Free A Far Away Home by Howard Faber Page A

going to the mosque in Muhshed.” That was a good answer. The mosque
was famous, sacred to the Shia. It was very usual for Afghans to be traveling to
the mosque. Ali heard all of this and was relieved to hear the truck shift into gear
and start forward. He was safely in Iran. When the truck got to Tyabad, the Iranian
border town, he got down to stretch and take a look at Iran. He soon realized it
was very much like Afghanistan, though with some more sophisticated items than in
Sharidure. One thing was the paving and sidewalks. Another was the electricity. The
language sounded the same, although with some words he hadn’t heard. The people of
Tyabad recognized he was from Afghanistan by the sound of his voice and his vocabulary.
To Ali, Iranian Farsi sounded somewhat sing-songy, sort of Farsi with an accent and
endings sounding more lilting than his own. He could be readily understood and could
understand them in turn. There were questions about the Russians. Iran was not part
of the Russian plan, at least not yet. They seemed interested in any small thing
he had to say about the Russians and seemed to understand how much he wanted the
Russians to leave. He didn’t tell anyone of his encounters at the school or the bridge.
    ***
    Muhshed was where Ali was going. His father gave him the address of one of his friends
there. After a night in a teahouse, Ali found a truck heading there. He was getting
used to riding on the back of trucks. It almost seemed like part of his daily routine.
The truck arrived in the afternoon, and Ali climbed down to see a large city, not
as big as Kabul, but still a true city.
    He started out asking people how to find the home of his father’s friend. As he got
near the address, he found several Afghans living there. It was common for Afghans
to live close together, sort of making a small community. One of the Afghans he met
knew his father’s friend, whose name was Akbar. He was originally from Sharidure
and was his father’s boyhood friend. Akbar came to the door to answer the knock,
and Ali introduced himself. “I am Hassan’s son, Ali. I have come by truck from Sharidure,
and my father gave me your address.”
    â€œHello, Ali. You are most welcome in my home. Your father and I were good friends
in Sharidure. Please, come in.”
    Ali was greatly relieved, both to actually find Akbar and to have him be so welcoming.
“Thank you very much. I am sorry to be trouble for you.”
    â€œYou must stay with me and my family. Let’s have some bread and tea. We will have
a real meal later. Tell me about your father and about you and about Sharidure.”
Akbar was guiding Ali into another room where there were other people. Ali assumed
they were Akbar’s family. “Ali, this is my wife, Anisa, my son, Mohammad, and my
daughter, Sara.” Ali bowed to each and shook hands with Mohammad. “Ali is the son
of Hassan, my good friend from Sharidure. He has come to stay with us. He can tell
us about Sharidure. Ali, we have had some news, but not for a while. Are there Russians
in Sharidure?”
    As tea and bread were served, Ali and Akbar’s family sat on the floor around the
tablecloth and talked about Sharidure. Ali told them everything except about his
hitting the principal’s teapot with a stone and about the bridge and the Russian
soldiers. They all assumed he had left Sharidure because of the suspicions about
him teaching in his home. They had many questions and listened and talked far into
the night. Later, Ali fell asleep for the first time in several nights and felt safe
and warm.
    In the morning, Akbar took Ali along with him to his job. He sold household items
in a small shop. During the day, Akbar introduced Ali to several of his friends,
also Hazzara, not from Sharidure but from that province. All of them eagerly asked
about the situation in Afghanistan. Many of them had relatives still in the towns
they left behind, and Ali tried