Free Shooting Kabul by N. H. Senzai

forehead. Father had told her not to tell anyone who she was.
    â€œWe have to go back to Peshawar,” said Zafoona, sounding more desperate by the minute. “We shouldn’t have come here without finding her first.”
    â€œWe couldn’t do that,” said Habib softly. “We would have been stuck in Pakistan without the chance for asylum. We would be a family without a country. There was no way we could go back to Afghanistan.”
    â€œWhat’s more important? Gaining asylum or finding our daughter?” shouted Zafoona. “If it wasn’t for your stubborn insistence that we go back to Afghanistan five years ago, we wouldn’t be in this mess right now!”
    Fadi’s knees shook as he leaned against the wall. He’d never heard his mother speak to his father like this.
    â€œWhere is your ghayrat ?” said Zafoona, her voice bitter.
    A hush fell over the apartment as Fadi froze. Questioning a man’s ghayrat , or ability to uphold his family’s honor, was one of the most insulting things you could say to a Pukhtun. Fadi knew his father had to be furious, and embarrassed in front of the others.
    â€œNow, Zafoona jaan , don’t blame Brother Habib,” said Khala Nilufer in a rush. “Who was to know this would happen? It was an accident. It’s no one’s fault.”
    â€œOh, Habib,” sobbed Zafoona, her mood mercurial. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.… It’s justthat I’m so tired, and the medicines, they make my head swim.… I’m just not myself these days.”
    â€œNo,” came Habib’s quiet voice. “You’re right. It is my fault. I am head of this family. It was my responsibility.”
    Silence descended over the apartment. Fadi sank to his knees, overwhelmed with guilt. It was his fault that Mariam had been left behind, not his father’s, not Noor’s, not his mother’s. He inched back toward the living room and came to a halt in front of the group. He gulped, opening his mouth to confess. But as the words formulated in his brain, something else flew out entirely.
    â€œMariam knows where we were going,” blurted Fadi. “I told her about Mother’s cousin who lives in Peshawar and that she was going to meet us at the border.”
    â€œYou told her that?” said Zafoona, wiping away tears.
    â€œYes,” said Fadi, “but I didn’t remember Khala Nargis’s name, just that she was your cousin and that she and her husband ran a clinic for refugees.”
    â€œSo she knows we have family in Peshawar,” said Khala Nilufer, her face eager. “That’s good. Maybe she’ll tell the family she’s with to take her to a clinic.”
    â€œAllah willing, maybe she’ll find us!” said Zafoona, a spark of light entering her eyes.
    â€œGood job, Fadi,” said Uncle Amin. “You should have told us this a long time ago.”
    â€œIt’s a good possibility,” said Habib, holding up his hand, “but let’s not get our hopes up too much.”
    â€œThen find the money to go back to Peshawar, Habib,” said Zafoona. She shot her husband an angry look. “Let’s go to the border and find her.”
    Habib closed his eyes and looked the other way. “I would love to do that, jaan ,” he whispered. “But you know as well as I do, that will take time.”
    Fadi looked at the sadness on his father’s face and wanted to hide away in a ball of shame. It’s me that has no honor. All this is my fault. I have to do something. But what?
    After a quick snack of crackers and peanut butter, Fadi grabbed his camera and left the apartment. Noor had returned from work, and their parents were telling her about Professor Sahib’s phone call. He caught a glimpse of hope on her face just as the door closed behind him. He clambered down the stairs and exited the apartment complex. It