Afghanistan's Gem Hunters | Afghan Scene Magazine - Asia-Africa ...

sceneAfghan Scene December 2009 sceneAfghan Scene December 2009We weren’t rich like those in Wazir AkbarKhan, Fawad, but we were happy. Now wedon’t even own a tree from which we canhang ourselves.Jahid was probably the most educated boyI’d ever known. He always read the newspaperswe found thrown away in the street and he wasolder than the rest of us, although how mucholder nobody knows.We don’t celebrate birthdays in Afghanistan;we only remember victories and death. Jahidwas also the best thief I’d ever known. Somedays he would come away with handfuls ofdollars, taken from the pocket of some foreigneras us smaller kids annoyed them to the point oftears. But if I was born under a shadow, Jahidwas surely born under the full gaze of the devilhimself because the truth was he was incrediblyugly. His teeth were stumpy smudges of brownand one of his eyes danced to its own tune,rolling in its socket like a marble in a box. Healso had a leg so lazy that he had to force itinto line with the other.‘He’s a dirty little thief,’ my mother wouldsay. But she rarely had a kind word to sayabout anyone in her sister’s family. ‘You keepaway from him . . . filling your head with suchnonsense.’How my mother actually thought I couldkeep away from Jahid was anyone’s guess. Butthis is a common problem with adults: they askfor the impossible and then make yourlife a misery when you can’t obeythem. The fact is I lived under the same roof asJahid, along with his fat cow of a mother, hisdonkey of a father and two more of their dirtyfacedchildren, Wahid and Obaidullah.‘All boys,’ my uncle would declare proudly.‘And all ugly,’ my mother would mutter underher chaddar, giving me a wink as she did sobecause it was us against them and althoughwe had nothing at least our eyes looked in thesame direction.Together, all seven of us shared four smallrooms and a hole in the yard. Not easy, then,to keep away from cousin Jahid as my motherdemanded. It was an order President Karzaiwould have had problems fulfilling.However, my mother was never one forexplaining so she never told me how I shouldkeep my distance. In fact, for a while my motherwas never one for talking full stop.On very rare occasions she would look upfrom her sewing to talk about the house wehad once owned in Paghman. I was born therebut we fled before the pictures had time toplant themselves in my head. So I foundmy memories with the words of mymother, watchingher eyes grow wide with pride as she describedpainted rooms lined with thick cushions of thedeepest red; curtains covering glass windows; akitchen so clean you could eat your food fromthe floor; and a garden full of yellow roses.‘We weren’t rich like those in Wazir AkbarKhan, Fawad, but we were happy,’ she would tellme. ‘Of course that was long before the Talibancame. Now look at us! We don’t even own a treefrom which we can hang ourselves.’I was no expert, but it was pretty clear mymother was depressed.She never talked about the family we hadlost, only the building that had once hiddenus – and not very effectively as it turned out.However, sometimes at night I would hear herwhisper my sister’s name. She would then reachfor me, pulling me closer to her body. And that’show I knew she loved me.On those occasions, lying almost as one onthe cushions we sat on during the day, I’d beburning to talk. I’d feel the words crowdingin my head, waiting to spill from my mouth. Iwanted to know everything; about my father,about my brothers, about Mina.I was desperate to knowthem, to have themcome alive in thewords of mymother. But she only ever whispered my sister’sname, and like a coward I kept quiet because Iwas afraid that if I spoke I would break the spelland she would roll away from me.By daylight, my mother would be gone frommy side, already awake and pulling on herburqa. As she left the house she would bark alist of orders that always started with ‘go toschool’ and ended with ‘keep away from Jahid’.In the main these were orders I tried tofollow out of respect for my mother – inAfghanistan our mothers are worthmore than all the gold that hidesin the basement of the President’spalace – but it wasn’t easy.And though I knew she wouldn’tbeat me if I disobeyed her, unlikeJahid’s father who seemed to thinkhe had a God-given right to hit mein the face on any day the sun cameup, she would have that look in hereyes, a disappointed stare I46Afghan Scene December 2009www.afghanscene.comwww.afghanscene.comAfghan Scene December 200947