A new arrival
‘I glance at myself in the large mirror hanging from the wall and re-arrange my scarf more closely around my face. I always do this, even in Canada, whenever I see an Afghan man.’
A new arrival
Zainab, translated by Parwana Fayyaz
Spring 2024, British Columbia, Canada
I finish washing the breakfast dishes. I pick up my key chain, which now holds my keys to the apartment, the main residence entrance gate, and the mailbox. And I pick up the garbage bag, which I forgot to take out last night.
I take a few steps into the narrow corridor that accommodates six units along its short span. I see Ismail standing at the glass door at the end of the corridor. Ismail has recently moved to our building with his family, newly arrived in Canada from Afghanistan.
When I first met him, his dark skin and warm face reminded me of my dear deceased cousin back home. Ismail has the same bushy eyebrows, jet eyes, and thick dark hair. He looks fast and agile. If my cousin had not died of COVID-19 a few years ago, I would have believed it was him.
As I walk into the hall, I can tell Ismail has been standing and staring out for a long time. He is so preoccupied he does not notice me. The worn carpet that covers the floor feels like a gun silencer, muffling the sound of footsteps. I glance at myself in the large mirror hanging from the wall and re-arrange my scarf more closely around my face. I always do this, even in Canada, whenever I see an Afghan man. This act seems firmly engraved as habit.
As I approach, I cough gently. Ismail startles a bit and turns towards me. His eyes are red and slightly swollen. I say my Salam. In response, he says: ‘Oh, it is you. Where are you heading?’
He sees the garbage bag in my hand and says, ‘Allow me to take it for you. Or come with me and see for yourself: on the other side of the bin area, a neighbour is smoking marijuana. I’ve been watching him for a long time. He was there yesterday, too, at this very hour, as if he knows what time I get up each day. He must be spying on me, my wife, or my children.’
I think he is joking, so I laugh. ‘Mr Ismail that child of God goes out each day to smoke his cigarette; he hasn’t got anything against you or me.’
Ismail’s serious face turns angry. ‘Not only this! Every day after lunch, he goes to his balcony on the third floor, where he sits and waits for me to come out. But he hides behind the clutter around him so that no one can see him.’
Ismail spits right there in the hallway and continues: ‘He knows how to do these things. He must have been in the army or some intelligence business. We in the army know how to do such things. At a glance, we can tell what’s happening, who is who, and what their intentions are. My instructor used to say, everyone is an enemy; unless you can prove he is not.’
As I listen to Ismail, I look closer at the man next door. In one hand, he’s holding his cigarette. With the other, he scratches the long brown hair that falls onto his broad shoulders. He is wearing sunglasses, and it’s difficult to know what he’s looking at. I begin to imagine a respectable man, who, after spending much of his life at work, is now enjoying his retirement as he wishes. He can even look like a gangster in the movies if he wants to.
I shake the thoughts out of my head and change the subject: ‘How is your wife doing? How did the birth of your child go?’
I have seen Ismail’s wife only once, when they moved to our building. At first, I thought she never left the room because she was heavily pregnant. But one day, when I took her some food to be neighbourly, we had to speak through the closed door of her unit. She called out that she was sorry but that the door was locked from the outside. ‘Ismail has crafted a lock that only he can open from the outside. He locks the door when he goes out and only opens it when he comes back after lunch.’
Now, Ismail makes a grimace: half mocking, half angry. He fixes his eye on the man outside. ‘They kept insisting that she should go to the hospital for the birth. They kept saying that due to my wife’s condition, a home birth was not possible. They are all liars.’
I say: ‘So, what is wrong with going to the hospital?’
‘Oh sister, aren’t you naïve? First, they put my wife in front of men, so they see her entire body. Then, there are other misbehaviours at the hospital. Since she is Afghan, they could test any medicine on her for their own purposes. Not knowing their language makes it harder. If you start protesting or raising your voice, they call the police within minutes, and then you could either be jailed or deported.’
We look again through the outer door: Ismail has lost sight of the man next door. I turn to the mailboxes on the other side of the hallway. Some of the letters have been there for days. I open mailbox 401, but there is nothing there today. I ask Ismail: ‘So how is your wife doing now?’
He swallows saliva to moisten his dry throat. ‘I took her to the bathroom three times myself and delivered our child. But then she started bleeding and I had to take her to the hospital. Once we arrived there, they criticised me. They even accused me of attempting to kill my child.’
