Torkham (Pak-Afghan Border)
The vehicle stopped with a jolt.
Washma looked out the window, but the shuttlecock burqa she was wearing blurred her view.
The dusty wind made visibility nearly impossible. She glanced at her sister, Rukhsaar ... both were in the same situation, trapped in heat, dust, and silence. They remained seated, quietly enduring their exhaustion. Whatever had happened outside, Nazar Baba ... their old servant ...would eventually tell them.
He was sitting at the far end of the bus, away from the window, while the girls sat in the middle seats between him and the window .... ensuring their safety.
Rukhsaar and Washma
"Hurry up... destination reached, leave the bus!" the conductor yelled.
He was short, wearing a faded brown shalwar kameez, a waistcoat, and a Pakol (a traditional hat) resting on his disheveled hair. This attire was common here. Washma was still observing his rugged appearance when she heard a voice from the passengers.
"Oh brother, have some fear of God! The border is still 5 km away."
"You should fear God!" the conductor snapped. "We've got small children waiting at home. We're brothers, fathers, sons... You want us to lose our lives in the war your leaders started?"
"Sorry, brother. It was your choice .... not ours .... to visit this dusty land," the driver interrupted. "We can only bring you this far. Beyond this point, it's your luck whether you reach your loved ones or not."
Though the passengers were angry about being dropped so far from the border, they disembarked one by one ... like defeated warriors.
"Washma Bibi, fix your burqa properly and keep your water bottle with you. I'll get your luggage," Nazar Baba instructed, helping them out of the bus that felt like a pressure cooker.
As they stepped down, a long gasp escaped inside their burqas. Their clothes were soaked with sweat, but they couldn't remove the burqas .... it was a decree that Afghan women must wear these 'coffins' for as long as they lived.
Usually, it felt like a second skin, but today was different.
That dry, deserted land felt like a living inferno. Washma looked around .... the conductor was tossing luggage like garbage into a bin.
"Please don't throw it like that! You'll damage our belongings!" one passenger protested.
"Sorry, brother," the conductor replied sarcastically. "Didn't see the 'handle with care' note on your bag." He cracked a sick joke, laughing alone. The passenger threw him a disgusted look and picked up his luggage.
Here, buses are often decorated in bright colors, floral patterns, birds like peacocks and eagles, and poetic verses ... a unique art form now recognized worldwide. You can even find similar prints on crockery, bags, and clothes.
But the bus before them was far from a fashion icon. Rusted, faded, and worn-out, it looked like a sand dune in the dusty wilderness of Torkham.
As soon as the luggage was thrown out, it disappeared in seconds.... as if by magic ... leaving only dust behind. The passengers, like a caravan, began walking toward Khyber.
Nazar Baba lifted their luggage onto his aged but strong shoulders. They wanted to help him, but they couldn't ...partly because carrying luggage might expose parts of their bodies (which could result in severe punishment), and partly because, even in old age, Nazar Baba was stronger than both of them.
The caravan moved in silence. The sun showed no mercy on the exhausted, homesick travelers.
After five hours of walking barefoot, they reached Khyber Pass .... the gateway to their homeland. The caravan halted.
Washma and Rukhsaar were both exhausted...not just from the journey, but from walking in heels.
"Ya Allah... my feet hurt like hell," Washma whispered. They couldn't even bend down to take off their shoes.
"I told you not to wear those cursed heels!" Rukhsaar scolded, though Washma was older. "You wanted to show off in front of Tajwar and Maimoona, that we can walk in 8-inch heels too. So now bear it."
"I thought we'd be dropped directly at Khyber Pass," Washma muttered. "That Mir Lala would be waiting with the jeep. I didn't think we'd have to walk this much."
Nazar Baba stayed at a respectful distance, giving them space for conversation.
Suddenly, the sound of gunfire shattered the silence.
A group of young, bearded men in traditional Pathan outfits and turbans appeared, rifles pointed. They were often more brutal to their own people than to enemies.
"All men, stand in a straight line!" one of them .... perhaps the commander ...yelled, his voice piercing the air.
"You! Step forward," he pointed at a man holding a woman's hand. "Don't you know women can't travel ? Are you a traitor?"
Another opressor raised his gun near the man's ear.
Washma and Rukhsaar trembled with fear. They were women .. and by their law, had already broken the rules. The mere thought of punishment made their souls leave their bodies.
"Please... please," the man begged. "She's my mother... she has cancer, last stage. There's no treatment here. I took her to Peshawar for help."
He joined his hands in pleading, revealing the truth he'd hidden from his mother to protect her .. and to save himself. He knew it was the only way.
The opressor glared at him with a gun to his head, then looked toward the commander. After a brief silence, the commander made a subtle gesture of denial. The opressor lowered his weapon.
"This time, I'm letting you go. But next time, get a permit before leaving the country," the commander warned.
The man nodded quickly and clutched his mother's hand. Behind her burqa, the old woman sobbed quietly ... perhaps having just learned the truth about her illness, or having come close to losing her son.
Then, another man was dragged forward and beaten brutally ... simply for trimming his beard.
All of them were silent at their own ruthlessness. They were scared ... afraid for themselves. They were bound to listen to those screams filled with pain. And after what they believed was punishment, they stopped. The man, unable to move, dragged his body away.
Now, it was their turn.
Their breathing hitched. The commander pointed toward them. It felt like Death itself had taken form and was now walking toward them.
The sisters held each other's hands, their eyes squeezed shut.
Was this their end? Would their blood be spilled on these rough stones?
They had lived a cursed life, but never saw it that way .... they had dreams. They sought education at the cost of their lives, their freedom, and their dignity. Yet they were proud .... believing that one day, they would be the pride of their family, their tribe, their country.
"Oh Allah... not like this," Washma pleaded in silence.
"You know how hard we worked to get here. You are our Creator, our Protector .. save us. We will not accept this fate. We will not surrender to your creation. We surrender to YOU. Please save us."
At that very moment ... just as they offered their hearts to God, not to these opressors.... the sound of approaching footsteps grew louder. Then, a jeep roared between them and the footsteps.