Two Rivers - pt. 7

Alam Zawar
32-A Sarwar Shaheed Rd, Icchra
Lahore, Punjab
Pakistan

3rd September 2007

Dear Alam,

Today was meant to be the first day of school. I packed my bag, cleaned my uniform, and I met the other girls in Matiltan. But it was terrible...there was no school. Do you remember when I told you about the people with white flags? The ones that Abu calls Taliban? They were there. They’ve been here all summer. They drive around in their trucks and they yell at people, and they threaten them with their guns for no reason.  They’ve even told me to wear my dupatta properly. As if I wouldn’t know how to wear a dupatta! Alam, they’re the most horrible people ever.

And they were at the school today. Four of them, with their guns. They were just standing outside the door, and we were too scared to go close. There were other villagers too, and some of them went to talk to the men with guns. They said the school is closed. They said girls shouldn’t be in school. And then, it was horrible Alam. Do you remember Aunty Palwasha? She’s my teacher. Another one of them came out of the school holding her. She was bleeding and crying.

They started throwing her around, throwing her to each other and to the ground. The villagers got really angry and yelled at the men with guns. They started throwing stones. But the bad guys fired their guns into the air. Have you ever heard a gun? It’s so loud. I had to cover my ears. I took the other girls and we hid behind a house. The bad guys said Aunty Palwasha was under arrest. But the villagers were really angry, and they kept yelling and fighting and there was more gunfire and someone was screaming. We just hid. It was so scary. Do you remember Aimal Bhai? He found us, and he took us through the smaller streets and back home. They were still fighting when we left.

My hands are still shaking. Dad was so angry and upset when he found out what happened. He told me I’m not allowed to leave the house any more. I can’t even go out to the farm unless he’s there as well. What’s going to happen to Aunty Palwasha? I’m so worried. She didn’t do anything wrong! And where’s the police, Alam? Aren’t they meant to keep us safe? Where’s the army? Aren’t they meant to protect us from evil people?

Jamal is gone. I told you he’d left last winter, but none of us have seen him since. We never talk about him. I’m worried. I hope he’s okay. And I’m terrified that he might have joined these bad people. Mom is so sad now. She’s always crying. And when I ask her why, she says because both her sons have left her. And Dad is always angry. I think he’s also very upset that Jamal left. But he doesn’t cry. He just beats mom when she does.

I hope everything is better for you. Hamza sounds like a great person, I’d love to meet him. And I think Bilal would like him too. I miss you so much!

Lots of love,

Mina

October 2007  

“That’s a Mirage Five, right?”

“No, it’s a Mirage Three. See the Three has a flat nose and it’s not as fat at the back.”

Hamza and I were walking to school, poring over a magazine he’d pulled out of his bag – a strange bag with one strap that he wore over one shoulder. The magazine had pictures of all sorts of planes. There was writing too, and pictures of people, pictures of famous soldiers or generals and war heroes. We ignored the writing and just looked at the pictures. At least I did. Hamza had read this magazine, and the other ones he’d shown me. He flipped the page.

“Do you recognize this one?”

There was a Pakistani flag on the page, and on the plane.

“That's the one the Uncle was talking about, right?”

“Uncle?! He was a Major General! But yeah. It’s the JF-17. See, Pakistan’s own pride! This is our own plane!”

“It looks way cooler than the Mirage ones.”

“It is. See, max speed Mach 1.6! And they’re brand new. They just started making them this year.”

Ever since Defense Day, Hamza and I (especially Hamza), had been obsessed with planes. I hadn't known anything about Defense Day, but it came just a few days after school started. That morning when we were walking to school, I noticed there were many more flags on the streets. And that’s when Hamza told me about it.

At school, we spent the first half of the day in the courtyard. Our school was a big square and the courtyard was in the center of it. That’s where we went every morning for assembly -  when we’d sing the national anthem and hear any announcements. But that day, before we’d even sung the anthem, soldiers in full uniform and holding guns burst through the doors and paraded through the courtyard, shouting and yelling and kicking and stomping. Eventually, they lined up neatly along the walls. And they made two lines on the path that we left open for teachers to walk up and down to the stage. I was sitting right next to one of them.

