I could hear their voices even before I got to our spot - annoying idiots laughing at nothing and poking fun at each other. They were behind the trees, just down the road from school – the trees where Hamza and I met every day after class. Danish wasn't there. I could tell because of how much Feroz was talking. I'd noticed he was a completely different person without Danish - everyone in the group was. It's not like they were scared of him, but when he wasn't around everything wasn't about him anymore.
There was nothing to do but ignore them and wait. They were lounging against the wall behind the trees, and I'd been there often enough to know that it was hard to see the road from there. This was always a busy time. Cars crowded the small street, honking at each other even as kids and parents squeezed between them to cross or get to a car they'd left parked in the middle of the traffic. I'd realized the smarter parents made their kids walk down to different, less crowded roads to be picked up. Most kids were like me and walked all the way home. I imagined what a bird would see in the afternoon – a steady stream of light blue (the colour of our uniform) leaving the school and spreading out into the city, getting thinner and thinner until it disappeared.
I crossed my arms and tapped my foot impatiently, ignoring the groups of kids (older and younger) that walked by. What was taking him so long? Eventually, the crowd dispersed and the road emptied. I kept waiting. An occasional straggler would leave the school gates alone, looking at the ground with both hands on their bag straps as they walked past me. They stared until they got close; people had been doing that more and more lately. Still, Hamza was nowhere to be seen.
And of course, that's when Feroz and his friends decided it was time to go home. I turned away as they left the trees – maybe they wouldn't see me. But they did. The laughing and joking came to a halt when one of them shouted, "hey, isn’t that the pathan boy!"
"He looks like a degenerate!"
"Hush, don't you know he's a terrorist!"
"They're all terrorists!"
"Yeah! Oi! Did you bomb the court last week? Or was it your brother?"
"Ooh be careful, he'll bomb you."
"Alllaaahhuakbarr! Booom!" They laughed.
"Oi pathan, how do you join the Taliban? Do you pay a membership fee?"
"Not if your Dad is already one!"
I turned around and charged.
"What?!"
"Hey!"
There was enough time to see that there were six of them before my fist connected with Feroz's face. The first thing I felt was the wetness of his mouth. Next was his knee in my gut, and then we both thudded to the ground. I punched him again, my other arm clutching his shirt. People were shouting. Someone grabbed me from behind and threw me away. I rolled onto the road but couldn't get up before being kicked in the side. I gasped for breath, someone else kicked me in the back. I collapsed, and then grasped the nearest leg, digging my fingernails into it hard. The person shouted in pain, and I rolled over, pulling them with me. They tripped over me and into someone else. I scrambled up to my feet quickly, stumbling ahead to escape. Then I turned around and charged at the nearest person. I tried headbutting into his chest, but he managed to grab my shoulders. We grappled for a second, then someone came from behind and grabbed my arms, locking them behind my back. Someone else punched me in the stomach. I kicked my legs hard, hitting the nearest person and trying to dislodge the person behind me.
"Oi!" It was Hamza. He ran in fists flying and punched someone in the face. There was a lot of shouting, and my heart was pounding. I managed to free myself by running backwards until the person holding me tripped over my legs. We both fell, but he was the one that hit the ground and cried out. I elbowed him hard as I stood up and ran towards Hamza. There were four guys around him, one occupying his hands and another locked around his waist. One of them was grabbing at his shirt, stretching and ripping it. I jumped on his back, causing him to shout in surprise, and locked my arms around his head. He dug his fingernails hard into my arm, which hurt. Then he bit it, and I had to let go and stumble to the ground. Another guy pushed me and I was already off balance so I fell. I clung to his shirt on the way down, causing it to audibly tear. Then I grabbed his leg, and he limped backwards dragging me on the rough and hard road. Someone kicked me in the back, and I turned to try and kick back in their direction. The boy I was holding onto tried kicking me with his other leg, but I jerked hard and he careened back and forth trying to regain balance, eventually tripping over me and breaking his fall with his arms. I got his foot in my face, and then struggled hard to push him off. Eventually I managed it and clambered back to my feet. Then I was breathing hard, standing next to Hamza.
They were all back on their feet, all panting and staring at us.
