Part 4 (2/2)

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.”

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