Then the two nearest to the door stomped their guns and shouted, announcing someone. They stepped forward, turned to face the stage and started marching. The moment they started marching, the door opened, and two other soldiers came marching behind them. And between them was an older man, with a fancier uniform and lots of badges. All the other soldiers saluted.

They marched to the center of the courtyard, where we had our Pakistan flag. The flag was usually in the air, but that day it wasn’t. The Principal was waiting next to it. They raised the flag together, and then we all got up and sang the national anthem.

Then we all sat, and the man in the fancy uniform took the stage. He spoke to us in a deep and commanding voice. He told us of the importance of Defense Day. Of how the story started at Independence and the oppression of Kashmir by India. Of how Kashmir belonged to Pakistan. Of how India was a bully that took it and made the people there suffer. Of how a long time ago, we stood up for Kashmir and fought to free our Muslim brothers, but then the Indians invaded. Of how Defense Day was when we defended our land and fought them off. And of how it was like standing up to a rampaging elephant.

For some reason, no one in Swat talked about India. I remember seeing it on the map in school, but even there it was grayed out while the part that is Pakistan was bright green and labelled. Here in Lahore though, people seemed to care a lot more. Danish and his friends always talked about beating the Indians at cricket, and Raja would often make fun of me by saying I’m doing something like an Indian would.

After the General’s speech, some soldiers brought out a big white sheet that was on wheels and carried it up to the stage. Others brought a cart with a little box on it, and when they plugged in the box, pictures appeared on the screen. They were pictures of planes, ships, tanks, missiles, and soldiers walking through mountains. There was music and a lot of the pictures even moved like on the TV. The General often stopped the music and talked to us about what was on the screen. He talked about our air force and the latest planes (including the JF-17), and also about our ships and tanks. Then he talked about our nuclear bombs and how we’re one of only seven countries in the world to have such powerful weapons.

At the end of the special assembly, the General told us that we’re the future and we must take pride in our country. He asked us to support the army and told us that we should think about joining when we’re old enough. Everyone in the school was talking about the army for the next few weeks. Then they all forgot about it. Except Hamza and me. We kept looking for magazines and pictures about the army. And at lunch we’d play games pretending to be soldiers.

“Hey, do you want to come to my house after school?” Hamza asked as we got to the school gates.

“Your house?”

“Yeah, my mom told me to invite you. You should come, I can show you some of my figurines!”

“Oh…But I have to work after school.”

“Oh right, I forgot. That’s okay I guess, you can come another day.”

“I know! Uncle Masood takes a nap around that time, so I can probably come for a bit and sneak back home later.”

“Are you sure? Won’t you get in trouble?”

“It’s okay! He’ll never know.”

“Okay cool! Meet you at the gates for lunch?”

“Yeah!”

And then we split up. Even though we were in the same year, Hamza was in a different class than me.

Somehow, I’d ended up with the same teacher I had last year. And somehow, Danish and Feroz were in my class again. They sat two seats in front of me, passing each other notes and cards. I'd guessed that these cards were different than the Pokémon ones. They were darker and gloomier looking.

I ignored them. I didn't understand the math we were studying – I was still trying to catch up and learn what we did last year. But I wrote down everything the teacher said or wrote on the board. That way, after I had caught up, Zain and Hamza could teach me this by looking at my notes instead of the textbook (which was confusing). It was frustrating. Why didn't Uncle Dogar teach this in Swat? It was probably because he was too dumb to know it himself. But at least I'd gotten better. If I retook last year's exam now, I would probably pass for real.

The other classes were easier. I didn't really need to remember too much from last year. And I understood Punjabi and Urdu really well now. I already knew a lot of Islamic History from Nano's stories, so I didn't worry about Islamiat at all. It was just Pakistani history and science that were a bit tricky.

At lunch time, depending on the weather, Hamza and I would either play games or we’d sit in the shade and study. I guess it was more like Hamza would teach me. Hamza had a lot of friends. Or at least it seemed like everyone wanted to be his friend. So, people would often come to us and start talking with him. And he’d always introduce me, but they didn’t really care. And neither did I.

