This is what I have to figure out, Kamila thought to herself. I need to find something I can do at home, behind closed doors. I need to find something that people need, something useful that they'll want to buy. She knew she had very few options. Only basic necessities mattered now; no one had money for anything else. Teaching school might be an option, but it was unlikely to earn her enough money, since most families still kept their girls at home out of fear for their safety. And she certainly didn't want her income to depend on an improvement in the security situation.

Kamila spent long days thinking about her options, considering which skills she could learn quickly that would also bring in enough afghani to make a difference for her family. And then it came to her, inspired by her older sister Malika, who, along with being a great teacher, had over many years developed into a talented-and sought-after-seamstress. Women from her neighborhood in Karteh Parwan loved her work so much that Malika's tailoring income now earned her almost as much as her teacher's salary. That's it, Kamila thought. I'll become a seamstress.

There were many positives: she could do the work in her living room, her sisters could help, and, most important of all, she had seen for herself at Lycee Myriam that the market for clothing remained strong. Even with the Taliban in power and the economy collapsing, women would still need simple dresses. As long as she kept quiet and didn't attract unnecessary attention, the risks should be manageable.

Kamila faced just one major obstacle: she had no idea how to sew. Until now she had been focused on her books and her studies and had never shown any interest in sewing, even though her mother was an expert tailor, having learned from her own mother when she was growing up in the north. Mrs. Sidiqi had made all of her own clothing as a teenager, and she in turn had taught Malika when the young woman was struggling with her first high school sewing a.s.signment. Now that the Taliban had barred women from cla.s.srooms, Malika was again considering becoming a full-time tailor, particularly since her husband's transport business had slowed considerably under the new regime.

"Malika," Kamila whispered to herself. "Surely she will teach me. And no one is as talented as she is. ..."

A few days later Kamila set off for Malika's house in Karteh Parwan, making her way in her chadri toward the bus stop under the late morning sun. She hadn't been able to send word ahead to her sister to expect her visit, but these days there was little risk of finding Malika or any of her other older sisters away from home; life had moved indoors. Since Rahim was in school Kamila went by herself, unaccompanied by a mahram mahram, and her heart pounded as she walked all alone the few hundred yards to the corner. The city looked like it had been evacuated. Kamila kept her head down and prayed that no one would notice her.

Fortunately, she had to endure only a short wait before the aging blue and white bus lumbered down the street and shuddered to a stop. Kamila quickly noticed that, like everything else in Kabul, there was something different about the vehicle. She was no longer allowed use the front door, as she always had, but was forced to enter through a door toward the rear, into a new women's section. An old patoo patoo, a woolen blanket that often doubled as a covering for men, hung unevenly from a white rope and managed to hide the women in the back from the men who sat up front with the driver. As she boarded the bus, a young boy took Kamila's fare in his palm; children his age were the only males who were still permitted to have contact with women outside their family.

As the bus pulled out of Khair Khana's main road, Kamila gazed out the window. She could see almost no cars and very few people, mainly men who were huddled together in the cold trying to sell whatever their family still owned. Their wares lay sprawled out on ratty blankets on the side of the street: rubber tubes from old bicycles, unkempt baby dolls, worn shoes without laces, plastic jugs, pots and pans, and stacks of used clothing. Anything they had that they thought others might value. Armed Mujahideen no longer manned the checkpoint at the traffic circle that marked the end of her neighborhood and the beginning of Khwaja Bughra; instead, groups of Kalashnikov-wielding Taliban guarded the intersection.

Inside the bus the women spoke in hushed tones of Kabul's growing desperation.

"Things have never been so bad for us," one woman said. Kamila could see nothing of their faces; all she had were voices, which sounded slightly m.u.f.fled from behind the chadri. "I don't know what we will do. My husband lost his job and my girls are home with me. Perhaps we'll go to Pakistan, but who knows if things will be any better there."

A woman sitting opposite answered in a quiet voice, shaking her head from side to side while she spoke. She sounded exhausted.

"You know, my husband has left for Iran and now I fear they'll try to send my son to the front lines. What will happen to my children? There's no one left to help us. It has become so difficult."

Kamila listened as the women shared their troubles. At last, about fifteen minutes later, the bus arrived in Karteh Parwan.

Stepping onto the street, she walked down Karteh Parwan's main boulevard until she arrived at Malika's narrow lane. Once there she exhaled fully for the first time since she left Khair Khana. She hadn't realized how nervous she had been. After pa.s.sing row on row of one- and two-story houses she finally reached Malika's, a white, squat, two-family home. Malika and her husband lived on the first floor and her brother-in-law's family lived above them.

