, high-cheeked blondes, brunettes, and redheads. They strut, they pose, they turn, and the smoothness of the fabric along their slender roundness accents every curve, every undulating movement of their bodies. They look like a million bucks; the jeans I have designed look like a million bucks. My face burns with pride.
Then an unstoppable wave of memory, of that Cinderella moment in Kabul when my sister Shahnaz, bedecked in gold jewelry and flowing green wedding dress, every bit as gorgeous as any of these models, promenaded into the grand ballroom of the stately Serena Hotel on the arm of her husband, Saleem. One of the happiest memories of my life. As the crowd oohs and aahs at the fashion show, they flash me glances of congratulations and admiration, but Im transported. A child in a world falling apart around me. I think of my sisters wedding, and the day my mother left Kabul, and the rumble of invading Soviet tanks.
I glance around. Where is my son? And I remember Alexander is at home.
Once the models have finished walking, I step away from the party to make a call.
Bring him to me, I tell the nanny. Come to the party with him.
When he arrives, I hold him in my arms, and as people congratulate me, I am not thinking of jeans, or models, or accolades, or even sales and the comforts that would bring. Im thinking only of him, and us, and how I will never leave him like she left me. I will never make him question my love for him. I will never make him search for me.
I know now who I am. I am Afghan, and I am American. I am one fabric of existence: a tapestry of past and present.
I am safe, happy, prosperous, and enjoying every moment of my life. But I am sad for the ones left behind, those who could not escape.
My son is only three, but he should know this story. He must know where I come from. The delicate fabric of our lives here, woven by a young refugee fleeing a country that she loved.
E NGAGEMENT P ARTY
The Rigveda, a sacred text, speaks of Kabul as a vision of paradise set in the mountains. For me it was many thingsmy birthplace, my playfield, my home, the crucible of my soul. But I like the description of paradise best.
Outside the gates of my house, Kabul stretched out along the sloping plains and into rocky foothills, a city both modern and ancient. High-rise office buildings were neighbors to the bazaar that had stood since the time of Babur the Conqueror, who made the city his capital. Now a modern electric trolley ran along every major road and most streets, carrying Kabuli from the suburbs to their work or shopping. The paved streets of the city were a slice of a larger worldmen in turbans and men in suits; women in burkas and girls in miniskirts. There were mosques, synagogues, and churches, and in 1975, the year of my birth, it was a city of peace.
I remember most vividly the turn of the seasons. When the buttercups and lilies bloomed, their petals unfolding in a carpet of whiteness across the field in front of our home, I knew springtime had arrived. They lifted a delicious odor into the cool breeze, as sweet as jalebi , my favorite dessert. The fruit trees in our orchard would ripen soonpeaches, pears, pomegranates, and later in the year there would be apples and oranges. New green shoots of grass sprouted around the trees, and to the north, the Hindu Kush mountains were snowcapped and shrouded in sporadic clouds. Cherry trees blossomed along the roads, roses came to life in gardens, and a new season emerged from the winter darkness.
I played soccer in the tree-lined streets, paved and clean, with my friends and sisters. I rode bikes and played volleyball and watched my brothers fly kites when the winds blew off the plains. I ran and played until I heard the azan the song of the mullah. From my yard, I could look up and see the minarets of our mosque. It was five oclock and time to return home for dinner.
Winter in Kabul came in December, and the snow would pile up high on the sides of the house, soft as giant pillows. Zia, my brother, often dared the three of us girls to climb on the roof with him and jump off. Zulaikha would have nothing to do with it. She would never get on the roof. Laila would come up only if Zia coaxed her. Zia had only to dare me, and Id climb up. Id walk right up to the edge of the roof, stare down for a moment at the white mound, and then lift off into space, yelling all the way, flailing my arms until landing in the white softness.
