4
“Oh, this is so pretty,” Saaman proclaimed as she held the blue dress in her hands and marveled at Kamila’s work. “I just love it, especially the beading.”
And then: “What are you going to do with it?”
“I am going to sell it,” Kamila answered with a big smile. “Tomorrow I’ll take it to the Lycée Myriam bazaar to show the tailors there what we can do. I’m going to see if we can get some orders from one of the shops there.”
“Why you? And why there?” Saaman asked. Her dark brown eyes grew larger as her imagination conjured the worst possible scenarios. “Can’t someone else sell it for you? You know what things are like now; you could be beaten or taken to jail just for leaving the house at the wrong time. Who knows what could happen, and with father no longer here to help if something goes wrong . . .”
Saaman’s voice trailed off as she halfheartedly waited for her sister’s answer, but she knew what was coming. Everyone in the family knew that Kamila was not easily moved; her strong will and determination were famous among the Sidiqi clan. Once she had committed herself to an idea she wouldn’t let go, regardless of the danger. Sayed Jamaluddin was a perfect example: Her older sisters had pleaded with her to stay home from school during the civil war years while rockets regularly fell on Kabul. It simply wasn’t safe to go to class. But Kamila had insisted it was her duty to her family to finish her studies and that her faith would help to protect her. In the end, she won her father’s blessing to remain in school, unlike so many other girls whose studies were cut short by war. After all, he was the one who had taught her that learning was the key to the future—both her own and her country’s.
As Saaman expected, Kamila had no intention of backing down from her plan, but she promised she would take all the precautions Malika had insisted on: She would stay out of Lycée Myriam during prayer time and she wouldn’t speak to anyone she didn’t know. She would take Rahim as her mahram. Anyway, she asked her sisters, if she didn’t go, who would? Her work would help her family, which was a sacred obligation of Islam. And she firmly believed her faith would protect her and keep her safe.
There was no arguing with Kamila. Instead, Saaman buried her concern beneath a litany of questions.
“Where will you start?” she asked. “Maybe you could try Omar’s tailoring store inside the bazaar? Or maybe it would be better to try the one we usually go to along the main strip of shops, where we know people?”
“I don’t know yet. We’ll have to see how it goes,” Kamila responded, trying to seem unfazed by the risks she faced as she launched the second stage of her new venture: finding shops that would do business with her. “I’ll start with one or two of the stores inside the bazaar; maybe they’ll be interested. I’m sure someone will. Look how lovely this dress is!”
Kamila held the garment up to her shoulders as she spoke. For just a moment she allowed her imagination to run, envisioning the woman who might wear it someday for a special occasion. But she quickly forced herself back to the matter at hand.
“Malika told me that if we can get some steady orders from a shop she’ll help us with more designs,” Kamila said, folding the blue dress once more and carefully returning it to the plastic bag that lay next to her on the living room floor where they all sat. “We can build a dressmaking empire, the Sidiqi Sisters!” she added, enjoying the sound of it.
“Kamila Jan, I know you know what you’re doing, but please . . .” Laila, the youngest of the girls in the room, had been quietly listening to the conversation. She regarded her sisters with a mix of awe and fear; at fifteen, she was long accustomed to hearing the older girls discuss their plans, but the risks they faced had never seemed so formidable—or so close to home. The Mujahideen years had been dangerous for certain, but back then the violence had struck at random. Today everyone knew the risks that waited just outside their front door; what was harder to anticipate were the consequences. If Kamila got caught speaking to a shopkeeper she could be simply yelled at, or taken into the street and beaten, or, worst of all, she could be detained. It all depended on who saw her. And then where would they all be? Kamila was the oldest, and right now she was responsible for her remaining brother and four sisters at home.
Najeeb had left the house in Khair Khana two weeks earlier on a sunny winter morning. He carried only a small vinyl overnight bag with a few changes of clothing and some toiletries; he could find whatever else he needed in Pakistan, and he didn’t want to risk losing anything he valued during the journey there. He left his books in his room and told Kamila to put them to good use while he was away.
“Everything will be just where you left it when you return,” Kamila promised. She struggled against her tears. She wanted so badly to be strong for her brother.
He promised to write as soon as he had settled in Pakistan.
Then a knock came at the front door. It was time to go.
Kamila walked him out through the courtyard they had played in together for so many years. He stopped for a moment before he unlatched the metal slide.