"What the hell is your problem?" One of them said, and pushed me. I pushed him back, harder.
"Get out of our city."
"Leave him alone." Hamza said.
"He's a terrorist." The boy spat on the ground in front of me.
I would've punched him if Hamza didn’t hold out his hand.
"Go away, we're done."
"Yeah, whatever." They started walking down the road, glancing back occasionally.
Only then did I realize that my stomach hurt – I'd be bruised tomorrow. And my arms and legs were scraped red from being dragged on the road. Hamza was looking at his own arm, where one of the boys had scratched him.
"You okay?" He asked.
"Yeah. What a bunch of babies. We basically beat all of them, two versus six."
He laughed. "They are pretty weak...Why did they attack you? Did you do anything?"
"No, I was just waiting for you."
"Douchebags."
We were walking now. "They were calling me a terrorist and Taliban."
"Just because of the way you look huh? That's racism."
"Racism?"
"Yeah, it's when you treat someone badly because of where they're from."
"Oh yeah. They do that."
"It pisses me off so much."
"Yeah..."
“But we beat them up real good.”
“Oh man, you missed it! I punched Feroz right in the face.”
“Oh really? That must’ve felt good!”
“Yeah, I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”
“Do you think we taught them a lesson? Or are they going to keep bothering you?”
“I don’t know...They’ll probably want to fight again, and this time they’ll bring more people. Those guys are too chicken to fight one on one.”
“Yeah...”
We walked in silence. Ever since the news started showing the Taliban in Swat, I'd been getting even more stares than usual in the city. People saw someone from Swat and assumed they were a terrorist. I thought it was dumb, because we were the ones who were being attacked by terrorists.
There were also good people though. Uncle Masood had been very kind. He'd even started letting me spend more time with Hamza - I went to his house twice a week now. It helped that we didn't have many customers these days, and I was way better at doing my work so I could do it much faster.
We were on the busy market street where people, cars and cows all mingled together seamlessly under crisscrossing electrical cables overhead. We walked behind stalls serving freshly fried samosas or sugarcane juice and waded through the crowds around shops in the buildings on the side of the road. Nobody had time to notice two boys with ripped clothing and scraped arms. We got to the road where I usually turned off to get to Uncle Masood's house, and Hamza paused.
"I thought we were going to your house?" I said.
"Yeah...Tell you what, you go on. I'll meet you there."
"Oh, how come?"
"I just realized I have to do something, sorry. I'll catch up!"
"Okay, I'll see you there." I continued alone, and though I didn’t look back, I was pretty sure he turned onto that street.
I followed the market road to its end, or rather to where it intersected the much bigger road that Hamza's house was on. The first time he'd taken me there, we'd cut through the houses from one of the side roads. But when Hamza wasn't around, I preferred to come this way. It was longer, and this was the busiest part of the market, but it was way easier to not get lost.
It was sunny today, which was a nice change; the last week had been nothing but fog. It was always interesting to see the market in the fog – especially in the morning when it was thick. Apart from the ones near you, you couldn't see cars or rickshaws or motorcycles – just their lights in the distance. I once walked right into a cow that was lounging around the side of the road. It'd been my fault for getting distracted, but on a day like today I would've seen it from miles away. It didn't really matter. It just looked at me stupidly, and I went on my way.
There were no cows on this road - Hamza's road. Here, cars and rickshaws had the freedom of going as fast as they wanted. And they did. Even then, in thick fog with cars speeding by, people would run across the road, stopping by the trees in the middle to watch the cars coming from the other side. I thought it was a miracle that no one had been hit yet. There was sand at the side of this road, sand which slowly merged with weed laden dirt, and I walked in it. There were places where it became bright green grass – only in front of the really nice buildings. In other places, houses had walls so close to the road that there wasn't anywhere to walk on without being on the road itself.
It was busy. Younger people walked around, laughing together in groups as they went to the stores and restaurants on the roadside. Others left buildings with blue glass – these people were always wearing pants and shirts with a collar. They either walked to the large spaces with cars and motorcycles, getting into theirs and driving onto the road, or to the edge of the road where they hailed a rickshaw driver. Eventually, the people around changed. As the roadside got denser with houses, people were less dressed up. They walked around now in dirty kameez shalwars, carrying groceries or pails of milk and yelling in crude Punjabi to one another. Some of them stared at me as I went by.