Danish didn’t like him though. And I thought that was funny. I think Danish was still angry about the cricket game (because he’s a sore loser). The first time Danish saw Hamza and I sitting together in Uncle Masood’s shop, he was just crossing to get inside to his TV. But he stopped and said, “what’re you doing here?”

Hamza said, “I’m just talking with Alam.”

Danish said, “oh…” and went inside. And he ignored us for the rest of the summer.

None of Danish’s friends talked to Hamza anymore. Except when Danish or Feroz weren’t around. Then they’d come and chat and show Hamza cards or ask him if he wants to play a game with them or whatever. They still ignored me, which was fine.

After school, I waited by the gates and watched hundreds of kids leave. They laughed and jostled with each other, or argued impatiently with their parents, who were waiting in cars or on feet just outside the school walls. Hamza came out eventually, and we fell into the familiar pattern of walking home. 

Uncle Masood’s house was closer to the school than Hamza’s, so usually Hamza and I would walk there, and he would continue home. Today, instead of turning left at the fourth street off the main road, we went on to the fifth. And then we were walking past houses I hadn’t seen before. I’d gotten better at telling houses apart. It all depended on finding something interesting and unique about each one. Like the one across the road from Uncle Masood’s had a green door on their balcony, and the one down the road that had little spikes on their wall. I hadn’t seen these houses before though, so they all looked the same. 

I sometimes wondered what it would be like to see Lahore from the sky. Would you even be able to see the roads and people? There were so many houses so close together. And so many streets were so small that only one or two people could fit in them. And the entire place was a giant maze. Once you got into the small streets, it was impossible to know where you were.

I followed Hamza for two more turns, and then we were on another big road. This one wasn’t nearly as crowded as the main road we usually took to school – it didn’t look like a market. Cars sped by occasionally as we walked on the sandy area next to the road. There was a big section in the middle of the road with grass and trees and on the other side of it was another road with cars going in the opposite direction.

There were buildings next to this road too. Bigger houses with intimidating walls, tall buildings covered in reflective blue glass, and shops with large signs and painted walls. But as we walked further down the road, the buildings got closer and closer together, and the road more crowded. There were more houses now - the familiar jumble of bricks. Some with walls around a courtyard, others just a structure next to the road. More people were by the roadside – some lounging in the shade of the trees and others waiting for a chance to run across.

Eventually, Hamza stopped next to a wall with chipping paint. He knocked on the rusty gate and was met with shouting from inside.

“Who’s there?”

“Zubaida Appi!! Someone’s here!”

“It’s just me!” Hamza shouted back.

“Hamza Bhai!!!”

“Monu, Mini, don’t open the door!”

“Monu don’t open it!”

There were loud clangs of metal against metal, and little gasps. Beneath the gate, I could see small shoes get on their toes and jump repeatedly as a kid tried to open the gate.

“Monu, you’re going to get in trouble!”

“It’s Hamza Bhai! Hamza Bhai can you hear me?”

Then the gate opened, and in front of us was a dark-skinned lady covered head to toe in a faded red kameez. At her feet was a little boy, no more than four years old. He had the same pitch-black hair and green eyes as Hamza. He grinned at his older brother.

“Hamza Bhai! Give me an airplane ride!!”

“Monu, I just got home.” Hamza said. “As Salam Au Alaykum, Zubaida Appi.” He gave his bag to the lady.

“Come on, now!” The boy, Monu, said and tugged on Hamza’s kameez.

“Fine.” Hamza grabbed the boy with a swirl, and ran around the courtyard swinging him around in circles even as he screamed and laughed.

I stepped in after them, and only then did I notice the little girl hiding behind the lady in red, her eyes large and green and staring at me.

“I’ll take your bag,” the lady said.

“Oh, thanks…” I said, and gave it to her.

She took it, and walked across the courtyard, disappearing into the open doors of the house. The little girl followed, clutching her kameez and turning back to look at me several times. The house was large but run down. Though it was mostly bricks, it had once been painted. I could tell because of the several patches of beige that were peeling at their edges. There were two floors, and a roof with an uneven brick border around it.