Kamila knocked on the wooden door, and in only a few moments she found herself in her older sister's warm and powerful embrace. Kamila felt a rush of relief as she stepped inside the living room she knew so well.

"Come in, come in, I'm so glad you're here. This is a surprise!" Malika said as she kissed her sister on each cheek. Her belly had gotten so much bigger; Kamila realized that the baby must be due soon. "Did you have any problems on the way? I've heard the patrols are very strict now. You have to be so careful when you go out."

"Oh, no, it was fine," Kamila said, dismissing her fears of just a minute earlier. No need to make Malika worry more than she already did. Her oldest sibling had been like a parent to the younger children in the large Sidiqi brood; she had helped to raise all seven of her younger sisters, feeding them and getting them ready for school every day, since their mother had her hands full with eleven children, a husband, and a household to run. "There were a lot of women on the bus. Everyone was talking about how hard things are."

The two women sat down to steaming gla.s.ses of freshly made chai and a plate of nuts and b.u.t.ter cookies. Kamila filled Malika in on all that was happening at home, including Najeeb's imminent departure and her own worries about their finances. Then, after a moment's silence, Kamila came to the point of her visit.

"Malika Jan," she said. "I need your help."

She recounted to her sister how she had explored every idea she could think of to make money for the family, how she wanted to find a way to support them, to make things easier for their father and mother.

"Malika, I think that if I knew how to sew I could start making dresses at home and perhaps I could sell them to the shops at Lycee Myriam."

Malika listened intently as her sister spoke.

"Would you teach me?" Kamila finally asked.

Malika sat silently as she weighed the idea. She, too, had been hearing of women who, out of sight of the Amr bil-Maroof and interfering neighbors, sewed dresses or knitted blankets in their living rooms to earn money for their families. Necessity was turning these women into entrepreneurs. With no jobs available and no employers willing to hire them, they were making their own way, creating businesses that would help them feed their children.

Malika worried about her sister taking such risks, but she knew the family needed the income. It was the best option Kamila had.

"Yes, of course I'll help," she said. "I'm sure you'll learn quickly; you always have, ever since you were little!"

But there were conditions.

"You have to follow my rules, Kamila. Number one: never go out alone, as you did today. You have to bring Najeeb or someone else with you. And you can't ever be on the streets during the time of prayer-that's when soldiers are patrolling the shops and it will be very dangerous."

Kamila listened, nodding at everything she said.

"No talking to strangers, ever, including women, because you never know who might be listening. Or who might want to turn someone else in for their own reasons. And most of all, you can't ever be seen speaking with any men other than one of our brothers, particularly shopkeepers. You have to a.s.sume that the Taliban are always watching, that you are never invisible. You just have to be watchful every second you're outside, okay?"

"Definitely," Kamila said. "You're right. You know I wanted to bring one of our brothers with me today but they were both very busy. I promise I'll do everything you say and will be extremely careful from here on out."

Malika looked at her, unconvinced. She wasn't sure her strong-willed sister had ever stopped to think about the consequences once she set her mind on something.

"Really, I promise you," Kamila said, seeing her sister's hesitation. "I don't want to break the rules or cause problems for anyone; I just need to work for our family. And Malika, I am going mad with nothing to do. I have to be useful again."

Malika realized that it would be pointless to stand in her sister's way, no matter how worried she was. She could tell by Kamila's tone of absolute certainty that she had already decided to go forward with her plan anyway-with or without her help.

"Well, then," Malika said, putting down her tea and removing the snacks from the wooden table. She moved like a woman with no time to waste. "Let's begin."

Kamila followed her sister into her sewing area, which was just off the living room. Malika had carved out this small works.p.a.ce a few years earlier, and it had become her own private refuge, a corner of quiet amid the noise and laughter of her two boys. Partially completed dresses and a dark pair of women's trousers hung here and there from chairs and table corners. Malika was in the middle of making a pantsuit for a neighbor, she explained.

Three small machines stood at attention on the sewing table. Malika used one to hem clothing, particularly garments that were made from thick fabric. Another was for embroidery. But the device she turned to most often was her "zigzag," a lightweight beige-colored machine that could make more than a dozen kinds of st.i.tches and was powered by a black pedal that sat beneath it on the floor.

Reaching for a swath of powder blue rayon fabric that was leaning against the wall, Malika began to explain to Kamila how to make a simple dress with beading.

"First, you begin by cutting the fabric," she said.

