Read Online A Cup of Friendship by Deborah Rodriguez - Free Book Online
Authors: Deborah Rodriguez
Ads: Link
“The way those boys spoke—”
“I’m used to it,” he said. “It’s nothing.”
Yazmina came in then, carrying a tray with a pot of tea and cups, and served the tea to Bashir Hadi.
“ Bishine, ” said Sunny, asking Yazmina to sit. “We’ve got no customers anyway.” When Yazmina froze, Sunny continued, “ Bya , come sit.”
Yazmina looked to Halajan for a sign of what to do.
“It’s okay,” said Halajan. “We women are always outnumbered. Now we’ll have the vote.” She nodded at Sunny, as if she’d read her thoughts. “Two of them, three of us.”
“Here,” Sunny said, pulling out a chair. “Join us. It’s okay.”
Yazmina looked at Halajan again, who smiled and nodded, and then she sat, her hands in her lap, her eyes down. Jack filled Yazmina’s teacup.
“Okay, so we’re all here now? To feel sorry for me?” said Bashir Hadi.
“Nobody feels sorry for you,” said Jack. “How could we? It’s those guys—”
But Bashir Hadi interrupted, held his cup high, and said, “Well, here’s to feeding my family for a week, to being Hazara, to being Shia, to—”
“It could be worse. You could be a woman,” interrupted Halajan, as she poured from the teapot.
“And let’s not forget the women!” he said, and drank.
They were joking around, but Sunny reflected that there was much truth and sadness in what they said. The Hazara people were the third largest ethnic group in Afghanistan after the Pashtun (some of whom were Talib) and the Tajik. They’d descended from the Mongolians, and some even said from Genghis Khan, which was why their features had an Asian influence. Sunny had always thought that Bashir Hadi looked like the American Indians she knew as a kid—the golden skin, the heavy-lidded black eyes, and the strong, straight nose. His people had been persecuted for years by the Pashtun Sunni majority, mostly because the Hazara were Shia.
“But like women, Bashir Hadi, you should be careful,” Jack was saying, all hints of joking gone. “The country is on the verge of changing again. And not on the side of being more tolerant, if the Taliban come back into power.”
“Let me tell you something, Mr. Jack. Tolerance is overrated. I’m no more tolerant of the Pashtun Talib than they are of me. They just have bigger guns. Which brings me to the point. Making money to make this place safer. How are we going to do it?”
They talked into the night, sharing ideas, making suggestions, putting together plans, their anger over Bashir Hadi’s treatment by those men turning to excitement and fueling their creative energy. Only Yazmina sat quietly, not saying one word, with her hands clenched tightly on her lap, though every now and then she looked up from the table and let the light of those green eyes shine on everyone. When she did, Sunny would nod, acknowledging her presence and letting her know she was welcome. Jack would translate for her to bring her into the conversation. But it was Halajan who kept her hand on Yazmina’s the entire night so that she knew she wasn’t alone.
Y azmina woke even earlier than usual, eager for market day with Halajan. The old woman annoyed her, grated on her like the sharp braying of her uncle’s old goat that made her skin prickle. But the Mondai-e Bazaar! It was like visiting the moon, it was so foreign to her. Every week Sunny gave them a shopping list. There was a stall that sold the best fruits and vegetables she’d ever eaten. And a meat market that had electricity and the ability to keep the meat cold and fresh. There was a fancy store on the way to the bazaar with boxes of the Frosted Flakes cereal that Sunny loved so much, stacked to the ceiling, and peanut butter that Yazmina devoured the first time she tasted it. There was chocolate, cheese, popcorn, and a drink called Mountain Dew. There were pencils and peanut butter cups, too. Everything cost so much that Yazmina blushed when Halajan paid. Her family wouldn’t have spent as
“I’m used to it,” he said. “It’s nothing.”
Yazmina came in then, carrying a tray with a pot of tea and cups, and served the tea to Bashir Hadi.
“ Bishine, ” said Sunny, asking Yazmina to sit. “We’ve got no customers anyway.” When Yazmina froze, Sunny continued, “ Bya , come sit.”
Yazmina looked to Halajan for a sign of what to do.
“It’s okay,” said Halajan. “We women are always outnumbered. Now we’ll have the vote.” She nodded at Sunny, as if she’d read her thoughts. “Two of them, three of us.”
“Here,” Sunny said, pulling out a chair. “Join us. It’s okay.”
Yazmina looked at Halajan again, who smiled and nodded, and then she sat, her hands in her lap, her eyes down. Jack filled Yazmina’s teacup.
“Okay, so we’re all here now? To feel sorry for me?” said Bashir Hadi.
“Nobody feels sorry for you,” said Jack. “How could we? It’s those guys—”
But Bashir Hadi interrupted, held his cup high, and said, “Well, here’s to feeding my family for a week, to being Hazara, to being Shia, to—”
“It could be worse. You could be a woman,” interrupted Halajan, as she poured from the teapot.
“And let’s not forget the women!” he said, and drank.
They were joking around, but Sunny reflected that there was much truth and sadness in what they said. The Hazara people were the third largest ethnic group in Afghanistan after the Pashtun (some of whom were Talib) and the Tajik. They’d descended from the Mongolians, and some even said from Genghis Khan, which was why their features had an Asian influence. Sunny had always thought that Bashir Hadi looked like the American Indians she knew as a kid—the golden skin, the heavy-lidded black eyes, and the strong, straight nose. His people had been persecuted for years by the Pashtun Sunni majority, mostly because the Hazara were Shia.
“But like women, Bashir Hadi, you should be careful,” Jack was saying, all hints of joking gone. “The country is on the verge of changing again. And not on the side of being more tolerant, if the Taliban come back into power.”
“Let me tell you something, Mr. Jack. Tolerance is overrated. I’m no more tolerant of the Pashtun Talib than they are of me. They just have bigger guns. Which brings me to the point. Making money to make this place safer. How are we going to do it?”
They talked into the night, sharing ideas, making suggestions, putting together plans, their anger over Bashir Hadi’s treatment by those men turning to excitement and fueling their creative energy. Only Yazmina sat quietly, not saying one word, with her hands clenched tightly on her lap, though every now and then she looked up from the table and let the light of those green eyes shine on everyone. When she did, Sunny would nod, acknowledging her presence and letting her know she was welcome. Jack would translate for her to bring her into the conversation. But it was Halajan who kept her hand on Yazmina’s the entire night so that she knew she wasn’t alone.
Y azmina woke even earlier than usual, eager for market day with Halajan. The old woman annoyed her, grated on her like the sharp braying of her uncle’s old goat that made her skin prickle. But the Mondai-e Bazaar! It was like visiting the moon, it was so foreign to her. Every week Sunny gave them a shopping list. There was a stall that sold the best fruits and vegetables she’d ever eaten. And a meat market that had electricity and the ability to keep the meat cold and fresh. There was a fancy store on the way to the bazaar with boxes of the Frosted Flakes cereal that Sunny loved so much, stacked to the ceiling, and peanut butter that Yazmina devoured the first time she tasted it. There was chocolate, cheese, popcorn, and a drink called Mountain Dew. There were pencils and peanut butter cups, too. Everything cost so much that Yazmina blushed when Halajan paid. Her family wouldn’t have spent as
Similar Books