At that moment, the opposite entrance door opens and the large neighbour enters the small hall. He looks at us and says ‘Hello’, in English.
He says: ‘I saw you standing at the door. I didn’t want to disturb you, so I took the other way in.’
I lock the empty mailbox, smile and thank him.
As the man passes us and disappears, the smell of marijuana fills the hallway. Ismail does not understand English, so he hasn’t heard what the man said. He says pointedly, ‘Did you see how he took us by surprise? He must have realised that I was watching him. I wish I could have brought my gun with me from Kabul. Only then could I have slept well at night.’
The irregular lines on his forehead deepen. His face looks much older now, under his youthful head of hair. I think to myself what misery he has brought all the way from Kabul because it is inside him after a lifetime of war. He holds his hand out for the bag of garbage in my hand again. ‘Let me take that from you.’
I thank him and mock gently: ‘Now that the danger has passed, I can take it myself. Don’t let me delay you.’
Ismail reaches for the door but a blonde woman from next door opens it first, entering the building. She stands back to let us out before she enters. I smile and thank her. Ismail glowers as he passes her.
A few steps on, he says to me: ‘For God’s sake, don’t be naïve. They don’t like us. If you think hard enough, you will understand their actions insult us. You should not show friendliness towards them.’
Ismail’s eyes fall on the blue plastic water bottle that has made a hole in my bag of rubbish. He says: ‘Give me your empty bottles. I will take them to the sorting place. There is not much money to be made there, but it is something.’
I put the bag down and pull out the bottles. ‘Sure, I will collect them for you from now on.’
He looks around, as if to see if anyone is listening. ‘Iranians made us Afghans collect things like stray dogs at their checkpoints. We were caught at the Turkish border. Since those days of torture and hunger, my eyes have been opened. Each penny must count, so I have collected them one by one. Anything can happen at any time to any one of us.’
I listen carefully and nod. I head to the dumpster, empty the contents of my bag and bring the bag back to fill it with the empty plastic bottles for Ismail. I hand him the bag and he removes a wrinkled cap from his pocket and puts it on.
I want to say something nice. ‘That’s a nice hat,’ I say. He gives me a wary look, and I immediately regret what I said. He does not answer; he takes the bag from my hand and walks away. He crosses the alley and takes off his hat as he enters the main road. He crumples it and throws it in the bag.
I sigh and as I turn, my eyes fall on the man next door. He is on the third floor, sitting in a corner of his balcony among his belongings. He is staring at Ismail as he crosses the road and walks on in his daze.
Zainab, translated by Parwana Fayyaz
Spring 2024, British Columbia, Canada
I finish washing the breakfast dishes. I pick up my key chain, which now holds my keys to the apartment, the main residence entrance gate, and the mailbox. And I pick up the garbage bag, which I forgot to take out last night.
I take a few steps into the narrow corridor that accommodates six units along its short span. I see Ismail standing at the glass door at the end of the corridor. Ismail has recently moved to our building with his family, newly arrived in Canada from Afghanistan.
When I first met him, his dark skin and warm face reminded me of my dear deceased cousin back home. Ismail has the same bushy eyebrows, jet eyes, and thick dark hair. He looks fast and agile. If my cousin had not died of COVID-19 a few years ago, I would have believed it was him.
As I walk into the hall, I can tell Ismail has been standing and staring out for a long time. He is so preoccupied he does not notice me. The worn carpet that covers the floor feels like a gun silencer, muffling the sound of footsteps. I glance at myself in the large mirror hanging from the wall and re-arrange my scarf more closely around my face. I always do this, even in Canada, whenever I see an Afghan man. This act seems firmly engraved as habit.
As I approach, I cough gently. Ismail startles a bit and turns towards me. His eyes are red and slightly swollen. I say my Salam. In response, he says: ‘Oh, it is you. Where are you heading?’
He sees the garbage bag in my hand and says, ‘Allow me to take it for you. Or come with me and see for yourself: on the other side of the bin area, a neighbour is smoking marijuana. I’ve been watching him for a long time. He was there yesterday, too, at this very hour, as if he knows what time I get up each day. He must be spying on me, my wife, or my children.’
I think he is joking, so I laugh. ‘Mr Ismail that child of God goes out each day to smoke his cigarette; he hasn’t got anything against you or me.’
