"He had been working in our family's grocery shop since he finished his army service a few years ago. When the front line of the war moved to Jabul Saraj, he took his wife and little children to the Salang mountain pa.s.s to wait out the fighting. They walked for three hours to reach the mountains and slept outside that night with many other families. The next day people tried to tell him it was safe to go home, but my brother knew better-the fighting had just started, it wasn't even close to ending. So he fled with his family through Khinjan and Poli Khumri to Mazar. They stayed there with some of our relatives for a few months, but finding work was very hard, and Mahmood has a big family to support. Finally he decided to come here to try to earn a living. There's only one way into Kabul now because of all the fighting, you know, and the trip from Mazar took him three full days. Anyway, I helped him open his own tailoring shop just down the street. He was worried at first because he didn't know anything about women's clothing, but I told him that he knew plenty about sales from running our parents' store and that that was much more important. We can rely on seamstresses from the neighborhood for our merchandise."

When Ali finished his story, Kamila a.s.sured him that she and her sisters would be happy to help Mahmood fill his store with inventory whenever he needed it.

"Well then, let's see what kind of work you are doing," he said.

Kamila swiftly unfolded her sample and spread it out on the display case. Ali inspected the dress closely, flipping it front and back and examining the hand-st.i.tched hems. "It's very nice work," he said. "I'll take six dresses and, if you can make them, four pantsuits.

"But see here," he continued, still studying the garment. "Can you change this detail along the waist of the dress?" Kamila quickly agreed, and committed the details of the waistline to memory-she didn't want to waste time and, besides, drawing was illegal now. Ali then walked around the counter and moved toward the front window looking out over the street. He pointed to a lovely white wedding dress that was hanging there.

"Roya, do you think you and your sisters could make these?" he asked. "They're a bit more complicated and will probably take a little longer, but that is no problem."

Kamila didn't have to think about it; she immediately said, "Of course." Laila's impetuousness had become infectious, she realized, smiling. Ali took one of the long-sleeved beaded bridal gowns down from its display and handed it to Kamila to use as a model. "I'll take three of these, and we can see how it goes from there."

Kamila thanked Ali for his business.

"This means a lot to my family," she said. "We won't let you down."

"Thank you, sister," said Ali. "May G.o.d keep you and your family safe."

With that, Kamila and Rahim left the store for the street and headed home once more. By now they were perilously close to the noontime call to prayer, but Kamila was thrilled about having a new customer for her slowly expanding business. This is how it starts, Kamila thought. Now we just have to keep it growing. And we have to make sure nothing goes wrong.

Walking home, Kamila thought about whether they would need help, in the form of more seamstresses, to complete the orders for Mehrab and Ali. Right now they were getting by, but that was hardly enough; with the new orders coming in, they needed a better, more streamlined process. Most of all, they needed more hands. She would speak with her sisters about it tonight. In the meantime, she had the wedding dresses to think about.

After dinner the sisters settled into the living room to begin the evening's sewing. Kamila lit the hurricane lamps so they could see what they were doing. Just for a second she indulged a thought about how much easier electricity would have made their work. What a luxury it would be to flip a switch and have the room light up and the sewing machines begin humming!

"So I think we need to make a few changes," Kamila said to the girls. "We have more orders now, and we need help. Do you guys have any ideas?"

Saaman, Laila, and even their youngest sister, Nasrin, chimed in at once, each trying to speak over the other. Yes, they surely did have ideas!

"Okay, okay," Kamila said, laughing at the cacophony of voices that filled their makes.h.i.+ft works.p.a.ce. "One at a time!"

"What if we divide up the cutting and beading-make it something like an a.s.sembly line, so that one person is responsible for each," Saaman said. "Whoever is best at cutting can do it for all of us. That would help the dresses look a little more professional, too."

Nasrin nodded. "I agree. I also think we should clear out this room to make more s.p.a.ce to sew. Mother isn't here in her usual place, and Father doesn't need his seat in front of the radio anymore. We might as well turn this into a real workshop. When they return, we can put things back just as they were. Also, I think Malika would like to have a bigger place to work, and Rahim won't mind. So really, there's nothing to stop us from using the s.p.a.ce however we like."

"Nasrin, you are going to have us turn the entire house into a little factory!" Kamila said, breaking out into a giggle. "Our own parents wouldn't recognize their own home!"

Laila chimed in to support her little sister.

