Free Refugees by Catherine Stine Page B

summon. His uncle Tilo
had
lived in Charikar but was far from there now.
    “Jor.” Bija tugged on Johar's shalwar, restless. “Play.” Johar's heart pounded as he raised the pattu higher to muffle her words.
    The guard lowered the machine gun to his side and strode close. “Turn back. We cannot guarantee your safety.” Curious, the younger guards followed closely behind.
    Johar breathed slowly—in, out, in—as if by calming himself he could make the men lose interest. “I'll be fine,” Johar assured the beady-eyed guard. He snapped the donkey's reins to go. Bija poked him in the side, and he jerked with discomfort.
    The man raised his gun once more. “I said halt! Dismount.” He leveled it to Johar's brow. Johar understood then that it wasn't a matter of ensuring his safety at all. The old guard's eyes fixed on the lump that was Bija. “Smuggling, eh?” His knotted eyes grew shiny with interest as he drew close to Johar, who now stood beside the donkey. Johar gripped Bija, still under the pattu, close to his chest. The others leaned in, suddenly interested at the prospect of smuggled goods.
    What if they take Bija?
worried Johar. If he'd had thenerve to own a gun like other boys, Johar could have blown these bullies to dust.
    The guard, smelling of grilled meat, grabbed Johar's pattu and yanked it open.
    “A child!” The man spat on the ground, then began to rifle through Johar's clothing. Bija yelped and clung to her cousin, her doll clutched in one hand, the cloth of Johar's vest in the other.
    The younger guards left to interrogate an incoming group at the checkpoint. The beady-eyed man began to search one side of the donkey's pack. Johar prayed the man would not feel the wool sewn into the borders of the quilts. The guard unearthed a pan, Ramila's keshmesh, and some bread. “This is all?” he asked. Johar nodded.
    Then the man moved to the other side of the donkey. He reached into the folds of the saddle pack and pulled out Johar's English dictionary and the Rabi'a book. This was bad, very bad! The guard thumbed through both with a frown. “Nothing else, eh? Then what are these books? These are not Quran. This poetry, this Ingleesi, is good for a jail sentence!” He hurled the books to the ground.
    Bija began to whimper. She balled her free hand into a fist and held it in front of her eyes, as if to protect herself from the guard's sharp tone.
    The man's gaze settled on Bija. “Yes, good for a jail sentence along with that doll.” He ripped the stalk doll from Bija's fingers and crushed it under his heel. Bija howled as if he'd plunged a scimitar through her chest. “No images of people will be tolerated. It was
decreed.
”
    Johar knew then that the beady-eyed guard would snatch Bija and torture him without a flicker of remorse. What would happen after? Johar could hardly bear tothink. He would rot in prison much longer than a woman, even a teacher, and Aunt Maryam might never know what had become of them. Johar's mind snapped precariously from one dark imagining to another as the younger guards argued with a new arrival at the checkpoint.
    The guard began to bind Johar's hands.
    Johar spoke loudly, urgently, to project over Bija's weeping. “Sahib, I may have
one
thing for you—if you let us pass.”
    “Eh?” The guard's eyes shone with greed. He loosened the strap. “What is it, boy? Quickly, now.”
    Johar unrolled the waistband of his kameez. “Your feet will be cold soon. Snow is coming to this pass, no?”
    “Snow, yes.” The guard picked up an oil lantern. He screwed up his eyes in the dim glow to examine the objects Johar held. “Boy, what is it?”
    “Socks. For you.”
    “Bah! You expect to bribe your way with these rags?” The guard grabbed them. “Go now,” he grumbled, motioning forward with the lantern. “Be off with you, and don't come back here.”
    “Many thanks, sahib.” Johar spurred the donkey to action just in time to avoid the younger Talibs, who had finished