“Kamila, take care of everyone, okay?” Najeeb said. “I know it’s a lot for you, but Father wouldn’t have left you in charge if he didn’t think you could manage. I’ll send help soon, just as soon as I can.”
Faced with her brother’s departure, Kamila at last gave in to her tears. She just couldn’t bear the idea of Najeeb going out into the world without her. How much danger would the young man face before she saw him again? And when would that be? Months? Years?
She stood at the gate hugging Najeeb good-bye.
“God keep you safe,” she said quietly as she at last let him go and took a step back from the door so he could pass. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and tried to muster a reassuring smile. “We’ll be fine here. Don’t worry about us.”
At last the gate slammed shut and he was gone. The young women stood huddled together, staring wordlessly at the green door.
Kamila realized she really was in charge now, and she had to act like it.
“Okay, then,” she said, turning to her sisters and leading the girls back inside, “whose turn is it to make lunch?” That afternoon, without Najeeb’s good cheer and their mother’s comforting words to help pass the hours, Kamila realized how desperately the girls needed something else to focus on. They didn’t just need income; they needed a purpose. She simply had to make a success of her dressmaking business.
The next morning was cloudy and quiet as Kamila and Rahim set out for the mile-and-a-half journey to Lycée Myriam. The blue dress lay in folded squares at the bottom of the black carry-all Kamila held tightly at her side. Under her chadri Kamila wore a large, dark tunic, ground-skimming baggy pants, and low rubber-heeled shoes. She wanted to give the Taliban no reason to notice her during this short trip. Her pulse raced and her heart crashed against her chadri with unshakable intensity.
With Najeeb gone, it now fell to Rahim to serve as his sisters’ eyes and ears. Though only thirteen, he had suddenly become the man of their house, and the only person in the Sidiqi household who could move around the city freely. Today he was serving as Kamila’s mahram, the chaperone whose presence would help keep her out of trouble with the Taliban.
Rahim walked close to his sister past the shops and stores along Khair Khana’s main road. The two spoke little as they walked toward the market. Soon Kamila spotted a few Taliban soldiers patrolling the sidewalk ahead of them, and she quickly realized they would be better off using the back roads of the neighborhood they knew so well. She and Rahim still had the hometown advantage; the Taliban, most of whom came from the south, remained strangers to the capital. It wasn’t unusual for traffic all over the city to be turned on its head by soldiers who drove their tanks and pickup trucks the wrong way down one-way roads, sometimes at high speed. Though they governed Kabul, they still did not know it.
Kamila guided her younger brother through the winding, muddy side streets that led to Lycée Myriam. He felt responsible for keeping his sister safe, especially now that his father and older brother were gone, and he tried to stay a few steps in front of her so that he could see what lay ahead. He still found it terribly strange to behold Kamila in full chadri; he confessed that he couldn’t imagine how she could see the road in front of her through the tiny latticed window of her veil. Biting cold and fear kept their pace quick and purposeful.
Kamila didn’t allow herself to think about the many things that could go wrong; instead she kept her mind trained on the work ahead as they passed rows of houses along cramped streets that were clotted with dirt and mud. She had not shared the reason for their unusual trip with Rahim, wanting to protect him in the event they were stopped. She would tell him later, as they got closer. In a different time her black tote bag would have been loaded full of schoolbooks, but today it contained a handmade dress that she hoped would be the start of her new business.
After half an hour Kamila and Rahim arrived at the outskirts of Lycée Myriam. Through her chadri Kamila could make out the bubbling chaos of wooden vegetable carts, clothing stalls, and faded brown storefronts. Most of Khair Khana knew that a handful of the street-front shops doubled as photo and video stores, but these businesses had been officially outlawed by the Taliban, so there was no sign of the underground enterprises they hid behind copy machines and grocery counters. The smell of cooking meat floated through the air as they approached the sprawling bazaar, which stretched north for nearly half a mile. Kamila glanced around at a few stalls that sold shoes and suitcases, then shared her plan with her brother.