Eventually, I got to Hamza's house. I knew it was his because it was four houses down from the empty lot filled to the brim with garbage. Also, because I'd learned to recognize the gate. There were two actually. The first was small – made for people. It was just a piece of rusty metal with patterns of flowers welded on it. The second was the same, but much bigger and was actually two gates that could be opened to let a car out.
Hamza hadn't caught up yet, so I squatted down and found a stick. With it, I traced out shapes in the sand. I wasn't very good at drawing, not like Hamza who could draw planes and tanks. I just made lines and connected them, breaking up the resulting shapes with more and more lines. Eventually, it looked pretty cool. Without even realizing it, I could make thousands of shapes. Afterwards, I did try to draw a gun. I'd been thinking about it a lot. I wanted to make a gun like a sniper, but it had to be good enough to see through forests. That's where terrorists hid – in the forests on the mountains. I didn't know how to do it yet, but I imagined it would have to have a very good scope. So, I ended up drawing a big scope before realizing that it was basically the size of the gun I'd drawn. It looked silly.
"What're you doing here?" It was Aisha. She looked out of place in her light blue and white uniform. There was a hijab in there somewhere, but she'd pulled it down so it hung uselessly around her neck. Her arms went from holding the bag on her back to crossed. She squinted at me, and blew a pink bubble. It popped and she went back to chewing.
"Waiting for Hamza." I said, and went back to drawing.
"Are you a stalker?"
"What?"
"You know, a stalker. You go to girl's houses and watch them change because you're a pervert."
"No, that's you."
"You're the one that's at my house."
"You're not a girl though." I hadn't looked up from the sand, which was a mistake. A foot landed in my bruised side, and I groaned in pain, trying not to fall over. I couldn't say or do anything though. That would just encourage her.
I was hoping she'd leave, but she didn't. In fact, she squatted down next to me and didn't say anything for several minutes. Eventually, she said, "so what happened to you?"
"What?"
"Are you deaf? I said, what happened to you?"
I looked at her. She was inspecting the grazes on my leg. "I got in a fight."
"Did you win?"
"Yeah, of course."
"It doesn't look like it. It looks like you got beat up bad."
"No, I beat them up bad. It was two versus six and we still won."
"Does it hurt?" She poked my arm.
"Ow! Of course it hurts. Are you dumb?"
"So, why'd you get in a fight anyway?"
"Because, those guys are idiots."
"But so are you. I would've thought you'd be friends."
"Shut up."
"What, did they make fun of your mom or something?"
I looked at her. She was staring at me, head resting on a hand.
"Stop looking at me."
"Why?"
"Because it's weird."
"Okay, so?"
"So stop."
"No."
"What, are you a pervert then?" I said, saying the word mockingly.
She cocked an eyebrow. "Yeah."
"What?"
"Yeah, I'm a pervert. What are you going to do about it? Are you a scared little girl?"
"God you're so weird..."
"You never answered my question. That's rude, you know?"
"What?"
"My question. I asked why you got in a fight."
"Why do you care?"
"What makes you think I care?"
"Because you're asking me?"
"So what? I don't care about you."
"Good. I don't care about you either."
"Good."
"Okay."
"So why'd you get in a fight then?"
"Ugh." I shook my head and tried to focus on drawing.
I could feel her staring at me, and I ignored it. After a while, she spoke again; quieter this time. "Is it because you're a pathan?"
"What?"
"Is it because you're a pathan and you look funny?"
I looked at her incredulously – wanting to be angry. But she looked kind of sad, and then she looked away. "Do people make fun of you for being a pathan?"
"Yeah..."
She was drawing in the sand with her finger. "Yeah. People make fun of me too."
"Okay...Good..." She didn't say anything. "It's because you're weird..."
"So what? What's wrong with being weird?"
"It's weird. That's what's wrong with it." She stared at me angrily. "I don't know. You don't act like a girl...it's weird."
"So what?" She punched my arm.
"Ow! What's wrong with you?"