Hamza finally put down the screaming boy who stumbled several times before falling to his butt and laughing. “I’m so dizzy!” He lay down on the ground, arms stretched and staring at the sky.

“Sorry, these are the twins. This one is really annoying.” He gave the boy a light kick. “Hey, where did the other one go?”

“She followed that lady inside.”

“The lady? Oh, you mean Zubaida Appi.”

“Yeah, is she your sister?”

He laughed. “No, what makes you say that?”

“Just that you call her Appi”

“Oh, yeah I guess. She’s our maid and nanny. She’s been with us since…Well since I guess my oldest brother was born. So, she’s taken care of all of us.”

“You have an older brother too?”

“Oh yeah. I have two older brothers, an older sister, a younger sister, and the twins.”

“Wow, no wonder your house is so big.”

“Yeah I guess. Well, the oldest two are gone now. They got married and moved away. And my other brother is in university so he’s usually out with his friends or at school, and he comes home late. Oh! I know, I can show you his computer!”

“Computer? What’s that?”

“Hey Hamza Bhai! Who’s this person?” The little boy was standing up now, hands on hips and squinting at me.

“Monu, this is my friend Alam.”

“Why does he look so weird?”

“Monu! That’s rude.”

“You look weird.” I said.

“What? No, you look weird.”

“No, you’re the weird looking one.”

“No I’m not! You’re weird looking! Go look in a mirror!”

“You look in a mirror.”

“What? No! You’re weird looking. You want to fight?” Before I could respond, he’d punched me in the gut. It hurt. Then he was laughing and running across the courtyard.

“Oi! Monu!” Hamza shouted, and made to run after the boy. But he looked at me and said, “you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, “he packs a punch though.”

"Sorry about that." The boy had disappeared.  "Okay, so he's going to be hiding and won't bother us for a while. Let's go inside."

The first room we entered didn’t even feel like we were inside. There were walls, but no roof. Instead, a green tarp covered the opening in the ceiling, colouring the room and flapping in the wind. A worn out charpai occupied one corner, and four old bicycles were stacked against the wall. I noticed a grease stain on the floor and guessed that someone kept a motorcycle. Hamza walked to a cabinet next to the door at the end of the room and pulled out two pairs of slippers. He gave me one, and we both changed into them, replacing their spot in the cabinet with our shoes.

The next room was brightly lit and huge. The first thing I noticed was the sounds of a TV. It was against the corner immediately to my left. And below it, three children were lounged on their chests. The Nanny was sitting next to them, a fourth child (Mini) in her lap. They were on a lavish red rug. There were big sofas all around the rug, and two aunties were sitting on them, reading magazines. One of them glanced up at us and then went back to reading.

"As Salam Au Alaykum." Hamza said.

"Wa Alaykum As Salam." They responded dismissively.

"Come on." Hamza said, and I followed.

The back portion of the room was occupied by an enormous table, and what must have been at least twenty chairs. They were way fancier than the ones at Uncle Masood's house – with interesting patterns carved into the dark wood. There were a lot of decorations in this room - paintings and Islamic text adorned the freshly painted walls.

Hamza led me through the door at the back – I'd counted at least three other doors in that room. The next room also had a big table and chairs, but in every other way it was the opposite. There were no rugs on the marked and pitted concrete, and the paint on the walls was old, faded and peeling. The table and chairs were plastic, strewn around haphazardly. There were two chairs for babies. A single fan turned lazily on the ceiling. There were no windows, but the tube lights were plenty bright, though one of them flickered on occasion.

Through a narrow door-less hallway on the right wall, I could hear the clanging of metal and running water. Hamza led me through and into a large but crowded kitchen. A woman in an orange kameez was making tea at the stove. Two others were sitting on the ground, peeling and cutting potatoes and onions on a board.

"As Salam Au Alaykum, Ami." Hamza said to the woman at the stove.

"Wa Alaykum As Salam." She said and kissed his cheek. Hamza's mom was tall, like him. And though her black hair had started to gray, she still looked younger than the other two Aunties on the sofas. "Oh, this must be Alam, As Salam Au Alaykum!"