“Don’t say anything, Rahim,” she cautioned him. “Let me do the talking. If the Taliban come, and if there are any problems, just tell them you are accompanying me as we do our family’s shopping, and we will be heading home as soon as we’re done.” Rahim nodded. Assuming the role of bodyguard and caretaker, the young man did not stray very far from his sister’s side. He looked right and left every few steps, watching for any sign of trouble. Together the siblings walked into the covered section of Lycée Myriam, a giant indoor shopping mall that was filled with stands and small shops that sold all manner of goods, often in unwieldy piles haphazardly perched on tables and shelves: women’s clothes, men’s shalwar kameez, linens for the home, stacks of chadri, and even children’s toys. It was a bewildering maze that first-time visitors found nearly impossible to navigate. Kamila looked around and noticed a few women coming and going from the stalls that sold shoes and dresses. She couldn’t tell whether she knew any of them, since none of these women were recognizable except by their shoes. Turning left, she walked toward a small storefront just off the bazaar’s main walkway; there she found one of the dress shops she and her sisters had frequented for years. Through the open door she saw a burly shopkeeper manning the counter. He had a clear view of the corridor outside and would be able to spot most of what was happening along the walkway that connected other shops to his. This would be helpful, Kamila thought, in the event the Amr bil-Maroof, the feared “Vice and Virtue forces,” came by while she was inside.
Pausing for a moment, Kamila waited in the doorway until a woman at the counter paid for her dress and left. Then she entered the shop with a strong, purposeful stride, hoping her nervousness would be undetectable beneath her show of confidence. She knelt down and pretended to examine a stack of dresses that were folded in tidy squares behind a glass case; together they made a cheerful rainbow of colors.
“Can I help you, miss?” the shopkeeper asked. He was a broad-shouldered man with curly dark hair and a bulging paunch. Kamila noticed that his eyes were fixed on two things at once: his front door and his customer.
“Thank you, sir,” Kamila said, speaking in a firm but quiet tone as she stood up to answer him. She checked to make certain Rahim was next to her. “Actually, I’m a tailor and my sisters and I make dresses. I have brought a sample of our work to show you. Perhaps you would be interested in placing an order?”
Before he could reply she reached into her bag and neatly spread the blue dress across the glass counter. Her hands trembled, but she worked deftly. She pointed to the beading. “It is very nice for weddings or for Eid,” she said. Her heart beat in her ears, and she leaned against the counter to steady herself.
The shopkeeper picked up the dress and began to inspect it more closely. Suddenly a large, blue-clad figure Kamila saw out of the corner of her eye approached the counter. The shopkeeper dropped Kamila’s blue fabric in a heap on the glass but to his—and Kamila’s—relief it turned out to be just another female shopper with her mahram. Kamila struggled to look busy while she waited. She didn’t dare to look at her brother; she was sure he was as nervous as she was. What have I gotten us into by coming here? she thought to herself. I am always so full of ideas, but maybe I should have thought this one through a bit more. . . .
But at last the woman departed, and the shopkeeper returned.
“Another seamstress like you came to see me earlier this week,” he said, speaking in a low voice. “She also offered to make dresses for my store. I’ve never really bought much from local women before, but I think I am going to have to start now. Things are tough for everyone, and no one can afford the imported clothes anymore.”
Kamila felt a small surge of excitement. As she had seen during her last trip to Lycée Myriam, most shopkeepers no longer thought it worth making the risky trip to Pakistan for a handful of dresses that only a few Kabulis could buy. This was her opportunity.
“Okay, I will take it,” he said, putting Kamila’s sample next to another pile of dresses on his side of the glass. “Can you make more like this? I don’t need so many dresses, actually, but I could use some more shalwar kameez for women, simpler clothing that people use for every day.”
“Oh, yes, that will not be a problem,” Kamila said. She kept her voice quiet and even so as not to betray the wave of elation she felt. And she felt grateful for the anonymity of her chadri. “We can produce as much as you need.”
The storekeeper returned the smile he could not see. “Very good. Then I will take five pantsuits and three dresses. Can you have them ready by next week?”
Kamila assured him she could. The store owner then took down bolts of polyester blends and rayon in different colors from a shelf behind him. Picking up his scissors, he cut enough material to make the suits he had ordered and placed the fabric into a dark shopping bag that he handed to Rahim. Throughout their short exchange Kamila saw that he had been keeping a close watch on the doorway for any sign of the Amr bil-Maroof. He had no desire to be caught speaking with a female customer, even if her mahramwas present. So far things had been uneventful.
“Okay, then, I will see you in a week,” he said. “I am Mehrab. What is your name so that I can know you when you come back?” Now that everyone had to wear the chadri, all his customers looked the same.
Where her answer came from, Kamila did not know. But as soon as the shop owner had spoken she realized it was too dangerous to use her real name.
“Roya,” Kamila said. “My name is Roya.”
