"Okay, I will take it," he said, putting Kamila's sample next to another pile of dresses on his side of the gla.s.s. "Can you make more like this? I don't need so many dresses, actually, but I could use some more shalwar kameez shalwar kameez for women, simpler clothing that people use for every day." 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 a.s.sured 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 mahram mahram was present. So far things had been uneventful. was 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 pa.s.sed.

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 mahram," she said. "Mother would be proud."

She kept them moving at a steady pace, for they needed to be far from Lycee 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 works.p.a.ce 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 a.s.sured 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 antic.i.p.ation 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 a.s.sured 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 ident.i.ty 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 Lycee 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 works.p.a.ce 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 cla.s.swork, 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. G.o.d 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 a.s.sist 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 Lycee 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, was.h.i.+ng and saying their prayers before moving on to breakfast and finis.h.i.+ng 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 st.i.tch 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 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. 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 pa.s.sersby 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 rea.s.sure 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 st.i.tches 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 a.s.sessment.

"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 Lycee 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 Lycee 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 a.s.sembled for cla.s.s. 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 cla.s.srooms had remained open and were now absorbing students from nearby neighborhoods. Like all the boys in his cla.s.s, Rahim now had to balance his schoolwork with his mahram mahram duties; he knew as well as the girls did that family came first, and his sisters needed him at home. 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 pa.s.sed 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.

"h.e.l.lo, 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 Lycee 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 cla.s.smate 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.

5.

An Idea Is Born ... but Will It Work?

Turning down the wide alleyway, Kamila and Rahim left the bustle of the bazaar behind them. Kamila slowed her steps and allowed herself just a moment to enjoy the stillness of the lane after the tense half hour she had spent trying to make them both invisible in the heart of the Lycee Myriam bazaar. She was grateful for the silence of the barren side street.

As she walked, Kamila scanned the storefronts on each side of the road, spotting stores that sold fabric, kitchen supplies, and shoes. Almost none of them had any customers. Nearing the end of the narrow open-air strip mall, they at last came upon a modest tailoring shop with long, narrow windows that faced the street. Women's dresses hung neatly next to one another in a pastel rainbow that lined the walls inside. The name "Sadaf" was hand-painted on a weather-beaten sign that had been nailed to a cement overhang above the doorway.

"I think this is it," said Rahim.

Kamila nodded.

"Let me do the talking," she said. "If he doesn't seem like someone we can trust, we'll just walk right back out, okay?"

Kamila was nervous as they entered the small, threadbare shop. She struggled to make out the details of the store through the late morning shadows that hung over the white walls and bare floor. Like most of Kabul's businesses, Sadaf had no electricity and relied instead on the sunlight that crept in during the daytime hours.

Fighting back her fear, Kamila momentarily paused at the entrance, holding the doork.n.o.b tight, but she quickly reminded herself of everyone back home who was counting on her.

I can't be scared, she thought. I'm doing this for my family, and Allah will help to keep us safe.

As the door slammed closed behind her, the shopkeeper looked up from the counter. He was folding long dresses and roomy, wide-legged pants like the ones Kamila had seen through the window. His clothes were among the prettiest samples she had seen of Taliban-era fas.h.i.+on. Sadaf's inventory clearly matched the times. The shopkeeper was young, maybe Kamila's own age, with a bushy beard that overwhelmed his narrow chin. His bright eyes looked remarkably kind.

"Good morning," he said. "May I help you, sister? Can I show you anything?"

He was extremely polite-much more so than Mehrab. Kamila felt her confidence returning.

"No, thank you, sir," Kamila began. "My name is Roya; my sisters and I are tailors in Khair Khana. My brother here is helping us. His friend Zalbi is a friend of your family's and he suggested we come to see you. We're looking for work and we would be very glad to make some dresses for your store if you are interested."

"I am Ali," he replied, clasping Rahim's hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I would be glad to see your work if you've brought any with you. My brother and I are looking for seamstresses to make dresses for us."

Judging by the fact that he had set up shop in Khair Khana, a largely Tajik suburb that was home to many families from Parwan and Panjs.h.i.+r, plus the lilt of his Shomali accent, Kamila guessed that Ali's parents, like hers, were from the north. That they were conversing in Dari, the Persian language spoken in the northern regions, rather than Pashto, the traditional language of the Pashtun south, made her more certain of it.

"I hope your family is doing well," said Kamila. "My brother and sisters and I are working to support ourselves while our parents are in the north. My father is in Parwan and our older brother had to go to Pakistan because of security. We've started a dressmaking business in our house and we'd really appreciate your support."

The young man returned Kamila's good wishes for her family and added that his parents too were from Parwan. The three teenagers shared the news and the rumors they'd heard about the recent fighting in the north. Then Ali began to tell Kamila a bit of his own story.

"Sadaf is my store," he said. "I've put nearly everything I have into it. Before the Taliban I had a pushcart selling linens and kitchen supplies. But then everyone stopped buying. And it got too dangerous to be out on the street all day. So I started my shop here. At least I know that people will always need clothing, even if they're buying less of it now."

Ali looked down as if he were going to stop speaking. Kamila realized with some surprise that she and the shopkeeper had a lot in common. They were both young people caught in circ.u.mstances they had had nothing to do with, who were fighting as hard as they could to take care of their very large families. Right now, Ali had more than a dozen relatives depending upon him for food and shelter.

"One of my brothers, Mahmood, just fled Jabul Saraj," Ali continued, referring to the mountain-ringed town just south of Kamila's parents in Parwan. Kamila knew from the radio and neighbors' reports that the town was now a major battleground in the war between the Taliban and Ma.s.soud.