"Nasrin is right. It's a pain to have to put away our work every evening. It would be much easier if we could keep everything out. I think it will save us some time, too!"

A sense of purpose drove the discussion, and Kamila saw clearly that the business had become the main focus of their days. Together they had found a way to be productive in spite of their confinement. And with so much work in front of them, they almost forgot about all the problems of the world outside.

"There's one other thing I want to mention, since we're talking about the business," Kamila told her sisters. "Both Mehrab and Ali said other women had come to them with dresses to sell. We really need to make sure our work is as creative, beautiful, and professional as possible. And if we commit to a deadline, we have to deliver on time, no matter how large the order is. We want them to know us as reliable girls who make the dresses that their customers want to buy. Razia is coming over later; let's ask her for ideas about other girls in Khair Khana who might be able to come over and sew with us. And we'll definitely need some help from Malika on those wedding dresses."

Since her return to Khair Khana, Malika's business had also begun to prosper-at least by the standards of the current economy, in which mere survival const.i.tuted success. It had begun with women who came to see her from her old neighborhood of Karteh Parwan. Then women in Khair Khana began to hear from friends and neighbors that there was a master tailor living among them who could meet some of their fancier clothing needs. Most of Malika's clients were slightly older women who had lived through so many of Kabul's changes these past thirty years, from the relative freedom of the 1970s and 1980s through the stricter Mujahideen dress code of the last five years and now this, the time of the chadri. They knew they must stay within the limits of what was permitted by the Taliban but refused to completely shed their own sense of style. It was a delicate balance that Malika had instinctively understood and come to master.

By now, a few new customers were stopping by each week to place orders for her elegant dresses and pantsuits. Malika's designs retained the distinctly Afghan broad sleeves and legs and baggy fit, but also reflected her appreciation for the French-style cuts that had been so popular in Kabul in the 1970s and 1980s. Before the Taliban, Malika had occasionally shopped the used clothing stalls at her bazaar in Karteh Parwan for the Western-style dresses or skirt suits seen in the capital during the royal family's reform era and, later, the period of Dr. Najibullah's rule. She would take the garments home and disa.s.semble them so she could see and learn how the seams fit together and which fabrics worked best for the different styles she was trying to achieve.

Women ordered Malika's more elaborate party dresses for wedding celebrations and Eid, the holiday marking the end of the holy month of Ramadan. But with the fighting still going on and the economy in a tailspin, weddings, which had always been ornate and expensive affairs in Afghanistan, seemed to be happening far less often. To begin with, many men had gone to fight on the front lines. And others had left Afghanistan to find work elsewhere, shrinking the pool of potential grooms. Because so many families had fled to Pakistan or Iran, there were fewer aunts, uncles, and cousins to invite. Those who remained in Kabul could hardly afford the days-long celebrations that in good times could easily cost as much as ten thousand dollars-an astronomical sum that forced many grooms into lifelong debt-and sometimes much more than that. Everyone knew that any sort of social gathering could bring trouble, and stories spread of Taliban soldiers bursting into people's living rooms to break up wedding parties on suspicion that guests might be dancing or playing music, including the dhol dhol, the Afghan two-sided drum, in violation of the new rules. The worst of these incidents ended with the Taliban hauling male guests-and sometimes even the groom-off to prison, where they would remain for a few days until family members could either plead or pay their way out.

All of this meant that those weddings that did occur were somber and far shorter events with a ceremony at home followed by a simple dinner of chicken and pilau. So Malika adapted her style to suit the times. None of her dresses were too fitted or too Western; arms and necks were fully covered and gowns reached well past the floor so no shoes would ever show. Women did, of course, still want to be beautiful for their wedding day, so Malika ensured that the beading and the embroidery were elaborate enough for her brides to feel supremely regal while remaining within the government-mandated sartorial boundaries.

With each week, Malika's queue of orders grew longer. Customers now waited for as long as two weeks for their garments. This rising demand compelled the working mother to stretch her days even longer, for she, like Kamila, was determined to make sure her clients kept coming back. She rose earlier each morning and, after was.h.i.+ng and saying her prayers, rushed to get her oldest son, Saeed, ready for school before making sure that four-year-old Hossein was fed and ready for the day. Then she would carry the twins' wooden crib out into the living room and set it up next to her works.p.a.ce. The infants slept most of the morning as she sewed, and she left her work only to tend to them when they awoke hungry or in need of a new diaper. Throughout the day Kamila and the other girls would take a break from their own dressmaking to visit their little nieces. They carried them around the living room and sang lullabies and old Afghan ballads until the babies were ready to eat and return to sleep once more. Then everyone went back to work.