Picking up her black carry-all from the counter, Kamila thanked Mehrab and promised she would return the following week. She and Rahim left the store and made their way back toward the street. Though the entire transaction had taken less than fifteen minutes, Kamila felt as if hours had passed.
Walking back into the gray morning, Kamila was nearly bursting with excitement. She felt that she was at the beginning of something important, something that could change their lives for the better. She fervently hoped so, but she admonished herself to stay focused. “No need to get ahead of myself when there is so much work to be done. Let’s just get the first order finished right. No more big ideas until then.”
“Come, let’s go home and tell the girls!”
Throughout the visit with the storekeeper Rahim had stood still as a tree, watching his sister protectively. Even when Mehrab had placed his order, Rahim had been careful to show no emotion. He didn’t want to give anyone a reason to look more closely at the transaction that was taking place inside the shop. Now that they were outside he beamed at his older sister and congratulated her on getting her first order. He was very proud of her work.
“I was so surprised when you told him to call you Roya,” he said. “That was the only time I almost slipped and laughed! You are really a good saleswoman, Kamila Jan.”
Kamila laughed softly beneath her chadri.
“And you are a very good mahram,” she said. “Mother would be proud.”
She kept them moving at a steady pace, for they needed to be far from Lycée Myriam by the time they heard the call to prayer.
Kamila felt invigorated; for the first time since the Taliban’s arrival four months earlier she had something to look forward to. And something to work for. She walked back toward the house with a bounce in her gait as Rahim marveled out loud at his sister’s new name. “Roya,” he said. “Roya Jan.” He practiced saying it again, trying to get used to it, just as he had gotten used to being the only boy in a house full of girls, all of whom now depended on him for nearly everything they needed from the outside world.
As they walked, Kamila contemplated the long list of supplies she would need to make the dresses and suits: thread, beads, and needles, along with a workspace big enough for them to spread open the fabric so they could see what they were making. They would have to clear out part of the living room, she resolved. When Kamila had visited Karteh Parwan, Malika had generously offered to lend one of her trusted “zigzags”; now the younger sister was tempted to accept the offer. If they delivered their work on time and were able to win more orders, maybe they would even be able to buy another machine for all of them to share. Who knows, perhaps one day they would have work for some other girls in their neighborhood who were stuck at home just as they were. All of this, however, was still a long way off. Right now, beginning this very evening, there was a great deal of sewing and teaching to attend to.
At last they crossed the barren courtyard and burst into the house. Kamila tossed her empty black bag onto the floor near the door and walked into the living room, where Saaman and Laila waited anxiously. The girls unleashed a barrage of questions as soon as their siblings entered the living room.
Kamila assured them they had made it just fine, and traced their route through the backstreets of Khair Khana. No, they hadn’t seen anything bad or had any trouble and yes, they saw the shopkeeper. . . .
She paused for a moment to let the anticipation build.
“I have some news,” she started. Both her tone and her face were stony and serious.
“We got an order!”
A triumphant smile spread across her cheeks, and the girls broke out in a ripple of relieved laughter.
“Oh, that is excellent!” cried Laila, applauding her sister’s work. She, too, was full of enthusiasm now that they finally had an important task ahead of them. “Well done, Kamila Jan. Now we have to get started! What are we supposed to make?”
Kamila grinned at her sister’s impetuousness. She was delighted to see that the girls were as excited as she was, and that they were ready to begin that very minute. At least we have a lot of energy, she thought, even if none of us has any experience!
Kamila described Mehrab’s order and told her sisters they would have to learn to sew quickly. “It won’t be easy,” she assured them, “but I am sure we can get it done. If I can learn, so can you!”
“We will be fine, Kamila,” said Saaman, confident and poised as always. “If we have to ask our friends for help, we will.”
“Okay, then,” Kamila answered, “we’ll get started with our first sewing lesson after lunch. We are officially in business!”
“And you must call her Roya now,” Rahim advised his sisters. The girls looked at Kamila, eager for an explanation.
Kamila recounted the story, explaining how her false identity would protect both her and Mehrab the shopkeeper. He wouldn’t be able to identify her should the Taliban ever question him for speaking to or, much worse, doing business with a woman at the bazaar. No one at Lycée Myriam would ever see Kamila’s face under the chadri, and none of their neighbors had ever heard of Roya. She was safe, at least for now, and she urged her sisters to remember to call her Roya if they ever accompanied her to the market. Kamila/Roya felt relieved to see that her sisters understood the need for her alias. And she appreciated the look of respect they showed her for her quick—and smart—thinking on the spot.