"Wa Alaykum As Salam," I said.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Hamza's told us so much about you!"

"It's nice to meet you too."

"So, you're from Swat? Have your parents ever been to Lahore?"

"No, they haven't."

"Wow, and they just sent you here." She tutted. "That must be so hard on your mom. You kids don't know how much your moms care about you. Anyway, I'd love to talk to her someday, can you give me her phone number?"

"We don't have a phone in Swat."

"Really? How do you talk to them?"

"We send letters."

"Letters? That's so old fashioned. You should buy her a phone; I'm sure she wants to hear your voice. Noor, can you get the cups and tray?" One of the girls on the floor nodded, stood up and walked out of the room. "So, what're you boys doing today?"

"We were just going to play army."

"Okay, that's nice. Alam, you're staying for dinner, right? I'll get Noor to bring you boys a snack. Go on."

"Oh, I don't think I can stay that long..."

"Nonsense." Noor had come back with a tray full of cups. She squeezed by us, and Hamza's mom started pouring tea.

"Come on," Hamza said, and I followed him out of the kitchen. We walked through more rooms and hallways, all messy and bare. Though there was one room that had red carpet and two old men reading namaz. One of them was sitting on a plastic chair because he couldn't move through the motions. Eventually, Hamza opened a door and we were in a large square courtyard. There was a covered walkway all around the outside of a garden, which was bare dirt and littered with toys and upended tricycles.

"So the part we were in is everyone's part of the house." He pointed to the wall on the left. "That part is my Aunt's family's." And he pointed across the courtyard, "And that's my Uncles. They're both older than my dad, so they got the bigger parts. My grandparents live with my Uncle too. Come on." I followed him to the right side of the courtyard, and we walked through a mesh door, leaving our slippers outside. A blast of cool air and a brightly lit, decorated room greeted us. There was a sofa, several chairs and a big TV against one wall.

Pictures of people, including a younger Hamza were on the mantelpieces and cupboards around the room. There were four doors here. Three were open. I could see that one led to a bathroom, the other to a large bedroom and the third was only open ajar. That was the only one with a light on.

Hamza tutted. "She always does this. Aisha! How many times has Dad told you not to turn on the AC?"

"Don't turn it off!" A girl shouted from behind the third door. 

I followed Hamza into the large and dark bedroom, which was so nice and cold. There was a big, noisy box on the wall, and Hamza made towards it.

"Stop right there!" A voice behind me. Then a click, a bang and a searing pain on my neck.

"Aah!" I shouted, surprised.

"Stop it, Hamza!" There were more clicks and bangs, and this time Hamza shouted.

"Aisha! For god's sake! Ouch! Stop! What're you doing?!" He was doing a little dance and covering his face with his hands.

I had a chance and turned around to see our attacker. In the light of the doorway, the silhouette of a short haired girl stood holding a gun. She pulled back the top to make the click, and fired it to make the bang, really fast. I lunged and managed to grab her arm, knocking the gun out of it.

"Hey! Who're you?" She shouted. Her other hand came around and punched me in the face. It hurt. I was dazed and confused, and she smelled nice. Then she kicked me in the gut. "Get away from me, pervert!"

I stumbled backwards and fell on my butt.

"Aisha! Stop hitting my guest!" Hamza shouted. He'd run across the room and picked up the gun. He pointed it at his sister.

"What're you going to do? Shoot a girl?"

"You're not a girl." Hamza said, and he took out the gun's magazine. "Wait 'till I tell Umair Bhai that you took his BB gun."

"Shut up, Umair Bhai likes me." She crossed her arms. "Who's this guy?"

I'd managed to stand up. She hadn't really hurt me, just caught me off guard.

"I'm Alam," I said. And I noticed that she wasn't wearing a kameez or a hijab. Instead, she wore jeans and a black shirt with some drawings on it. Her dark hair was shoulder length and she looked a lot like Hamza – striking. She must have been just a year younger than us.

"He's my friend from school."

"You shouldn't touch girls. Did you know that?"