At Kamila's request Malika led an improvised version of a sewing "master cla.s.s" for the girls. First she walked them through the basics of making a wedding dress, and then showed them the difference between Mehrab's dress and Ali's. Next came the pantsuits.

"Be creative," Malika urged the girls. "This is how your dresses will stand out from the others that are in the stores. Don't be afraid to try new ideas; if they don't work, they won't sell!"

The young women learned quickly, picking up new sewing techniques before the afternoon was over. Watching the girls hone their skills, and seeing the enthusiasm with which they embraced Malika's teaching and advice, Kamila felt increasingly certain of their little venture's business potential.

As the afternoon sank into evening, they heard a knock at the door. Kamila thought it must be Razia, but she usually let herself in. The girls said nothing to each other, but their forced calm spoke volumes: surprises were unwelcome and fear was now the normal reaction to any unexpected visitor.

Kamila called to Rahim to open the gate. After just a moment, she saw with relief her aunt Huma hurrying through the doorway with her fifteen-year-old daughter, Farah, at her side. Once inside, the women pulled back their chadri. A waterfall of blue fabric cascaded down their backs and onto the floor.

Laila was the first to the door, and she threw her arms around her aunt. Huma in turn kissed each of the girls, one by one. It was the closest to a maternal embrace they had had in ages.

"I'm so glad to see you; we've been thinking about you but didn't know whether you were still here in Kabul," Kamila said. "Come sit and have something to eat."

After asking about their parents and making sure the girls were doing well, Huma came to the point of her visit. No calls were purely social anymore.

"Is Malika Jan here?" she asked.

The older girl had left her work for just a moment to check on Saeed, and when she returned she greeted her aunt with a warm embrace.

"h.e.l.lo, Auntie. Is everything okay?"

"Well, that's why we've come, Malika Jan," Huma replied. "We are all healthy and well, but the situation here is getting very dangerous, as you know. We can't stay in Kabul any longer. I've decided to take the girls to Pakistan. We leave tomorrow." She paused for a moment. "We want you to come with us."

All the Sidiqi sisters stood huddled around their aunt, holding their collective breath. They knew where this conversation was headed. It was the same discussion they had had with their parents months earlier, when Mr. Sidiqi had decided that it was safer for the girls to remain in Kabul rather than risk the journey to Pakistan or Iran.

"Of course if your sisters are permitted to come, we want them to join us, but I know your father thinks it safest for them to remain here together," the older woman said. "I would not challenge his wishes, of course."

"Thank you, Auntie. You know we appreciate your thinking of us and that we're very grateful for your kindness," said Malika. All the while she was staring at Huma's hands; it was obvious to everyone that she didn't dare to meet her aunt's eyes, lest she unleash tears from her own. "I will talk with Farzan, but honestly I don't think he will change his mind. We are planning to stay here; it's just too difficult and expensive to travel with so many small children, and I can't think about leaving the girls behind." She nodded toward her sisters. "Allah will protect us; please don't worry."

Huma had come prepared for this argument, and she began to list all the reasons why Malika's family and the Sidiqi girls should leave with them: First, no one was left in the city and the capital's problems would only get worse. There were no jobs for any of them and there was no reason she could think of to believe this would change anytime soon. It was simply not safe to stay, she insisted. "There is no future here for you girls." Finally, Huma added that she and her daughters would be safer if Malika's family joined them on the journey to Pakistan. "It's better for everyone if we leave together, as a family, and there's no time to waste."

Malika again promised that she would speak with her husband, but her quiet voice now betrayed months of worry and exhaustion. All the girls felt for their aunt, a middle-aged woman who had been left on her own in the city with two teenage daughters to care for, but they had no choice but to turn down her plea for help.

With nothing more to be said and nightfall approaching, the women once again exchanged hugs and kisses, this time in sadness rather than joy. Malika embraced her aunt a moment longer than usual.

"I will be thinking of all of you," she said, "and I know G.o.d will protect you and your girls." Later that night, alone with her thoughts, Kamila lay in bed replaying the evening's events. "We will be on our own here for a while," she told herself, "and we had better find a way to make the best of it, just as we always have." She resolved to stay focused on her siblings and her business instead of dwelling on all that she couldn't change, like the separation of her family, the education she was missing out on, and the fate of her cousins who were about to embark on the perilous journey to Pakistan.

