8
STANDING OVER THE first flames of his grill, Babur wiped the beads of sweat from his brow with a greasy rag before waving and calling out to Sofia as she passed: ‘As-salaam alaikum.’ Just as she was returning the greeting she was nearly knocked off her feet by her young receptionist, Iman, who had come running up from behind to thread her arm through Sofia’s.
Iman’s father, who held a high position in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and her mother, who taught Pashto and Dari to expatriates at a small privately run school, encouraged Iman to be an independent woman, all the while tempering their enthusiasm for female emancipation with warnings about not drawing too much unwanted attention. Sofia thought both pieces of advice commendable if not somewhat contradictory, which probably went a long way to explaining why Iman adopted the first while generally ignoring the second.
Sofia had not missed Babur’s look of disapproval and knew that Iman’s habits of talking too loudly on her mobile phone, not covering her hair and always wanting to change everything were generally seen by some of the older generation as an affront to the good order of the square.
‘I believe that women must also take responsibility for the subjugation of women in Afghanistan society,’ offered Iman, who had a habit of randomly picking up on a past conversation without warning. ‘I know this isn’t a popular idea, but it’s true, don’t you think, Dr Sofia?’
Sofia had heard this argument before and wondered where the conversation was going this time. Sofia decided that until she knew it was probably best not to respond.
‘Think about it,’ continued Iman. ‘It’s mothers who teach their daughters to serve men and don’t insist their daughters are educated. It’s also mothers who treat their sons like kings and their daughters-in-law like servants. Even my friends, the way I hear them talking about each other makes me crazy. Why don’t women in Afghanistan support each other like they do in the West?’
‘Woman don’t always support each other in the West, Iman. There’s a lot of competition between women there, a lot of bad behaviour.’ She still had no idea where the conversation was going.
‘But there is also support, right?’ she asked, sounding disappointed.
‘Of course, but as I’ve said before, everything isn’t perfect in the West for women. What’s this all about anyway?’
‘I’m organising a protest to highlight the subjugation of women in Afghanistan.’
‘Interesting.’
‘Don’t say that!’ Iman let go of Sofia’s arm. ‘People only say “interesting” when they don’t agree with you and want to be polite,’ she said, petulantly.
Sofia remembered too late that Iman hated the word. ‘I promise I shall wipe the offending word from my vocabulary immediately. So how will you protest?’
‘We’ll ride our bikes in the streets of Kabul.’ Iman saw the look on Sofia’s face. ‘There’s nothing in the Qur’an that says girls can’t ride bikes. Boys ride bikes everywhere. Why can’t we? I want to point out this inequality.’
‘I’m just a little worried about the safety issue. The traffic here’s so dangerous.’
‘I’ve already thought about that. We’ll take over all the lanes and then the cars will have to wait behind us so they can’t knock us off our bikes even if they wanted to.’
‘I think your protest is admirable.’
‘Good. Then you’ll join us?’
Sofia was aware that Iman saw her as a role model, but the presence of a Western woman would undermine the validity of Iman’s protest by giving its detractors the opportunity to dismiss it as Western-led. There was also another problem. A big part of Sofia’s ability to continue living in Kabul was her skill at staying ‘under the radar’. She couldn’t afford to be part of Iman’s demonstration. ‘I don’t have a bike.’
‘Maybe I could find one for you,’ Iman said, pulling her hair back behind her shoulders.
Sofia hoped not. ‘What did your parents say?’
‘I haven’t told them.’
Sofia raised an eyebrow. ‘They might like to be forewarned. There could be repercussions for them.’
‘I know. I will.’
For the first time Sofia noticed that Iman was wearing her best clothes. ‘You look especially beautiful today. Something happening?’ Sofia had given Iman the morning off because Daniel was coming and there would be no patients.
‘Khalif ’s taking me to breakfast.’
‘Somewhere nice, I hope.’
‘He says it’s a surprise. By the way, I saw the photo in the paper of the man from the UN you’re seeing this morning. He’s veeeery handsome.’
‘Do you think so?’
Iman made a point of turning to watch her. ‘You think he’s handsome too, don’t you?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to. I can see it in the smile on your face. Okay, I’m going to be late,’ she said, as they were nearing Ahmad’s shop. ‘Don’t tell anyone about my protest yet.’
‘I won’t, but think about telling your parents.’
Iman laughed. ‘I might be modern but I’m not so modern that I wouldn’t tell them.’
* * *
BRIGHTLY COLOURED KITCHEN implements, faded bottles of shampoo, wooden rolling pins, brittle plastic storage jars, glasses, hand beaters and strainers of every imaginable size were sitting in their rightful places in front of Ahmad’s shop. On top of some crates was a new addition, a stack of girls’ woven hats made of pink plastic, while men’s sandals were sitting in a basket by the front door, paired together with string. Among Ahmad’s tin cans, kerosene lamps and beaten tin plates hanging from the wire strung under the awning at the front of the shop was now a used blue plastic bucket. If Ahmad sold two of the engraved tin plates they would pay for food for a week. Plates did well. Kerosene lamps did even better. Proceeds from a second-hand bucket probably wouldn’t spread very far.
As Sofia saw it, the problem for Ahmad, and all the other small shopkeepers of Kabul, was that they were all selling the same things. Liberated Kabul had become another dumping ground for the world’s cheap, mass-produced merchandise trucked in from Iran, Pakistan and China, and with everyone selling the same goods, no one was making a profit. It was a problem nobody in the square had been able to solve. Sofia’s suggestion that they might diversify had fallen on deaf ears. No one had the resources to find new and exciting items from overseas, and even if they had, who in the hidden backwater that was Shaahir Square would buy them?
‘As-salaam alaikum,’ she called as she walked past Ahmad, who returned her greeting.
‘Do you think I should paint my shop a different colour so I might have more customers?’ he added.
Sofia stopped and walked back to give serious consideration to the question, which, along with the second-hand blue bucket, probably reflected a new level of desperation. ‘Well, I’m not sure.’ She looked over to the neighbouring shop. ‘What do you think, Hadi?’
Hadi considered his answer. ‘Green is probably the best colour because it’s the colour of Allah.’