Malika would be proud, Kamila thought, smiling inwardly.
The idea of getting to work thrilled Saaman and Laila, though they had no idea how they would learn to sew in time to deliver according to their sister’s schedule. Like Kamila, Saaman had always been absorbed in her studies and had never before made anything by hand. She confided to her sister that she was nervous she would make hundreds of mistakes and ruin their first order. Laila showed far less hesitation; the bold teenager figured the only way she was going to become a good dressmaker was by trying. Just as Malika had shown her in her corner workspace in Karteh Parwan, Kamila began by teaching her sisters how to cut the fabric. Laila followed along, making only a few small mistakes as she went. Saaman, the most studious among them, watched motionless, and fixed her gaze on Kamila’s steady hand as it cut the material.
“Come on,” Laila ribbed Saaman, “it’s not so hard, just try it!”
Elated as she was about receiving her first order, Kamila too felt nervous. Right now she was the only one who knew anything about sewing—and she hardly qualified as an experienced tailor. She had to get this right if they were to attract more business.
And then, quite unexpectedly, as if in answer to her prayers, came the best news she could have asked for.
“Kamila, Kamila, did you hear?” cried Rahim, running into the living room to find his sister. She sat sewing on the floor, lost in her work trying to pin an unruly bead onto a piece of fabric.
“Malika is coming home. She’ll be here tomorrow!”
“What?” said Kamila. “Tomorrow? Oh, that is just wonderful!”
She put down her sewing and basked in relief. Malika had always been the dependable big sister, the reliable one who had kept her younger siblings out of trouble. Right now they needed her steady hand. Kamila herself was only a teenager, and she was finding it hard to focus on her business while keeping an eye on her four younger sisters, helping Rahim with his classwork, and making sure they had enough food and fuel to keep the house functioning.
“Yes,” said Rahim, “Najeeb talked to her about it before he went. He thought it would be better if we all lived together. It took a little while for her and Farzan to arrange everything, especially with the twins, but his family agreed it would be better if they came here.”
The twins. Kamila was as delighted to spend more time with her newborn nieces as she was to see her sister. And she was thrilled at the prospect of being able to return the favor and help Malika, who had given birth to the babies prematurely just two months earlier. She got up from her seat and walked into Malika’s old room to begin sweeping out her younger sisters’ things.
Every time I think things are bad, something happens, and we get through it, Kamila thought to herself. Father was right; we just have to keep doing our part and everything will be okay. God is watching out for us.
Days later the girls filled with joy at the sight of one of Kabul’s familiar yellow-and-white taxis pulling up to their green gate. Malika was back.
Since the arrival of the Taliban several months earlier, life had quickly devolved into a series of challenges for the twenty-four-year-old mother of four. Her sisters may have seen her as their rock, but Malika and her husband, Farzan, were reeling both financially and emotionally. With women barred from schools she could no longer work, so her family had to survive without her monthly teacher’s salary. Now, with the economy shrinking by the day and fewer and fewer goods coming in and out of Kabul, demand for Farzan’s trucking business had dried up to almost zero. In just months the family had gone from two incomes to less than one.
Malika’s tailoring work plus a small amount of savings kept the family going. But she worried constantly about her children. Her twin girls had been born weeks early and had been fighting off infections ever since. In a city which so many doctors had fled and where the infrastructure and sanitation systems had been wrecked by decades of war, this was nearly a death sentence. The babies remained tiny and frail, and Malika shuttled them regularly to the clinic, struggling to fill their expensive prescriptions. Now back in Khair Khana she saw how fragile things were in her parents’ home, and how much her sisters—and everyone else in her life—needed her. She was exhausted, but determined to do all that the moment demanded: to be a mentor for her sisters’ new tailoring operation, and to continue her own work sewing suits and dresses for clients who valued her skill and creativity. Above all else, she would care for her struggling family. Though it had been hard to leave her friends and in-laws in Karteh Parwan, she knew her place was here in Khair Khana with her sisters.
