“But they'd enforce them on us more,” Laila had said to Mariam, “if they weren't so busy killing each other. And us.”
The second risky part of this trip would come when they actually arrived in Pakistan.
Already burdened with nearly two million Afghan refugees, Pakistan had closed its borders to Afghans in January of that year.
Laila had heard that only those with visas would be admitted.
But the border was porous—always had been—and Laila knew that thousands of Afghans were still crossing into Pakistan
either with bribes or by proving humanitarian grounds and there were always smugglers who could be hired.
“We'll find a way when we get there,” she'd told Mariam. “How about him?” Mariam said, motioning with her chin. “He doesn't look trustworthy.”
“And him?” “Too old. And he's traveling with two other men.” Eventually, Laila found him sitting outside on a park bench,
with a veiled woman at his side and a little boy in a skullcap, roughly Aziza's age, bouncing on his knees.
He was tall and slender, bearded, wearing an open collared shirt and a modest gray coat with missing buttons.
“Wait here,” she said to Mariam. Walking away, she again heard Mariam muttering a prayer.
When Laila approached the young man, he looked up, shielded the sun from his eyes with a hand. “Forgive me, brother, but are you going to Peshawar?”
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색