The weeks pa.s.sed in a blur of beaded dresses and pantsuits. Days started with prayers and breakfast and ended fourteen hours later with the girls falling into bed, exhausted but already planning for the next morning's sewing. Kamila, meanwhile, was getting better at winning new business, with the help of her mahram mahram Rahim. Of all of her siblings, Rahim had become the one Kamila now relied on the most. He was her faithful guard and gofer, and a trusted colleague in her small business. He may have been a teenager, but he never complained when his sisters asked him to go out for whatever sewing supplies they needed, or to run to the market for rice or sugar. She had no idea how they would have gotten by without his energy and kindness. Rahim. Of all of her siblings, Rahim had become the one Kamila now relied on the most. He was her faithful guard and gofer, and a trusted colleague in her small business. He may have been a teenager, but he never complained when his sisters asked him to go out for whatever sewing supplies they needed, or to run to the market for rice or sugar. She had no idea how they would have gotten by without his energy and kindness.

Kamila and Rahim went out more and more often these days. Refusing her sisters' pleas to be satisfied with the marginal victories of slightly larger orders, Kamila pressed ahead with expanding their customer base and growing their venture. Following Ali's introduction, she was now taking orders for Ali's brother, Mahmood. That brought their customers to three. Kamila told the girls that she and Rahim would try to find introductions to more tailors they knew they could trust, once she was certain they could successfully juggle all the work they had now.

After breakfast one morning Kamila heard the gate rattle. She had been up since six-thirty finis.h.i.+ng the beading on a dress for Ali. The girls looked around to see whether anyone was expecting a visitor before asking Rahim to see who was there. They waited anxiously until their brother returned to the sitting room with a tall woman with long brown hair and one of the saddest but most serene faces Kamila had ever seen. Kamila guessed she was around thirty years old.

"Kamila Jan," said Rahim, "our guest is here to see you."

Kamila held out her hand and kissed the stranger in the traditional Afghan show of respect, three times on alternating cheeks.

"h.e.l.lo, I am Kamila," she said. "How are you? May I help you with something?"

The woman was pale and looked exhausted. Light brown circles hung beneath her eyes.

"My name is Sara," she said. "I've come here hoping you might have some work." She stared down at her feet while her words came out in a slow and melancholy succession. "My cousin's neighbor told me that you are running a tailoring business here with your sisters, and that you are a very kind woman. She said that your business is doing well and that perhaps you could use some help."

Just then Laila arrived and handed a gla.s.s of steaming tea to the visitor. She moved a small silver bowl filled with bright taffy candies in front of their guest.

"Please, sit down," Kamila urged, pointing toward the floor.

Sara lowered herself onto a pillow. Gripping her gla.s.s tightly, she began to explain how she had ended up in Kamila's sitting room.

"My husband died two years ago," she said, her gaze focused on the ta.s.seled corner of the carpet. "He was the director of the high school Lycee Ariana. One afternoon he came home from school saying he didn't feel well. He went to the doctor that afternoon to see what was wrong, and he was gone a day later."

Kamila nodded, warmly urging her guest to continue.

"Since then, my three children and I have been living with my husband's brothers here in Khair Khana. My daughter is five, and she is disabled. My sons are seven and nine. My husband's family is very kind, but there are fifteen of us at home to support, and now my brothers-in-law are facing their own problems."

One, she told Kamila, had worked as an airplane mechanic for the army. He was now out of work since Ma.s.soud's forces had fled northward. Another had been a city official, and he too had been laid off. A third brother-in-law was a computer scientist, but he couldn't find a job in Kabul and was thinking about leaving for Pakistan or Iran.

"I have to find a way to support my children," Sara told Kamila. "I don't know what else to do, or where else to go. My husband's family can't care for us much longer, and I don't want to be a burden to them all. I must find a job."

Pausing only long enough to take a sip of tea and to make certain that Kamila was still listening, she went on: "I am not an educated woman, and I've never had a job before. But I know how to sew, and I will do a good job for you. I promise."

At first Kamila was too moved to speak. Everyone who had remained in Kabul had a similar story, and lately she had been feeling a growing sense of responsibility to do as much as she possibly could to help. Her father had told her, and her religion had taught her, that she had a duty to support as many as she was able. Right now that meant she must quickly build upon the modest successes they had achieved so far. This business was her best-and right now her only-hope for helping her community.

