Shooting Kabul: Chapters 15–19

Fadi followed Zalmay and his father through the parking lot toward the blue and gold tiled facade of the mosque.

The main hall could accommodate more than five hundred, and its rising minarets announced prayers five times a day.

The imam shuffled toward the front of the building and the mihrab, which pointed toward Mecca.

He settled his rotund frame onto a prayer rug in front of the crowd and cleared his throat into the microphone.

His jowls shaking with emotion, the imam had spent ten minutes telling people not to come to the mosque wearing smelly socks or after eating garlic because that disturbed the prayers of people around them.

The imam paused a moment, then translated. “We ordained for the Children of Israel that if anyone slew a person—unless it be for murder or for spreading mischief in the land—it would be as if he slew the whole people: and if anyone saved a life, it would be as if he saved the life of the whole people.”

Fadi stumbled forward. He needed to get out of the aisle. He dragged his leaden feet, begging them to cooperate, but the row of Barbies seemed to lengthen, stretch out for miles.

Only Abay and Dada seemed oblivious to the undercurrent of tension.

“Someone beat up poor Mr. Singh,” she said in a garbled whisper.

A week, a mere seven days, a paltry one hundred sixty-eight hours remained till their deadline.

He said a quick prayer and gently unfurled the negatives from the roll of film he’d shot over the weekend.

There was a Chinese restaurant, a German hofbrau, a Mexican taqueria, a falafel joint, a sushi bar, and a French bakery.

“But it’s missing something, isn’t it?” said Fadi. His brows furrowed as his finger traced the street down to the glittering water of the bay.

“No,” said Fadi. He shook his head as it dawned on him what it was. “You’ve said it to us a hundred times. Great photos say something about life; they tell a story. My picture does that. But you’ve also told us that great photos evoke emotion.”

As Anh had nervously inspected the windows to establish the best source of light, he’d mounted her expensive, brand-new Nikon to the tripod and positioned it on the edge of the parquet floor.

He spotted Mariam’s tin box and he growled—a deep, guttural animal sound.

“Stop this instant, you ruffians!” he huffed.

“Salaam Alaikum, Brother Habib, Sister Zafoona,” cried Gul Khan. “Welcome to my humble restaurant. And these must be your beautiful children.”

“These are difficult times, Brother Gul.” Zafoona sighed. “We must be strong and vigilant.”

“Tomahawk cruise missiles were launched from both U.S. and British ships this evening, signaling the start of Operation Enduring Freedom. This was accompanied by a mix of strikes from land-based B-1 Lancer, B-2 Spirit, and B-52 Stratofortress bombers. The initial military objective, as articulated by President George W. Bush, is to destroy terrorist training camps and infrastructure within Afghanistan, the capture of al-Qaeda leaders, and the cessation of terrorist activities.”

“Tomahawk cruise missiles were launched from both U.S. and British ships this evening, signaling the start of Operation Enduring Freedom. This was accompanied by a mix of strikes from land-based B-1 Lancer, B-2 Spirit, and B-52 Stratofortress bombers. The initial military objective, as articulated by President George W. Bush, is to destroy terrorist training camps and infrastructure within Afghanistan, the capture of al-Qaeda leaders, and the cessation of terrorist activities.”

Fadi felt like a hairy single-celled paramecium, immobilized under a microscope, squashed between two plates of glass.

Ignoring a feeling of impending doom, Fadi had felt a surge of satisfaction as he’d seen Ike’s face.

Fadi bristled at the unfairness of it, but remained silent.

As Fadi waited outside Principal Hornstein’s office for his father to pick him up, he asked the secretary if he could use the bathroom. At her curt nod he headed toward the art studio.