By the time Malika arrived, the girls had managed to finish most of their first order. The days had rolled by quickly, and soon after they began their new commission they invited Razia, a neighbor and friend, to join them. Kamila had told her about the tailoring work, and Razia had been eager to join so she could help her own family. Her father was too old to work, and her older brother, like Kamila’s, had been forced to leave Kabul because of security issues. With no money coming in each month her parents could barely cover even the basics of food and winter clothing. For their part, the girls were happy to have another pair of hands and the company of an old friend they could trust. As she sat with her friends on pillows in the living room sewing the last of the dresses, cups of now-cold chai sitting in front of them, Razia watched the hours speed by. She felt lucky to be able to think about something other than her family’s troubles. She told Kamila how happy she was to be working, and the two of them began exchanging ideas for expansion.
“I think there are other tailors who would be interested in our work,” Kamila said. “We just need to find them.”
Razia was ready to assist Kamila with anything the business needed, including finding more women to help. “I could ask around the neighborhood,” she volunteered, “but only to friends we can trust, of course.” With stories circulating of neighbors informing on one another to the Amr bil-Maroof, they had to be careful not to work with anyone who would talk about what they were doing. Kamila knew that her team of seamstresses was doing nothing unlawful according to the official rules, which clearly stated that women could work at home so long as they stayed inside and did not mix with men. But no one was safe from the Taliban government’s most zealous enforcers. Anything that involved the behavior of women was open to interpretation—and punishment—by the young soldiers on the hunt for offenders day and night. Even behind closed doors the girls had to be cautious.
Despite all the risk, Kamila remained invigorated by her work, and she began to plan her next trip to Lycée Myriam. The girls had shown her this past week that they were up to the challenge of filling more and even bigger orders. Almost without trying they had settled into a routine that she felt certain would allow them to grow their fledgling venture. In the mornings they would rise at around six-thirty or seven, washing and saying their prayers before moving on to breakfast and finishing their pieces from the evening before. Late in the morning they began reviewing the items they had finished the day before and cutting fabric for the next set of dresses and suits.
Kamila acted as the team’s quality control officer, checking everyone’s handiwork to make certain that each stitch lived up to the standard Malika had set. Saaman continued to be cautious about cutting without Kamila’s supervision, and Kamila continued to remind her that she really didn’t need help—she was learning fast and was becoming an excellent tailor, even better than Kamila herself. At noon they would stop for prayers and lunch before returning to their needles. After prayers and dinner, they would heat the wood-fired bukhari and sit together by the orange glow of the hurricane lamps, sewing until late in the night. Most of the time the girls worked in silence, engrossed in their fabric and fully focused on their deadline.
The high walls of their courtyard prevented anyone in the street from seeing inside, so Kamila had little fear about curious or nosy passersby asking unwanted questions. And with Malika in the house she had someone to turn to for help if things went wrong. She prayed they never would.
Soon after Malika’s arrival, Kamila stopped by her sister’s room to see how she was settling in. She found Malika putting her husband’s and children’s things in a small cupboard.
“How are you?” Kamila asked.
“Oh, we’ll be fine,” Malika said, deflecting the question. Though she was still a very young woman, she had always worn the air of a wise elder. Kamila thought Malika looked paler and a bit thinner than usual. Still, it was the older girl who reached out, trying to reassure her sister—and also, perhaps, herself—that everything would be all right. “It’s so good for the children to be with all of you—I’m glad we’re here. How is your work coming?”
“Pretty good, though not as well as if you had done it!” Kamila answered. “I tried to remember everything from our lessons, but it’s much harder than I thought, to be honest. I think we have managed okay, though.”
She continued: “Maybe you could take a look at some of our dresses?”
Malika welcomed a break from all the unpacking. Within moments Kamila had summoned her younger sisters and they now stood in the small room holding armfuls of new clothing. Malika turned each of the garments inside out and examined the stitches and the seams; then she held each dress up to the girls to judge their proportions, and to see how they hung. Saaman and Laila stood in an expectant silence as Malika studied their work with excruciating attention. After several minutes, she offered her assessment.
“The work is very good,” she said, smiling at the girls. A light-colored dress still hung draped over her elbow. “There are a few things I will teach you to make it even better, but overall you’ve done an excellent job. Kamila has been a very good teacher. But Kamila, you need some help with this belt—we can work on it this afternoon.”
The following evening, Kamila readied the dresses and pantsuits—some of them now with particularly handsome belts—for delivery to Mehrab’s store. She folded each item with great care, one end over the other, a total of four times to form a neat square, before placing it in a clear plastic bag she then folded and sealed. When she had finished, Kamila slid the garments into two white grocery bags and lined them up carefully near the door.