"Let's get to work, then," Kamila said, regaining her composure and finding comfort in her own practical approach. "What we need most right now is a supervisor who can watch over everything and help me make sure all the orders are filled and the sewing is done well." Sara, now smiling for the first time since she walked through the door, would be their first official employee.

She reported for her first day of work promptly at eight-thirty the next morning. Her three children stayed at home with her sisters-in-law. Like Rahim, her two boys were in school part of the day in Khair Khana. Her father-in-law was helping them to learn the parts of their studies that were now conducted in Arabic-a new part of the Taliban curriculum.

As the division of labor between the two women naturally fell into place, Kamila realized that it had been a brilliant-if rash-decision to hire Sara. Her new supervisor was a talented seamstress who was able to help the girls with more complicated designs, sparing Malika the interruptions that had become so common. But she was also a good manager-in fact she was a natural. She knew when to push the girls and when to encourage them, and she held the entire team to the highest standard: if a seam was off or a beaded design strayed too far outside the lines of their stencil designs, she would push a girl to start again, sometimes taking the st.i.tches out and resewing them herself.

Even more important, Sara's contribution freed Kamila to focus on the part of the operation she was coming to love most, despite all the risks: the marketing and the planning. Each week Kamila was growing more sure of herself and her sisters' sewing skills, and more comfortable moving with Rahim around Lycee Myriam, whose sounds and smells and shadows she was coming to know as intimately as her own neighborhood's. The group had gained experience and grown its team of seamstresses, and the girls were learning to handle the bigger jobs that clients were offering now that they had proven themselves to be reliable and professional. Only a few weeks after Sara arrived, Kamila was thrilled to accept an order for twenty lightweight dresses from Ali, who wanted to stock up for spring.

To make certain that they brought on only the most committed candidates with the strongest work ethic, Kamila and Razia developed a new interviewing process. They gave aspiring seamstresses a swath of fabric and asked for a sample of their work. Sara would then review the finished piece, and if the sewing pa.s.sed muster, the new girl would receive her first a.s.signment, which she could make either at her own home or at Kamila's house. All orders would be due within a week.

It wasn't long before the demand for work outpaced the orders Kamila was receiving from shopkeepers. She now received visits almost daily from young women who were trying to help out their families. Most of them were girls whose high school and university studies had been cut short by the Taliban's arrival, but some of them, like Sara, were a bit older.

She didn't know how she was going to find a place for all of them, but she was determined to. With the city's economy shrinking and almost no other chances for women to earn money, how could she turn them away?

In the morning she would return to Lycee Myriam with Rahim. She would talk with Ali and Mahmood and ask them to introduce her to a third brother of theirs who had just arrived in Kabul and opened another tailoring shop nearby. She hoped that he too would become a regular customer.

As she approached Malika's room to wish her a good night, an idea occurred to Kamila. We are seamstresses, yes, but we are also teachers. Isn't there a way we could use both talents to help even more women? And then those women could help us grow our tailoring business so that there would be more work for everyone.

We should start a school, she thought to herself as she stood in the hallway, or at least a more formal apprentices.h.i.+p for young women, who would learn to sew and embroider with us. We'll teach them valuable skills that they can use here or with other women, and while we're teaching them, we'll be building an in-house team that can help us fill large orders quickly-as many as we can secure.

She stopped in front of Malika's door, lost in her dream. Most of all, she thought, we won't have to turn anyone away. Even the young ones who have no experience and aren't qualified to work yet can join our training program and work for a salary helping us with our orders as soon as they are able. If we have our own school, then no one who comes to our gate will leave without a job.

She had discovered her plan.

Too impatient to knock, Kamila strode into Malika's room nearly bursting with excitement. For the moment she would simply ignore all the obstacles that could prevent her project from becoming reality. She wanted her sister's support and couldn't wait to tell her about the idea. There was no one whose talents and temperament were better suited to such a teaching venture and no one of whose trust she could be more certain. She folded herself up on a pillow next to Malika, who was sorting the day's wash for her husband and four children. With the hurricane lamplight filling the s.p.a.ce between them, Kamila eagerly began.

"Malika," she said, looking directly at her sister, "I need your help. ..."

6.

Cla.s.s Is in Session "Rahim, let's go!" Kamila called to her brother. She looked at the living room clock and saw that it was nearly 9 A.M. They needed to get out the door now. They had deliveries to make at Lycee Myriam, and besides that, Kamila was eager to talk with her brother alone.