"What?"

"You were touching me. You shouldn't do that. It's haram. If you're lucky I won't tell my big brother about it. He's in University you know."

"What? I wasn't touching you. You shot us."

"That's not true. You came to my house and touched me, pervert. See, Hamza's the one with the gun. I'm just a girl. I can't do anything." She raised her arms and shrugged.

"Ignore her." Hamza said, and he walked to the box in the wall and pressed a button. There was a beep, and suddenly the room was a lot quieter. 

"Ugh. You suck Hamza."

"Aisha, it's October. It's not even hot out, why are you wasting so much electricity?"

"Who cares."

"Whatever. Come on, Alam."

I followed Hamza back into the living room. The girl followed us too, arms crossed. "So that one's my parent's bedroom, and this one is Aisha's." He pointed to the door that had been ajar but was now wide open. "She used to share it with our older sister, but now she shares it with Monu and Mini." There was a small bed with another bed on top, and then a third bed on its own. They'd been squeezed in together with a closet; there was hardly space to walk around. Considering how weird Hamza's sister was, her room seemed pretty ordinary, if a little small. But hey, I slept in a rickshaw. 

"Stop looking in my room, pervert." She said from behind.

Hamza opened the last door. This room was bigger, but it also had two beds on top of each other. There were pictures taped on the walls – pictures of planes, tanks, soldiers and cricket players. A Pakistani flag was hung up above the beds.

"This is my desk." Hamza said and tapped the desk closer to the door. His desk was tidy, with a few notebooks piled neatly against one end and a cup full of pencils on the other. "And this is my brother's." He gestured to the larger desk in front of the beds. There was a big white box on it, the same as what Uncle Masood had in his office. Whatever desk wasn't covered by the box was littered with papers and thick textbooks like the ones Zain had.

"What is that thing?" I said, pointing to the box.

"What? Oh, that's Umair Bhai's computer. I told you about it."

"Computer? I've seen one before, but I don't know what it does." I walked over and touched the box. It looked just like a TV.

"Really? I guess you wouldn't have seen a computer anywhere huh."

"Wow, are you like a farmer or something? It's 2007. Everyone has a computer. Except me of course." Aisha said.

"That's not true, I don't have one." Hamza said.

"Yeah but you can use Umair Bhai's all day so it doesn't even matter."

"So can you?"

"Just shut up Hamza, you're stupid."

"Okay. Come here, Alam and press this button." I did as he said. The computer turned on, and it went from a black screen with text to a blue screen, and then a picture of a green hill and blue sky.

Hamza's sister jumped on the bed and lied sideways, resting her head on a hand.

"Sit down," Hamza said, gesturing to the bed and sitting in the chair. "It takes a while to load."

The girl was looking at me, and she cocked an eyebrow. I sat on the ground and ignored her.

"It's like a TV." I said.

Hamza laughed. "Well, kind of I guess. But see, you can use it." He opened a drawer under the desk, and on it was a long tray covered in English letters. And separate from that, a strange black object. He picked up the object, pulling a cable it was attached to. "See, this is a mouse." He moved it around. "When I move it around, the mouse on the screen moves." He pointed at the little arrow on the screen and moved the mouse to show it move. "And see, I can open programs and do all sorts of things." He pressed the mouse and it made a clicking sound. Then the picture on the screen disappeared and after a few seconds it was replaced by a blank white screen. Hamza took the tray and started pressing the English letters. "This is a keyboard, I can use it to write words."

The letters he pressed appeared on the screen: "Hello, my name is Hamza."

"Oh, that's cool. Can I try?"

"Sure!" Hamza moved his chair and I scooted over to the table. I had to stare at the keyboard for a long time to find the right letters. It didn't make any sense. They seemed to have been placed there randomly.

Eventually, I managed to write: "Alam is my name."

"Ugh, you're so slow." Hamza's sister had said partway through the struggle. 

"Okay, so now take the mouse and move it to that cross in the top right corner," Hamza said. I did as he asked, but it took a long time to find the little arrow on the screen. Once I found it though, it was easy to move it around. "Okay, now click." I pressed the button. "Oh, no you have to click on the other side." Hamza said. And then I realized there were two buttons on the mouse.