"What's wrong with being weird?" She looked at me. "Or being a pathan?"
I thought about it. "I don't know...I guess it's just different and people don't like that."
"Yeah." She stood up abruptly. "Come on."
"What?"
"Stand up." She crossed her arms.
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
"No, I'm waiting for Hamza."
"So what? Stand up."
"Fine." I did so. "What do you want?"
Then the strangest thing happened. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me in a hug.
"What?" I said, trying to figure out if I should push her away.
Luckily, I didn't have to because she did. "Stop touching me, pervert."
"What? You're the one that's touching me."
"Shut up, pervert." Was she blushing? Was I?
There was an awkward silence. “I’m going inside.” She said eventually, before storming to the gate and pressing the doorbell several times. I could it hear it ring, cut itself out and ring again. It didn’t take long before their nanny opened the door. Aisha shoved her bag at her and charged past. I squatted down again and picked up my stick.
I had no idea what to draw. Why did she do that? It was so weird. Was it nice? I guess it was nice...No it was mostly just weird...Where was Hamza? Why was he taking so long?
“Hey,” I jumped to a start. It was Aisha standing in the gate. “Do you want to come inside?”
“What?”
“I said, do you want to come inside, you idiot?”
“Why? I’m waiting for Hamza.”
“Because...It’s dangerous outside.”
“No it isn’t.”
“It is.”
“Only if you’re a weak little girl.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“What?”
“Just...Come inside. I know how to turn on the computer, we can play Stikcricket.”
I thought about it. There wasn’t really any point in waiting for Hamza outside; and I could practice some games so I’d be better the next time we played together.
“Okay.” I got up and followed her through the gate and into the courtyard. Hamza always took me through the house, and I’d often wondered where the narrow passage between the house and courtyard wall led to. That’s the way Aisha went, right around the outside of the house until we eventually passed through a door that led into the open roofed square area. We walked to the side that belonged to Hamza’s family, and Aisha, who hadn’t spoken a word, stopped at the door.
“Wait here.” She went inside.
“Ami?” I could hear her calling and checking the rooms. She came back out.
“Okay, come on.”
I followed her into the cool, decorated and familiar living room. The room was lit by two windows, and as clouds moved over the sun, it darkened. Aisha walked behind the couch to Hamza’s bedroom and I followed her into it. She closed the door.
“Hey so um...” She was still looking at the door. Was her hand shaking? “Don’t rape me, okay?” She whispered.
“What?”
“I said, don’t rape me.” Now she was glaring at me.
“What? What’s that?”
“Rape? It's what perverts do to little girls, you idiot.”
“What? Why would I...What are you talking about?”
“If you even tried.” She wagged her finger at me threateningly. “I’d kill you. And then, my brother Umair Bhai would kill you even more. He’s in university, you know.”
“Oh my god, why are you so weird?” I said, frustrated. “Can we just play some games?” I gestured at the computer.
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure that’s all you want to do?”
“Yes! I won’t rape you, I promise.” I didn’t even know what that was, or why she cared so much.
“Okay, good.” She pressed the button on the computer and sat on her knees, waiting for it to load. “Aren’t you going to sit?” She said.
I was surprised she hadn’t taken the chair, but I did. She was so close, I could smell her. Did girls always smell nice? She reached over to the keyboard to type in the login password, and when her arm brushed mine, I pulled mine away quickly. Why did I do that?
“I know how to do it from here.” I said, after the Stikcricket game was opened. She let go of the mouse and keyboard and didn’t say a word.
I started setting up a match. Obviously, I’d be Team Pakistan. Hamza had told me that the names of the players in the game were almost but not quite the same as the real ones. That didn’t really matter to me - I didn’t know any of the players on the team. First, I played against England and made it medium difficulty. I’d gotten good enough to win most games on medium difficulty, but it felt weird playing with Aisha sitting there watching. She didn’t say a word though, not even when I lost my first three games. I just kept playing, and she just kept watching.
Around an hour or so later, I was starting to get tired of playing and thought about asking her to put on the airplane game. Then the lights went out. With a pop, the computer screen went blank, the room was dark and that strange humming noise you always heard indoors was gone. The fan in the ceiling spun lazily, slowing down. It was the only thing I could hear. Then a bright white circle illuminated the desk and swiveled around to cast light on me and Aisha as she rested her flashlight on a textbook. It teetered left and right, and she put her hand on it to stop it. We sat in silence.