The boy put down his half-eaten piece of naan and tea, grabbed his jacket from the hook near the door, and caught up with his sister. She was already in the courtyard.

Kamila had been up most of the evening after her talk with Malika thinking about her plans for the school: the cla.s.ses they would offer and the pool of talented seamstresses they would create. Once she and the girls had the program running smoothly they would be able to take on new customers. They needed more orders, that was clear; there had to be enough work for all the girls they were training as well as the others who were sewing in their own homes for the Sidiqi sisters.

Kamila wanted to use this morning's outing to hear Rahim's thoughts about the tailoring school. She had faith in his judgment and trusted him to serve as her sounding board; often the two would hatch plans for the sewing business during their long walks to the bazaar, which he now knew nearly as well as Kamila did. He had met all the shopkeepers with his sister "Roya" and earned their trust with his una.s.suming manner and his unfailing reliability. If Kamila was busy at home finis.h.i.+ng up an order or managing the next round of garment making, Rahim would make deliveries in her place, pa.s.sing along messages from her customers and picking up the next batch of sewing materials on his way home.

Negotiating, however, he left strictly to his sister. The siblings had just taken a battered station wagon taxi all the way downtown to Mandawi Bazaar, the historic market in the old city, where Ali had suggested they could find sewing supplies for much less. Kamila had marched confidently through the bazaar's narrow stalls searching for fabric she liked and haggling with shopkeepers about their prices, which Rahim knew were well below what they usually paid at Lycee Myriam. "Rahim, I think shopping here could lower our costs by ten or maybe even fifteen percent!" she exclaimed, clearly invigorated by their new discovery. "Roya Jan," he said, waiting for the weary fabric salesmen to realize his sister would never budge from the two lak afghani (four dollars) she had already offered for the bolts of material lined up against the mud walls, "I think if you have your way that number will soon be twenty!"

Working alongside the girls, Rahim had come to know the rhythms of their workweek and the cycles of their incoming orders: which dresses needed to be where and when, and whether filling a shopkeeper's rush order entailed just a few extra hours of work or required an all-night sewing session. A few weeks earlier he had even asked Saaman to teach him the basics of beading and embroidery, enough to a.s.sist his sisters in making the batches of dresses and pantsuits they were now under contract to produce each week. He would sit with them in the now overcrowded living room during the evenings, the only male in a group of intensely focused women, ready to learn whatever skills he needed to so he could help contribute to the business.

"Rahim, I have a new idea I want to discuss with you," Kamila said.

"A new idea?" he replied. "Why does this not surprise me, Kamila Jan?"

"No, I am very serious," she said, allowing just a little laugh at her own expense. "I want us to start a school. To teach tailoring. This way we can support all the new orders, grow the business, and also support a lot more women in the neighborhood."

She quickened her step. "I've thought the whole thing through and I think this is how we should organize it: We'll have two s.h.i.+fts of girls each day, one in the morning and one in the afternoon, with a break for prayer and lunch in between. Saaman and Laila will teach the students sewing, beading, and embroidery; I will help at first, of course, but I really want the two of them to lead the cla.s.ses-then I'll be able to focus more on finding new customers for us. Sara Jan will supervise. I spoke with Malika about it last night-she's the only one I've discussed it with other than you-and she thinks it's a very good idea."

She waited just a moment.

"So what do you think?"

Kamila couldn't read Rahim's reaction. When they were out in public he always wore an inscrutable expression that he had begun cultivating the very first day they walked to Lycee Myriam: that of a much older man watching over and protecting the women in his family while they faced the dangers that came with being out in public.

But he was nodding his head in agreement.

"Yes, I think it's a very good idea. For me, it won't make much of a difference, since I'll be at school-at least most of the day. But we are stretched so thin right now. You and the others are working almost all the time-at least eleven or twelve hours a day, and then sometimes the all-nighters for everyone when we get hit with a big order. It's a great problem to have, but I've been worried about how we'll keep up with it over time. You're right, we definitely need more help."

They walked on a bit in silence. Kamila knew he had more to say.

"There's one thing about this, though, that makes me worry," Rahim continued. "How are you going to have all these girls coming and going to our house all day without anyone noticing? The Amr bil-Maroof are everywhere and you know they're always on the lookout for people who are bending the rules. Especially women."