As she continued, Malika grabbed a pair of fabric shears from a nearby shelf that was filled with sewing supplies-measuring tape, needles, dozens of spools of colored thread. A dusty shaft of afternoon sunlight streamed into the sitting room from the courtyard, glancing off the metal scissors. Malika carefully maneuvered a smooth, straight line against the material she was cutting.

She picked up a plastic stencil in the shape of a flower from her worktable and held it against the top corner of the cut fabric. With a thin marker she outlined the shape of the petals, tilting the fabric to show Kamila what she was doing. Then she stuck a small silver needle through the neat and even holes of the stencil to puncture the fabric beneath. Beading would later fill these small s.p.a.ces.

Malika was a natural teacher. She explained each step to her sister in detail as she went, demonstrating her technique in slow and deliberate moves. Her attentive pupil followed the lesson closely, and took over where she could in the hope that doing it herself would help her better remember everything Malika was showing her. "Now I wish I had paid better attention when Mother taught you to sew, Malika Jan!" she exclaimed.

Soon Kamila was ready to bead. Together she and her sister sewed the tiny, hollow stones onto the flower by hand until the dress had a yellow blossom with small s.p.a.ces of blue at its center.

Malika then turned back to finis.h.i.+ng the garment, and announced that Kamila was ready to learn how to use her cherished zigzag. Malika showed her how to thread the machine, and how to properly, and comfortably, position herself in the chair. In only a few minutes Kamila was moving the pedal expertly.

"See? You're a very good student, just as I expected," Malika exclaimed, as together they worked on the final seams of the pantsuit. Kamila smiled and shared a laugh with her sister; after three hours of intense focus she was finally relaxed. It felt great to be working again, and she was so excited to be learning a skill that could very well become the lifeline she needed. Malika ended her sister's first training session by showing her how to complete the hems at the bottom of the skirt and sleeves. When the machine's staccato finally stopped, they had an elegant blue dress with a beaded flower near the neckline that would be smart enough for any occasion, including their cousin's upcoming Kabul wedding. Kamila felt proud of her work and-she confessed only to herself-was somewhat amazed that she had helped make such a pretty garment.

But there was little time for the sisters to enjoy their success; the afternoon had pa.s.sed quickly and evening would soon arrive. Malika gently folded the new dress into a plastic bag while Kamila secured her chadri. With a curfew in effect they had to get Kamila to the bus stop soon to make certain she would be back in Khair Khana long before dark. Without a mahram mahram, Kamila faced an even greater chance of being stopped. The sooner she was home, the better.

"Malika, thank you so much for all your help," Kamila said as she hugged her older sister good-bye in the doorway she had been so grateful to reach just a few hours earlier. "You always take such good care of all of us."

Malika reached behind her for a folded piece of white paper, which she handed to Kamila. Inside lay a thick pile of colorful afghani.

"This should be enough to help you buy fabric and materials to get started," Malika said.

Kamila embraced her tightly. The money was an incredibly generous gift at such a time.

"I will repay you as soon as I can. I promise it won't be long," she told her sister.

On the bus home, Kamila held her black plastic bag closely to her, beneath her chadri. Inside was the folded blue dress, the first piece of clothing she had ever made. She couldn't wait to show Saaman and the others when she got home.

As she bounded into her house, grateful for Allah's protection, Kamila heard the sounds of her sisters' lively chatter coming from the sitting room. Their mother sat smiling with them.

Kamila had arrived just in time to hear the good news.

At last they had received word from Mr. Sidiqi; a cousin who had just returned from Parwan had pa.s.sed his letter on to Najeeb. The note was written on worn, thin paper that was already turning yellow.

Thanks be to Allah, I have arrived in Parwan. The fighting continues, but I am well. I will soon see you here, Inshallah.

Kamila watched her mother's eyes well up as she read her the letter, and she saw the release of a worry that had gone unspoken for so long. Mrs. Sidiqi folded the letter into fours once more and placed it on the low wooden table in their living room. Then she returned to the family's dinner. Soon she would leave for Parwan, with Najeeb beginning his journey to Pakistan not long afterward.

4.

The Plan Goes to Market "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 Lycee 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 cla.s.s. 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 Lycee Myriam during prayer time and she wouldn't speak to anyone she didn't know. She would take Rahim as her mahram. 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. 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 antic.i.p.ate 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.

"G.o.d keep you safe," she said quietly as she at last let him go and took a step back from the door so he could pa.s.s. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and tried to muster a rea.s.suring 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 pa.s.s 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 Lycee 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 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 Lycee 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 pa.s.sed 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 Lycee 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. a.s.suming 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 Lycee 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 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s but to his-and Kamila's-relief it turned out to be just another female shopper with her mahram 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 Lycee 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.