I did as he said, and a little gray box appeared. I started to read it. "It's just asking if you want to save the file, just press don't save." Hamza pointed at the screen.

"What do you mean save?"

"Oh, like if you want write stuff and you want to open it again later, you can do that."

"I see." So, I moved the mouse over to don't save and clicked it. Then the white disappeared and there was the old picture on the screen.

"Ugh. You guys are so boring."

"Shut up Aisha, just go to your room."

"That's boring too. Hey, why don't you show him Stick Cricket?"

"Oh, that's actually a good idea. Here, let me take over." I moved aside so Hamza could drag his chair back in front of the computer. He moved the mouse to a blue E on the screen and clicked it twice. Then a white screen appeared and he moved the mouse to a blank part near the top and started pressing buttons on the keyboard. And then the screen went black, and after a moment, there were drawings – like the TV shows that Danish watches on the screen. They had cricket bats and balls. Hamza moved the mouse and pressed buttons on the screen which let him pick his team (Pakistan of course). And then there was a countdown and Hamza was a batsman.

A bowler ran on the other side and threw the ball. Hamza pressed keys on the keyboard and the batsmen swung his bat. Then, after hitting the ball away a number came up to show how many runs he'd got. And sometimes it would show the ball go past Hamza and hit the wickets and then he was out. Everything was written in English. There was a score card, and the names of the players that were batting and everything.

"Can I try?" I asked, after Hamza finished his game.

I wasn't as good. I pressed the buttons Hamza showed me to press, but the batsmen always swung his bat before the ball reached him.

"You have to time it, wait for the ball."

I did, and it worked. But I still wasn't as good as Hamza, and I lost two games in a row.

"You're really bad, did you know that?"

"Shut up Aisha."

"Here, let me show you how it's done." Then she started playing, and she was way better than me.

We'd been playing for at least an hour, swapping out after every game, when we heard the door to the courtyard open. It was Aisha's turn, but she jumped up from the chair and whispered "Damn, move!" She shoved me hard, and jumped over me, then over Hamza and hid behind the bed.

"What on Earth is her problem?" I said to Hamza.

"I'm sorry Alam, just ignore her."

Then Hamza's door opened, and the girl from the kitchen walked in. She was holding a tray with a plate of biscuits and two glasses of juice.

"Oh, it's just you, Noor." Aisha said, standing up. She jumped forward, between the two beds to collapse face down on the lower one and sigh. "Close call."

Hamza took the tray from the girl and put it on his desk. "Have some biscuits Alam, and I indulged."

"Madam was looking for you." The girl said to Aisha as she was leaving.

"Don't tell her I'm here."

As if on cue, we heard the courtyard door open again. "Aisha, are you here? Why is it so cold? Did you leave the AC on? Come on, we need your help in the kitchen."

"She's in here." Hamza shouted back.

"Hamza!" A foot landed squarely in his side.

"Ouch, what the hell Aisha?"

The girl scrambled off the bed and made for the door, kicking me in the process. But Hamza's mom was standing there before she'd even stood up. I'd seen the angry look in a mother's eye often enough to know that someone was in trouble. But at first, she ignored her daughter and looked at me with a smile. "Alam, are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?"

I nodded. "Thanks, I'm okay."

"Okay great, have fun boys. Come on Aisha."

They left, and Hamza smiled. "Finally. Sorry Alam, she's really annoying. Come on, do you want to play more?"

"Yeah!"

Even while playing, I could hear shouting in the other room. "What are you wearing...In a room with a boy...Didn't even cover your hair... Put this on...Have some decency...What am I going to do with you..." We both ignored it.

After a while, we stopped playing the cricket game and Hamza showed me the internet. It was another "program" on the computer which let you find pictures of anything. Hamza and I found pictures of planes, tanks and guns. You just had to know and type in the name, and then many small pictures would appear on the screen. And if you clicked one of them, it became bigger and you could look more carefully. Sometimes it was weird and even though we typed in the name of a plane, a picture of a soldier would show up, or the flag, or a different plane altogether. But most of the pictures matched what we typed.

