Refugees by Catherine Stine

time.” She walked toward the back room. “Some chai is in order.”
    When Johar and his brother were younger, before the Taliban, Aunt Maryam never hid her village school. Children would flock from Baghlan and the nearby villages. They would sit in eager rows on the carpet as they listened to the morning lessons. Maryam had a decent blackboard and chalk then, and even the English textbooks Tilo had brought quietly in from England. “You must learn to read Dari, but also to speak English, the modern language of the world.” She had pronounced the word
English
slowly so that her students, who called it Ingleesi, could hear its common usage. But that was then.
    His aunt returned with steamy chai, and little Bija stirred from her nap. She burst into hungry tears.
    Johar bent down and lifted her in his arms. “Hello, my jewel.”
    Bija's tears stopped. “Jor! You're here!” she screeched in Dari, then settled into his lap. Johar searched his pocket for the flask of milk he'd managed to coax from Marqa.
    “My milk!” Bija grabbed it greedily and drank. Johar put the kebab he'd saved from the chaikhana on a plate of rice that Maryam laid down.
    “What a lovely feast!” she cried, and joined him on the carpet.
    Johar smiled and stroked Bija's forehead. She was three years old and growing fast. Aunt Maryam had her hands full trying to teach the older girls while Bija played. “Where is Ramila now?” Johar asked.
    “Her brother picked her up. She said she would try to stop by later to drop off vegetables from the bazaar.”
    “Have you eaten today?” Johar asked, worried as he watched Aunt Maryam take delicate nibbles to draw out the meal.
    “A bit of rice,” she answered. Johar and Daq tried to bring her food, but it was painfully clear that a visit every few days was not enough. As difficult as it was to have the family separated like this, the brothers needed the hillside compound for shepherding, and Maryam had to live in Baghlan in order to teach.
    “Soon we'll have a real feast,” Aunt Maryam said wistfully.
    “Yes! When all this is over,” Johar answered, “we'll have mounds of gabli pilau and a barrel of keshmesh.”
    “I'll make samosas,” added Maryam. “Samosas with yogurt and mint.”
    “Picked from the finest gardens in all of the country,” Johar added.
    “Samosas are yummy!” Bija shouted.
    “Inshallah, someday.” Maryam sighed.
    Johar glanced around the room. It was almost bare except for a faded carpet over the dirt floor, the mat bordering the wall, and a square of Persian fabric with gold and turquoise designs tacked to one of the walls. Under the window stood a row of flowering plants in Russian porcelain that his aunt watered fastidiously. Johar saw these objects— the rug, a piece of fabric, plants—but in his mind's eye he saw additional objects, more precious than her wall hanging and her porcelain, hidden like prayers. Schoolbooks and weaving supplies were stuffed under tiles, behind a false wall, in a mud sinkhole under a water gourd, sewn inside the bottom of old prayer carpets. Like the burqa, the head-to-toe covering that kept his aunt's face a secret, she was an expert at veiling her existence as teacher and weaver. It was as if each person lived in opposite worlds at once: conforming in the apparent world, but nursing a rebellious fire behind closed doors.
    Bija tugged at Johar's tunic, shaking him from his reverie. “Tell me a poem.”
    Johar cleared his throat. “Let me see… I'm thinking of a Rumi poem.
    “My worst habit is I get so tired of winter
I become a torture to those I'm with.
If you're not here, nothing grows.
I lack clarity. My words
Tangle and knot up.
How to cure bad water? Send it back to the river.
How to cure bad habits? Send me back to you.”
    Bija clapped her hands. “More poems,” she demanded. “That was lovely, Johar.” His aunt touched his arm.
    “But it's almost curfew. Amniyat nist! You'd better be going.”
    “You're right.” Johar