Electricity was strange in Lahore. Back in Swat, we rarely used it, so it was never a surprise when it didn’t work. Here, it worked most of the time, and people used it all the time. But every day, for several hours, it would just turn off. I usually didn’t even notice – I was always outside. But everyone in Uncle Masood’s family complained. I didn’t see the problem. They had a big battery, so whenever the power would go off, at least the lights in the living room would stay on.
But today, it was awkward. I was sitting in my friend’s room with a strange girl in the dark. She just stared at the ground, pulling the threads out of the rug she sat on. The flashlight cast some shadows across her, and I found myself staring for a bit too long. She was pretty…Not like Nabilla, but in a different and scarier way. Her skin was pale but her hair was black. Her face didn’t look delicate and soft like most girls; I could see the bones in her jaws and cheeks, and I hadn’t noticed all of the sharp angles that the shadows emphasized. If Hamza was a girl, this is exactly what he’d look like, I decided.
She looked up suddenly, listening. I heard the door to this part of the house open. “Aisha?” It was Hamza. She turned to me wide eyed and put a finger to her lips. I was confused. “Aisha, have you seen Alam?” She scurried to her feet and made to hide behind the bed.
The door to the room opened and a new flashlight swiveled around, eventually landing on her, then me, then her again. Everyone was frozen – Hamza in the door, Aisha on the bed. “What’re you doing in my room, with my friend?” There was a dim light from the living room behind him, and his figure was silhouetted by it. I’d never heard him sound so angry, and I’d never seen her look so scared.
“I asked her to let me play Stikcricket,” I said. “You were taking forever and I was bored.” The light turned to land on me, then went back to her.
He hesitated. “Really? Oh...Okay...Get out of my room, Aisha.” She left, without a word or even a glance back at me. “I’m sorry, Alam. I hope she didn’t bother you too much.”
I picked up the flashlight she’d left behind and pointed it at Hamza as I got to my feet. He covered his eyes for a second, and I noticed that he looked different - messier, disheveled.
“Listen, I’m really sorry Alam. I might have got you in trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well...I...It’s just...You need to come with me.”
“Why?”
“Uhm, your Aunty Asma is here.”
“What?! Why? What did you do?”
“I just...Never mind. They want you to come right away.”
“Okay...” I followed him out of the room, out into the courtyard and through the house. We didn’t see anyone else, not even one of the maids as we made our way through the dark hallways. I followed close, and eventually we were in a part of the house I hadn’t seen before.
“Listen, I really didn’t want to get you in trouble. I was just trying to help.”
“What did you do?”
We’d stopped outside a large wooden door in a naturally lit hallway. The door had ornate decorations on it, and I could see a red carpet and yellow light underneath. There were voices from inside – women talking.
“I beat up Danish.”
“What??”
“Because…Him and his friends are racists and I don’t like seeing them make fun of you. Now he’ll stop.”
I was shocked. Unlike Feroz and the others, Danish had never actually said anything to me. He mostly just didn’t care.
Hamza opened the door.
This room was the second room I’d seen in Hamza’s house that had been decorated for guests. There was a lavish red rug, with paintings in golden or wooden frames on every wall. Even the fan on the ceiling had arms that looked like leaves. The room was small, with three dark brown, velvety sofas pushed against the walls and separated by a glass table. All of the lights were on.
"Alam, come and have a seat.” Hamza’s mom gestured to the empty sofa next to the one she was on. On the other sofa, across from her was a smiling Aunty Asma (I could tell it was fake), and a slouched over, grumpy Danish holding a bag of ice to the side of his head. Hamza and I walked across the table and sat down.
“Alam, honey, what happened to you?” Aunty Asma asked. She never called me “honey,” ever.
I glanced at Hamza. “See,” Hamza pointed at Danish. “His friends beat up Alam.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Danish shouted.
“Aw, my poor baby.” Aunty Asma said, and cradled Danish’s head. She looked at Hamza angrily.
