A Far Away Home by Howard Faber Page A

decided that a telephone call
was the best way to let someone in Iran know what happened, so they walked back down
to the town to try the local telephone office. It wasn’t open and looked deserted,
so they went back to Ali’s home. Shireen told them the operator was killed with all
of the other men, and since then, no one could make a phone call. Homyoon wanted
to leave right away, maybe taking a truck back to Iran. Ali didn’t know what to do.
Shireen thought he should go back with the pilot. “Ali, you have your own family
to take care of. You should go back. I’ll be OK here.” Her words said that, but her
eyes spoke of fear and uncertainty.
    Ali was torn about what to do. “Let’s go see if there even is a way to go back to
Iran.” They heard the sound of a vehicle in the distance, heading for Sharidure.
“It might be the Taliban,” Ali said out loud. They didn’t want to be seen if it was.
Ali led Homyoon up above the town to wait and see what it was that came into town.
It turned out to be a truck, loaded with bags of wheat and a few passengers. Ali
motioned for Homyoon to stay there and went down toward the truck to get a closer
look. Some of the older women of Sharidure went out to see the truck. Ali waited
inside his father’s shop, staying out of sight.
    The truck stopped on the main street, and Ali could hear the driver talking to the
women. The women were asking about buying wheat. The driver looked and sounded Tajik,
speaking Dari. Ali felt safer. Taliban would be speaking Pushtu. He wished he had
a weapon. He looked around the shop. In the back he found something he used a long
time ago, his slingshot. It was one he had used, one his father made for him. It
felt good in his hand. Placing it in his waistband inside his long shirt, he went
out to talk to the driver.
    The women stepped back when he approached. Ali knew them. He wasn’t sure they would
know him. “Hello, how are you? May you not be tired.”
    The driver returned the greeting. He asked if Ali lived here, and what his name was.
    â€œAli, son of Hassan.” Ali noticed the women move a bit closer when he said his name.
“Would you sell me some wheat? How much is a bag?” After some bargaining, the driver
told one of his assistants to throw down a bag, a big one. Ali tested its weight.
It seemed the right weight, the one they had agreed on, so he gave the driver the
money. The driver looked at the Iranian notes. Ali wondered if he would take them,
but the driver nodded and accepted them. He said he was going to Herat and could
exchange the money there, or just use it. There was plenty of Iranian money in Herat.
Ali ventured, “Would you take a passenger to Herat?”
    â€œMaybe. Are you going all the way to Herat?”
    Ali didn’t want to tell him too much. “Yes. Actually, it’s my Iranian friend who
wants to go. Your truck looks new and in great shape. I think he would be glad to
ride with you. How much to have him ride in the cab?” The bargaining began again.
Ali didn’t know how much it should cost, but he was sure this was the best way for
Homyoon to get to Iran. Buses went daily from Herat to Muhshed. Ali hinted that there
might be a bonus if the driver got Homyoon to Herat safely. The driver said he was
leaving in ten minutes.
    Ali bought one more bag of wheat, then went to get Homyoon, who was a bit worried
about going on the truck. Ali assured him it was a safe way to get to Herat, and
that buses went every day to Muhshed from Herat. They hurried down to the truck.
Ali made his own decision. He was staying. This was his real home so he had to stay.
As the truck rumbled up the road west, he knew he made the right decision. He sent
a hurriedly written note to Nafisa and his children, explaining why he had to stay,
at least for now.
    He carried one of the wheat bags to his house, after carrying the other into his
father’s shop. When he