Ismail’s serious face turns angry. ‘Not only this! Every day after lunch, he goes to his balcony on the third floor, where he sits and waits for me to come out. But he hides behind the clutter around him so that no one can see him.’
Ismail spits right there in the hallway and continues: ‘He knows how to do these things. He must have been in the army or some intelligence business. We in the army know how to do such things. At a glance, we can tell what’s happening, who is who, and what their intentions are. My instructor used to say, everyone is an enemy; unless you can prove he is not.’
As I listen to Ismail, I look closer at the man next door. In one hand, he’s holding his cigarette. With the other, he scratches the long brown hair that falls onto his broad shoulders. He is wearing sunglasses, and it’s difficult to know what he’s looking at. I begin to imagine a respectable man, who, after spending much of his life at work, is now enjoying his retirement as he wishes. He can even look like a gangster in the movies if he wants to.
I shake the thoughts out of my head and change the subject: ‘How is your wife doing? How did the birth of your child go?’
I have seen Ismail’s wife only once, when they moved to our building. At first, I thought she never left the room because she was heavily pregnant. But one day, when I took her some food to be neighbourly, we had to speak through the closed door of her unit. She called out that she was sorry but that the door was locked from the outside. ‘Ismail has crafted a lock that only he can open from the outside. He locks the door when he goes out and only opens it when he comes back after lunch.’
Now, Ismail makes a grimace: half mocking, half angry. He fixes his eye on the man outside. ‘They kept insisting that she should go to the hospital for the birth. They kept saying that due to my wife’s condition, a home birth was not possible. They are all liars.’
I say: ‘So, what is wrong with going to the hospital?’
‘Oh sister, aren’t you naïve? First, they put my wife in front of men, so they see her entire body. Then, there are other misbehaviours at the hospital. Since she is Afghan, they could test any medicine on her for their own purposes. Not knowing their language makes it harder. If you start protesting or raising your voice, they call the police within minutes, and then you could either be jailed or deported.’
We look again through the outer door: Ismail has lost sight of the man next door. I turn to the mailboxes on the other side of the hallway. Some of the letters have been there for days. I open mailbox 401, but there is nothing there today. I ask Ismail: ‘So how is your wife doing now?’
He swallows saliva to moisten his dry throat. ‘I took her to the bathroom three times myself and delivered our child. But then she started bleeding and I had to take her to the hospital. Once we arrived there, they criticised me. They even accused me of attempting to kill my child.’
At that moment, the opposite entrance door opens and the large neighbour enters the small hall. He looks at us and says ‘Hello’, in English.
He says: ‘I saw you standing at the door. I didn’t want to disturb you, so I took the other way in.’
I lock the empty mailbox, smile and thank him.
As the man passes us and disappears, the smell of marijuana fills the hallway. Ismail does not understand English, so he hasn’t heard what the man said. He says pointedly, ‘Did you see how he took us by surprise? He must have realised that I was watching him. I wish I could have brought my gun with me from Kabul. Only then could I have slept well at night.’
The irregular lines on his forehead deepen. His face looks much older now, under his youthful head of hair. I think to myself what misery he has brought all the way from Kabul because it is inside him after a lifetime of war. He holds his hand out for the bag of garbage in my hand again. ‘Let me take that from you.’
I thank him and mock gently: ‘Now that the danger has passed, I can take it myself. Don’t let me delay you.’
Ismail reaches for the door but a blonde woman from next door opens it first, entering the building. She stands back to let us out before she enters. I smile and thank her. Ismail glowers as he passes her.
A few steps on, he says to me: ‘For God’s sake, don’t be naïve. They don’t like us. If you think hard enough, you will understand their actions insult us. You should not show friendliness towards them.’
Ismail’s eyes fall on the blue plastic water bottle that has made a hole in my bag of rubbish. He says: ‘Give me your empty bottles. I will take them to the sorting place. There is not much money to be made there, but it is something.’
I put the bag down and pull out the bottles. ‘Sure, I will collect them for you from now on.’
He looks around, as if to see if anyone is listening. ‘Iranians made us Afghans collect things like stray dogs at their checkpoints. We were caught at the Turkish border. Since those days of torture and hunger, my eyes have been opened. Each penny must count, so I have collected them one by one. Anything can happen at any time to any one of us.’
I listen carefully and nod. I head to the dumpster, empty the contents of my bag and bring the bag back to fill it with the empty plastic bottles for Ismail. I hand him the bag and he removes a wrinkled cap from his pocket and puts it on.
