Mahmood looked alarmed but composed. He had stepped in front of me instinctively and gave me a quiet, pleading look to follow their command.
I was terrified to leave my husband alone with these men who’d forced their way into our home, but I also had my mind on my two children hidden upstairs and the one I carried under my burqa. I lowered my head and backed into the kitchen, still within earshot but out of sight.
“You are an engineer.”
“Yes.” Mahmood’s voice was controlled.
“And you work for the Ministry of Water and Electricity,” he said. From the soft clinks, I knew one of the men had turned his attention to the porcelain tea set in our glass curio. It had been a wedding gift from Khala Zeba. The cups were delicate, with gold leaf on the handles and dainty pastel painted flowers. We had no photographs, no television, and no radio, thank God. I hoped once they realized our home was free of contraband, they would leave.
“Yes, I do. Is there something that I can help you with?”
“We’re looking for Mahmood Waziri, the engineer who works for the Ministry of Water and Electricity—the man who is known to be in defiance of our Islamic laws.”
My heart raced. I glanced up the stairs and saw the shadow of two small heads peeking around the corner. I motioned them to back away.
“Defiance? But I have not defied any . . .”
“You’d better come with us so we can tell you exactly the sins you’ve been charged with committing.”
“Sins? My brothers, there must be a misunderstanding.” I detected a slight tremble in Mahmood’s voice, but nothing compared to the way I was shaking.
“There is no misunderstanding.”
“But, please, hear me out for one moment. I’ve done my best to comply with all the decrees that have been handed down—”
“We will not speak here, unless you wish to bring your wife and two children into the living room to watch us charge you with your crimes.” Mahmood let out a deep sigh.
“No, no, no. That’s not necessary. I’ll come with you.”
“Mahmood! Please do not take him! He is an innocent man!” I cried out, my voice shrill and unnerved. I was in the doorway, on my knees.
One of the men walked toward me, but Mahmood intervened.
“Please!” he said sharply, before turning to me. His fingers were on my shoulders, holding me up, as he looked through the mesh of my burqa. “Fereiba-jan, I beg you, let me speak with these men. I’m sure we can clear up this misunderstanding. You are needed here.”
When we were first married, I knew nothing about my husband. Time taught me that he was patient, nurturing, and principled. I was too bashful to look directly at him in the first month or so but in the warmth of his friendship, my guard melted. He undid all that this world had done to me. I realized, not long after our wedding, when I caught myself laughing at a joke he’d already told me twice, that I loved this man.
Fereiba, do you know what the most beautiful word for spouse is in our language?
What is it?
Hamsar. Think of it. “Of the same mind.” That’s what we are, isn’t it?
That’s what Mahmood did. He took rusted, tired words—things people could say to one another without feeling a thing—and turned them over in the palm of his hand. He would blow the dust off and make them shine with meaning so moving you were ashamed to have overlooked it.
He asked me questions and listened for my answers. He had his mother’s generous heart and his father’s wit. He did not live in fear of God because, he reasoned, a merciful God would not create us only to punish us for trivial earthly matters. Mahmood was logical and determined. He loved his children. He would discipline them and later chuckle at their mischief. He would stroke my forehead before we went to sleep, a touch light enough to make my eyes heavy but ardent enough to make me want to be awake. He wanted his work to be his footprint in Afghanistan, something his children would be proud of.
With no children to distract us in the early years of our marriage, I learned my husband well. I could hear Mahmood’s thoughts when I looked into his eyes.