“Hamza, apologize to Danish and Aunty Asma. I thought I raised you better than to go around attacking people.” Hamza’s mom was angry.
“I’m sorry.” Hamza said, and I could tell he wasn’t happy about it.
Hamza’s mom looked at Aunty Asma. “Asma, I promise he’ll be punished badly. I’m really sorry.”
Aunty Asma smiled that fake, cunning smile. “That’s okay. Boys will be boys, right?”
“No, this one needs some disciplining.”
“Yes, well bad boys do need to be disciplined.” She looked at me, and I knew I was in trouble.
Hamza’s mom tutted. “He’s usually good. It’s his sister I have a lot of trouble with. I’m very surprised he would do something like this. He’s even been helping Alam with his studies, Alam is a great boy. You’re doing such a good job.”
Aunty Asma smiled. “Well yes, of course. This is just a duty that God asked Masood and I to perform.”
“It’s very noble of you; to take in a child from that area. Can you imagine what’s happening there?”
“Yes. We’re all very grateful that Alam is here safe with us, instead of being there.” She gave me that evil smile. “He works at the shop and we even pay him. We give him time to study, go to school and play with Hamza.”
“Well, boys have to play.”
“Yes, of course. It’s all a part of their education.”
There was an awkward silence as the two ladies sipped their tea. Then Aunty Asma put her cup on the table and made to stand. “We should be heading back. I have dinner to prepare.”
“Oh, you must stay for dinner!”
“No no, Masood will be expecting me of course. Thank you so much.”
“I see, another time then.”
“Yes, of course.”
We followed the two ladies out of the room and through the house. Aunty Asma complimented various things like paintings or decorations all while Danish stuck close to her leg. Hamza and I followed behind. The hallway led back to the decorated entrance room, which for once was empty. Now I knew where that door led to. And I could tell that when entertaining guests, the only parts of the house that Hamza’s mom had to show were decorated and nice.
“I’m sorry.” Hamza whispered.
“That was really stupid.” I replied.
“Yeah I know...”
“Did he cry?”
“Oh yeah, it was easy.”
That made me feel a bit better.
Naveed was waiting in Uncle Masood’s jeep just outside the courtyard gates. After a brief good bye, Aunty Asma sat in the front seat while Danish and I sat at the back. We didn’t say a word on the drive back home.
When we finally arrived, I tried making a silent getaway to my room. But Aunty Asmy called out “Alam!” She didn’t even bother turning around, but I knew I had to follow her into the house and into Uncle Masood’s office. The man was sitting behind his desk, stroking his forehead as he looked at some papers, clearly stressed.
“What’s wrong?” He asked and looked up, after we’d been standing there for a while.
“Him and his friend beat up Danish.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“How do you explain this?” She demanded, grabbing my arm and showing the graze marks.
“Danish’s friends attacked me!”
“Fine. And then you asked your friend to beat up Danish?”
“No! I didn’t know he was going to do that, I would have stopped him.”
“Liar!” She slapped me across the face. “We put a roof over your head and this is how you show your appreciation?” Another slap.
I couldn’t help but tear up – those slaps stung. “I’m sorry!”
“Asma, that’s enough.” Uncle Masood said.
“This is what I told you, Masood! It’s in his blood! You let him run off with these bad kids...I told you his kind has a tendency for violence.”
“Asma, calm down.”
“Calm down!? He beat up our baby! Don’t you care about your own son?”
Uncle Masood rubbed his forehead. “Okay okay. Alam, you’re going to be punished. Other than school, you can't leave the shop for a month. And I won’t pay you for two weeks.”
I nodded. “Sorry Uncle.”
“That’s it?” Aunty Asma said.
“He’s just a kid, Asma.”
She stared at him angrily, and then left the room.
Uncle Masood sighed. “Go on, then.” And he got back to work.
------------
Alam Zawar
32-A Sarwar Shaheed Rd, Ichra
Lahore, Punjab
Pakistan
20th March 2008
Dear Alam,
How are you?
Winter is finally over. It’s been so quiet and cold. Haroon Bhai and Sohrab Uncle are gone now. I think they got tired of staying with us, because the moment the road opened, they left.