I want to say something nice. ‘That’s a nice hat,’ I say. He gives me a wary look, and I immediately regret what I said. He does not answer; he takes the bag from my hand and walks away. He crosses the alley and takes off his hat as he enters the main road. He crumples it and throws it in the bag.
I sigh and as I turn, my eyes fall on the man next door. He is on the third floor, sitting in a corner of his balcony among his belongings. He is staring at Ismail as he crosses the road and walks on in his daze.
The following is an extract from My Dear Kabul: A year in the life of an Afghan women’s writing group (Coronet, 2024). After the Taliban’s return to power in August 2021, twenty-one writers in Afghanistan – among them the five contributors to this guest edition – kept a secret diary in their WhatsApp chat group, in which they recorded and responded to the changes they were all living through.
*
Zainab
Emirates Humanitarian City, UAE, April 2022
Two types of men live here. There are those who used to be advisers, viziers and ministers in government offices. Now they are useless, like bicycles with a puncture. They roam around uselessly trying to lure young women with their names and titles. Then there is the group, unknown, with a lowly title, who are the most efficient and useful to society here. The naanwa-ha, the bread-makers.
Recently, the Arabs have employed Afghan bakers to work with them. Now they can earn a little money to send to their families. I think that baking bread is a very difficult task in this hot land. They sit next to a hellish oven for hours. A few nights ago, one man fainted and they took him to a hospital. Unlike our fleeing president, this young baker kept doing his job till the very last moment.
To be honest, the bread is not as tasty as the bread in Kabul, even though it looks like it. I don’t want to complain, and I know that preparing several thousand loaves of bread a day is a difficult task. I often think of warm Afghan bread with a cup of sweet tea on the side. I cannot tell if it was the magic of the baker or the wheat or the soil that gave life to the bread, but I know that there is nothing more delicious than Afghan bread. Sometimes all I want for myself is warm Afghan bread.
*
Zainab
Emirates Humanitarian City, UAE, April 2022
Two types of men live here. There are those who used to be advisers, viziers and ministers in government offices. Now they are useless, like bicycles with a puncture. They roam around uselessly trying to lure young women with their names and titles. Then there is the group, unknown, with a lowly title, who are the most efficient and useful to society here. The naanwa-ha, the bread-makers.
Recently, the Arabs have employed Afghan bakers to work with them. Now they can earn a little money to send to their families. I think that baking bread is a very difficult task in this hot land. They sit next to a hellish oven for hours. A few nights ago, one man fainted and they took him to a hospital. Unlike our fleeing president, this young baker kept doing his job till the very last moment.
To be honest, the bread is not as tasty as the bread in Kabul, even though it looks like it. I don’t want to complain, and I know that preparing several thousand loaves of bread a day is a difficult task. I often think of warm Afghan bread with a cup of sweet tea on the side. I cannot tell if it was the magic of the baker or the wheat or the soil that gave life to the bread, but I know that there is nothing more delicious than Afghan bread. Sometimes all I want for myself is warm Afghan bread.
Zainab
In Afghanistan, Zainab worked as a reporter, photographer and administrator for a cultural institute. She fled the country with her husband in October 2021, knowing that she had been identified as someone who took part in a wave of women’s protests against the Taliban takeover. The couple managed to get onto an evacuation flight that took them to a refugee camp in Abu Dhabi, where they lived for a year before being resettled in British Columbia where they have been living since. Zainab’s story ‘The Hotel’ was published in Pen Transmissions in 2023. She is a contributor to My Pen Is the Wing of a Bird (MacLehose Press, 2021), Rising After the Fall (Scholastic, 2023) and My Dear Kabul (Coronet 2024) and is working on a longer memoir about leaving Afghanistan.Parwana Fayyaz
Parwana Fayyaz is a scholar and teacher of Persian literature at the University of Cambridge. She is also a poet and translator working with multiple languages. Her poetry collection, Forty Names (Carcanet Press, 2021), was a New Statesman book of the year and a White Review book of the year. Her translations promote the writings and culture of Afghan people around the world. Parwana is a translator and editor of My Dear Kabul (Coronet, 2024).‘New Arrival’ © Zainab 2024; Translation © Parwana Fayyaz 2024
My Dear Kabul © Untold Narratives CIC 2024; English translation © Parwana Fayyaz and Dr Negeen Kargar
Extract read by Jo Alderson