“I really think this business will work,” Kamila told her sister as they sat in the living room sipping tea. Three of Malika’s children had gone to sleep a few hours earlier, and she was finally enjoying a moment of quiet before falling into her own bed after the long day. “The girls are doing very well. And it’s so good for us to think about work and business instead of just sitting around here all day feeling bored and anxious. Now I just have to find more orders at Lycée Myriam tomorrow. We need more work!”
“Kamila Jan, I’m nervous about you going to the market,” Malika replied. One of the twins was running a fever and now slept uneasily against her shoulder. “The more work you get, the more you will have to be there and the more likely it is that something could go wrong.”
Kamila could not disagree. But now that she had begun to see the possibilities, she had no intention of stopping. Their work could do a great deal of good for their own family—and maybe even some others in the neighborhood. Now, perhaps more than ever before, they must push forward.
“I know,” she said. And she left it at that.
At ten o’clock the next morning Kamila set out for Lycée Myriam with Rahim, who had gone to school in his new white turban only long enough to see that there were not enough teachers for all the students who had assembled for class. Women had accounted for well over half of all educators before the Taliban arrived; now that they couldn’t work, their male colleagues scrambled to keep up with the demands of educating all the city’s boys and implementing the Taliban’s new, more religiously focused curriculum. Lacking teachers, a number of schools had shut their doors, but Rahim’s Khair Khana classrooms had remained open and were now absorbing students from nearby neighborhoods. Like all the boys in his class, Rahim now had to balance his schoolwork with his mahram duties; he knew as well as the girls did that family came first, and his sisters needed him at home.
Heading off with Rahim, Kamila put on her floor-length coat and held the straps of her square black bag close to her. Again they took the back roads, but this time they moved more quickly once they reached the bazaar. They passed several Amr bil-Maroof milling around the market; Kamila kept her head down and her brother nearby. At last they reached their destination. Kamila checked to make sure that the store was empty and that there were no Taliban in the hall outside, then she followed her brother into Mehrab’s shop. With a sigh of relief only she could hear, she placed the meticulously packed stack of handmade dresses and suits on the counter.
“Hello, I am Roya,” she said. “This is my brother, and we are here to deliver your order as we discussed last week.”
Mehrab looked nervously past Kamila to check for himself that no one was watching, then quickly counted the pile of clothing in front of him. He took one dress and one pantsuit from the plastic bags to inspect the quality of the work.
“These will do,” he said after spending a moment looking at the garments. “They are good, but if you made this seam smaller on the pants and added some more beading to the belt on the dress, they would be even better.”
“Thank you,” she said. “We’ll make sure to make those changes for the next order.” That presumed, of course, that there would be a next order, she thought to herself.
Mehrab opened a drawer beneath the counter and handed Kamila an envelope filled with afghani, enough to buy the family flour and groceries for a week. Kamila’s heart soared. At last she could see real, tangible progress for all the work they had done and the risks she had taken. She wanted to jump up and down with excitement and count the money right then and there. But instead she calmly took the pile of blue-, rose-, and green-colored notes and placed it at the bottom of her bag.
“Would you like to order anything else?” she asked, trying not to sound too eager. “My brother and I can come back next week if there is anything you need.”
Mehrab said he would take three more pantsuits in the traditional style. He would wait on the dresses until he saw how the first ones sold. Kamila thanked him for his business. Afterward, she rushed back out to the street, intent on getting them out of Lycée Myriam well before the call to prayer, as she had promised her sisters she would.
Before she had taken even one hundred steps, however, a small side street caught Kamila’s attention. Straight ahead and to the left, just off the stony and well-trodden path leading from the road, she saw a red and white walkway.
“Rahim, do you think that is the street with the shop that Zalbi mentioned?”
“I don’t know, Roya,” he said, smiling at his sister’s tenacity, “but I am sure we are about to find out!”
Nearly all the boys in school had sisters working at home, and Rahim’s classmate Zalbi had recently told him about a family friend who ran a tailoring shop nearby. “He is a very good man; maybe he would want to buy your dresses,” Zalbi had said. It was important to work with honorable people they could trust, and Kamila had been eager to meet the shopkeeper. Now was as good a time as any, she thought, feeling hopeful. Besides, if this was the street, it wouldn’t be nearly so easy to spot from the main road, and that would make orders and deliveries a bit easier. Peering out to the left and right to make sure no one was paying them any attention, Kamila headed down the walkway with her brother in search of a new customer.