Refugees by Catherine Stine Page A

rose reluctantly. He kissed Bija and his aunt on each cheek. “See you in three days, then?”
    “Yes,” she answered. “Salaam. Bring Daq too.” She covered herself with her burqa before opening the door. “Johar, one more thing.”
    “Yes?”
    “If anything happens to me—” She paused. “Do you remember the family plan to meet at Suryast?”
    “The camp in Peshawar that your friend went to when she ran from the mujahidin.”
    “That's right. If the situation gets worse, we must do what we can to remain safe.” She paused. “You promised to care for Bija if she needs it.”
    Johar nodded. “I know.”
    “Thank you.” She peered out into the street. “Be careful. Do not wander from the main road, Johar. Taliban.” Worry returned to her brown eyes.
    Worry filled him too as he hurried down the dark road to his hut. The angry words in the chaikhana replayed in his mind.
Taliban this, Taliban that. Arab foreigners here to fight our American enemy.
Aunt Maryam and Uncle Tilo had taught him that the Western lands were woven with many colors: brown, yellow, red and white—with many Muslims as well. Yet Johar had heard people here say that
all
in the West mistrusted Islam. That didn't make sense—brown, yellow, red, and white were bound to have different opinions. Underneath all this mistrust, fear must lurk. Fear existed on all sides, for sure. If Allah had created the world, then surely he'd created the infidels, nonbelievers, as well. Only a madman would create a world doomed to fatal division. And wasn't Allah just and pure?

    Johar was startled from sleep when Daq stumbled into the room, set out his quilt, and unearthed his radio. Strains of the Talib-run Radio Shariat crackled forth. The announcer ranted down a list of commandments: no kite flying, no musical instruments, no laughter in the streets. There was static as Daq switched the dials. He was always searching for a station that offered more than lectures. It was frightening how fast the Taliban had risen from a small group of rural clerics and Pashtun farmers to the power they were now. They had seized almost all the stations around Baghlan for their shariat broadcasts. There were only a handful of stations up north still free to play music.
    General Massoud's Alliance army, made up of Uzbeks and Hazaras, but mostly Tajiks like Johar, had staved off the Taliban's encroachment in the northern fronts around Taloqan and Mazar-i-Sharif. Johar prayed that the Alliance would force the Taliban south until they were far past
his
town, then even further south, past the capital, Kabul. Until then Johar felt that every day might be his last.
    But the Taliban continued their ruthless push north. In a few years even General Massoud's warriors would not be strong enough to stop the Taliban from seizing the whole of Afghanistan.
    Johar heard more static and slips of voices. Finally the melody of
tanbur
and
rubab
danced through the house, and his brother sighed beside him. Johar missed Daq these days. Even though his body was next to Johar's, his mind was worlds away.
    After some silence Daq spoke, as if he could read Johar's thoughts. “A soldier came to the chaikhana with startling news. General Massoud is near death.”
    “Massoud near death!” Johar's insides tightened. This was tragic! If Massoud died, the north would fall in days, and a Taliban stranglehold on the entire country would be ensured. Massoud was hope. Massoud was life, the future. Johar felt sick. “How did it happen?”
    “They say he was hit by an imposter reporter with a television camera that hid an explosive,” Daq replied. “They say it was an Al Qaeda spy helping the Taliban.”
    “Al Qaeda?”
    “The Arab fighters who came here from other countries,” Daq explained. “The warriors whom Naji trained with in Kandahar.”
    “Why are they here? They don't belong on our soil,” Johar exclaimed. “They fill up our bazaars and chaikhanas. They push the townsfolk around. And what