I’m scared. We felt safe when they were here. They had their guns and were so friendly and nice to all of us. Even Maryam really liked Haroon Bhai! But they’re gone now, and I’m scared because I don’t think the bad guys are. I saw them the other day. It was just one truck, but it drove by our house and it had their white flag.
Alam, please pray they don’t come back.
How was your winter? Are you safe? How’s school? How are Hamza and Uncle Masood? Have you made any other friends? What kind of stuff did you do during the winter? I read it doesn’t even snow in Lahore. I can’t even imagine winter without snow! I miss the days when we all played in the snow and came back inside soaking wet. Do you remember that? How Ami would always make us hot, delicious chai to drink while we bundled up? I miss you, and Bilal and Jamal. I feel so alone now.
Love you forever,
Mina
------------
Alam Zawar
32-A Sarwar Shaheed Rd, Ichra
Lahore, Punjab
Pakistan
14th April 2008
Alam it's me your best friend Bilal
Bilal Rehmat
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Alam Zawar
32-A Sarwar Shaheed Rd, Ichra
Lahore, Punjab
Pakistan
23rd May 2008
Dear Alam,
They’re back.
I’d been seeing the trucks more and more often, but everyone just acted like it was normal. Matiltan was fine. I was going there to buy food, I was going there to teach the other girls. I could go alone. Everything was back to how it used to be. The market was back to normal. Uncle Zafran had setup his peach cart on the spot where they did the executions – because no one else wanted to.
But now they’re back. I was there. I was teaching Apana. Do you remember her? She’s Aimal Bhai’s younger sister. I was at their house in Matiltan and teaching her math, when we heard shouting outside. Then there were loud blasts and gun shots. Then more shouting. We hid. We hugged each other and hid. After sunset, Aimal Bhai came to get me. He was covered in dust and he looked so sad, Alam. He got me, I covered up fully, and he took me back home.
We had to walk by the market. There were bodies, Alam. Five of them, and they were all wearing the police uniform. The police building had a Taliban flag on it. They were everywhere. They were shouting in celebration and firing their guns in the air.
I was terrified. But we made it back and Aimal Bhai spent the night. He told Abu everything. They came at prayer time. Can you believe that?
We heard there’s fighting further South. But that’s so far away. They’re here now, again. Here in our home. Why did the Army abandon us, Alam?
I love you. Please pray for us.
Mina
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Alam Zawar
32-A Sarwar Shaheed Rd, Ichra
Lahore, Punjab
Pakistan
3rd July 2008
I’m sick of it, Alam. I’m tired and sick of it all. It’s so unfair. Abu won’t let me leave the house, but I don’t care. I’m sick of it. They can’t do this. They can’t force women to stay in their houses cooking food and cleaning. We deserve education. We deserve every chance that boys have. It’s so unfair.
Mina
July 2008
I walked into Uncle Masood’s office slowly. He looked up at me when I did, and the flickering light cast ominous shadows across his solemn expression. He nodded, but at the phone to his ear.
“Zawar-saab, Alam is here.” He nodded again. “Inshallah.”
Then he gave me the phone. I took it, and slowly put it to my ear. Something was wrong.
There was distant crying on the other end. “As Salam Au Alaykum.” I said.
“Alam, it’s your father.” He was quiet. And I didn’t say anything. “Alam...Your sister. She hasn’t come home.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s missing. She didn’t come home. We’re looking for her.”
I had to sit down. “What do you mean missing? Did they kill her? Did the Taliban kill her?”
“Don’t say that, son. We’ll find her. We’re all looking.”
“Abu...”
“I just wanted to let you know...We’ll find her inshallah. Inshallah.” He sobbed. Abu actually sobbed. Just for a second, and then he was composed again.
“Abu, I’m coming home.”
“What? No! Alam stay in Lahore.”
“No, I’m...”
“Alam, don’t you dare disobey me. Stay in Lahore.”
“You can’t stop me. I’m coming home.”
“You have school! It’s not safe here!”
“It’s the summer break, and I don’t care!”
“Alam, don’t you dare. If you come home, I will kill you.”
“You can’t stop me.” I slammed the phone back on its white box, my heart beating and my eyes watery.
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