After a while, we were disturbed by another knock on the door. It was the maid, Noor. "Madam says come to the table in fifteen minutes for dinner."

"Okay, thanks Noor." Hamza said, and she left.

That's when I finally realized how late it was. There was a clock above the door with the little hand ticking close to 8.

I got up. "I have to go! I'm late! I'm going to be in so much trouble! I had work to do! There's no way Uncle Masood is going to be okay with this! God, I hope he doesn't see me! Maybe I'll just tell him I was in the back the whole time... Or that I had a headache or something..."

Hamza stood up as well. "Damn, you're right! I totally forgot you couldn't stay long. Sorry Alam! Come on, let's grab your bag."

Hamza's Nanny had put our bags next to the sofa in the common area, so I grabbed mine and followed Hamza out into the courtyard and through the rest of the house. There was a lot of chaos around the kitchen, with some of the maids running out and putting plates, cutlery and pans of hot food on the table. As we were walking past, I saw Aisha come out holding a jug of water. For a second, the hijab and kameez made her look like a totally different person – like an ordinary girl. But when she saw me, she stuck out her tongue and I realized it was just an illusion.

When we finally exited the maze-like house, it was dark and I found myself looking side to side at an unfamiliar road. "Come on, I'll take you back." Hamza said. So we ran back together, sprinting as fast as we could and ignoring the persistent eyes of the city's people. Hamza took me up to the head of my street, and I could see Uncle Masood's shop in the distance.

"Thanks, that was a lot of fun!" I said to him between breaths, hands on my knees.

"It was, we'll do it again!"

"Yeah!"

"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay!" And I started walking quickly down the road, trying to catch my breath.

When I reached the house, I noticed a single letter in the tray next to the door. It had my name, so it was probably from Mina. I pocketed it and opened the door, breathing a sigh of relief when it didn't resist. Even though the shop was closed, Naveed and Raja probably hadn't locked the courtyard door because they knew I was out. I didn't have a key.

The house looked peaceful and quiet. The lights in the living room were on, so I figured Uncle Masood was still watching his evening TV. They would have had dinner by now. I quietly made for the back of the courtyard behind the house, moving carefully to not hit one of the many rickshaw parts that were just lying around. If I could make it to my rickshaw bedroom, I'd be able to pretend I'd gotten home a lot sooner than I had, and that I'd done a lot of work. 

"Alam, is that you?"

I froze. Nabilla was standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from inside the house.

"As Salam Au Alaykum...Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you..."

"Oh sweetie!" She ran down the stairs and captured me in a hug. "Oh sweetie, I'm so sorry." She smelled so nice. I didn't know what to say. She was crying. "It's all just so terrible. It'll be okay honey, we're all here for you. We'll pray together." She sniffled and held me at arm's length. "Aw, you're growing up so fast. Come on, come inside."

"Uh..." But I didn't know what to say, and let her take my arm up the stairs and into the light of the living room.

Uncle Masood and Aunty Asma were sitting on the sofa, both looked serious and solemn.

"Uncle Masood, I'm sorry I didn't realize the time. I got distracted...There was school and I'll make it up to you..."

The man looked at me without expression. "Come and sit here, son." He patted the sofa next to him, between him and Aunty Asma. I did so, only just sitting at the edge of the seat. It was really uncomfortable. And then I noticed what everyone was looking at – the TV.

There was an upturned and badly damaged truck – a military one. People running around it, shouting. Blood on the ground. They showed a room filled with beds, people lying on them, covered in white bandages where their arms and legs were meant to be. I recognized the language they screamed in. There were trucks filled to the brim with bearded men flying a white flag and waving their guns in the air. They were showing clips of soldiers marching, and planes flying through the sky. Then they were showing mountains, really familiar mountains. They showed soldiers around a big artillery gun as it fired so hard that it moved backwards, and then a series of explosions through those mountains. Those mountains I'd grown up on.

The text at the bottom of the screen didn't change: "Military begins operations in Swat District to fight off invading militants."