A Long Way from Home Read Free

Amir’s leaving with a quiet calm. “May Allah be with you, my son, and keep you safe,” she said.
    Rabia felt the sting of tears behind her eyelids, and bit down hard on her lip.
    Amir held her close. “Take care of Mama, little sister,” he whispered. “She will be depending on you.”
    Rabia hugged him fiercely.
    â€œLatif the tailor still owes me wages,” he told her. “They will help for a while.” A shadow crossed his face. “Rabia, I think it would be best if you got out of Afghanistan. Try to convince Mama to leave.” He frowned. “I should have taken care of it myself months ago.”
    Rabia squeezed his hand. She knew that as the oldest surviving son, Amir felt responsible for the family. “Don’t worry, Amir. I will take care of things,” she told her brother as he stepped out into the dark night.

Chapter 3
    Spring 2001
    Weeks went by. Summer gave way to fall. Before long, snow covered the streets and rooftops of Kabul. By the time spring rains washed away the snow, Mama had sold most of her jewelry. Although they were careful with their money, Rabia knew it would not last forever. She stayed awake at night worrying about what would happen when they had nothing left to sell. If they couldn’t pay the rent, the landlord would turn them out.
    Women and girls could not survive on the streets of Kabul. Amir was right; they had to leave. Rabia was terrified at the thought of the refugee camps in Pakistan — nothing more than tents in the open air, so close together they touched. She had heard stories of how people died from starvation or perished from the cold in such places. But what choice did they have? She was a girl, not yet fourteen, with a sick mother and a brother who could not speak.
    After Father was arrested, Mama often cried in secret. After Yousef died, she made no attempt to hide her tears. But now she sat for hours, her face a frozen mask. At times, she didn’t seem to realize Rabia and Karim were in the same room. Rabia brought her cups of tea and urged her to eat. She made sure Karim was fed and cared for.
    Would Mama mind so much if I had left? Rabia wondered. She knew Mama loved her, but not the way she loved her sons. Rabia recalled her first week at school. “Your daughter is the brightest, most inquisitive child in the class,” the teacher told Mama when she came to pick her up. Rabia felt so proud, her heart swelled. But Mama had merely shrugged. “It is my sons who will take care of me,” she said. Rabia still couldn’t think of that day without feeling a stab of rejection.
    Rabia spent hours trying to get her little brother engaged in building things. Before Yousef was killed, Karim used to build bridges with books, stones, shoes — whatever he could find. “That boy is going to be a fine engineer some day,” Father used to brag. But now Karim showed little interest in anything. Both Mama and Karim are lost to me, Rabia thought sadly.
    It was late May when a letter arrived from Mama’s sister. For years there had been no real mail service in Kabul, and this was hand-delivered by some traveler. “A letter from Aunt Roxanne!” Rabia cried excitedly, as she tore open the envelope. Her aunt lived in Quetta, a city near the Pakistan border. After Uncle was killed, Aunt Roxanne moved there with her daughter, Sima. There had been no contact with her since.
    The letter said that a relief organization was coming to Pakistan. They were sending refugee widows and their children to live in the United States. Roxanne urged her sister to come to Pakistan and apply for the program.
    Rabia clasped the letter to her chest. It was the answer to her prayers. “Mama,” she said. “This is our chance to escape.”
    â€œWe are not refugees, child.”
    â€œBut Mama, don’t you see? If we go to Pakistan, we will be refugees,” Rabia reasoned. “We will have to leave