An older man emerged, dressed in a suit that showed the fades and frays of frequent use. Saleem’s eyes were drawn to him as were mine. His stature, his salt-and-pepper hair, and the gentle smile on his face—if my husband had lived another twenty years, he would have looked like this man. Whether Saleem had the same thought or if there was something else about the man that drew him in, I dared not ask. He approached cautiously. The man cocked his ear as Saleem spoke then looked over in our direction, squinting.
The man’s name was Hakan Yilmaz. He and his wife, Hayal, lived in a modest home just a few blocks from the main part of the village. He’d worked for years as a professor of politics while Hayal had been an elementary school teacher. They’d raised two boys, now grown men with families of their own. When the couple retired, they moved back to Intikal to be near Hakan’s sisters and brothers. They were warm and unassuming people—more worldly than their modest village home would indicate. They were the kind of people who saw an Afghan mother traveling with three children and could guess the story behind such a sight.
Saleem had explained to Hakan that we were looking for simple shelter and that we would gladly pay for a brief stay. Hakan put a hand on Saleem’s shoulder and led us to his home where we met his wife, Hayal. Hayal, a petite woman with soft eyes, was delighted to have a babbling baby in their home. Long retired, she still had the presence of a schoolteacher. Her brown hair was tied back into a neat bun and she wore a simple navy blue cotton dress with a small tan sash around her waist. Samira took to her immediately.
They showed us to a small, vacant bedroom with its own door to the outside. We were welcome to use the kitchen, they said, and made no mention of how long we could stay.
My heart found an ally in Hayal, though we did not share a language. In words and gestures she likely did not understand, I explained that I’d been a teacher in Afghanistan before the Taliban and that the children had fallen behind despite my homeschooling efforts.
I nearly sang out with joy when we laid our heads on soft pillows, our full bellies and the kindness of strangers keeping us warm.
THE NEXT MORNING HAYAL BROUGHT OUT A CRATE OF ELEMENTARY math books and stories in English. Samira’s eyes widened with an excitement that thrilled and hurt me. I explained to Hayal that Samira was bright but hadn’t spoken since we’d left home. Hayal seemed to understand, connecting the missing father with my daughter’s mutism. She looked over at Samira and patted the empty chair next to her. Samira sat down as Hayal turned to the first page.
I could hear Saleem in the next room, and though I knew only a handful of English words, I caught that he was talking to Hakan about finding a job. He would work hard, he promised.
I hadn’t spoken to Saleem about working. I stepped away from Hayal and Samira and walked over to the window. Hakan spoke of nearby farms where migrant workers found employment. I wanted to interrupt, but I didn’t.
My thoughts drifted.
I’d had no idea when Mahmood’s hand was first placed in mine what he would come to mean to me. Among the few photographs I’d brought was one from our wedding, a simple ceremony. I’d worn an emerald green dress, pleated from the waist down and with lacy shoulders. My face had been made up by one of KokoGul’s friends. My lips and eyelids were heavy with colors that I would never again wear. Mahmood wore a black suit, the collar of his dress shirt flaring out past the lapels, and a red rose tucked into his breast pocket. Mahmood had looked steadily into the camera, but I stared blankly at the floor.
When I looked at that picture, I wanted to go back in time and tell myself to look at him, my husband. I wanted to tell that bride that she, like the guests eager for a lavish celebration, should rejoice in this union.