Read Online The Dressmaker of Khair Khana by Gayle Tzemach Lemmon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gayle Tzemach Lemmon
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knows if things will be any better there.”
A woman sitting opposite answered in a quiet voice, shaking her head from side to side while she spoke. She sounded exhausted.
“You know, my husband has left for Iran and now I fear they'll try to send my son to the front lines. What will happen to my children? There's no one left to help us. It has become so difficult.”
Kamila listened as the women shared their troubles. At last, about fifteen minutes later, the bus arrived in Karteh Parwan.
Stepping onto the street, she walked down Karteh Parwan's main boulevard until she arrived at Malika's narrow lane. Once there she exhaled fully for the first time since she left Khair Khana. She hadn't realized how nervous she had been. After passing row on row of one- and two-story houses she finally reached Malika's, a white, squat, two-family home. Malika and her husband lived on the first floor and her brother-in-law's family lived above them.
Kamila knocked on the wooden door, and in only a few moments she found herself in her older sister's warm and powerful embrace. Kamila felt a rush of relief as she stepped inside the living room she knew so well.
“Come in, come in, I'm so glad you're here. This is a surprise!” Malika said as she kissed her sister on each cheek. Her belly had gotten so much bigger; Kamila realized that the baby must be due soon. “Did you have any problems on the way? I've heard the patrols are very strict now. You have to be so careful when you go out.”
“Oh, no, it was fine,” Kamila said, dismissing her fears of just a minute earlier. No need to make Malika worry more than she already did. Her oldest sibling had been like a parent to the younger children in the large Sidiqi brood; she had helped to raise all seven of her younger sisters, feeding them and getting them ready for school every day, since their mother had her hands full with eleven children, a husband, and a household to run. “There were a lot of women on the bus. Everyone was talking about how hard things are.”
The two women sat down to steaming glasses of freshly made chai and a plate of nuts and butter cookies. Kamila filled Malika in on all that was happening at home, including Najeeb's imminent departure and her own worries about their finances. Then, after a moment's silence, Kamila came to the point of her visit.
“Malika Jan,” she said. “I need your help.”
She recounted to her sister how she had explored every idea she could think of to make money for the family, how she wanted to find a way to support them, to make things easier for their father and mother.
“Malika, I think that if I knew how to sew I could start making dresses at home and perhaps I could sell them to the shops at Lycee Myriam.”
Malika listened intently as her sister spoke.
“Would you teach me?” Kamila finally asked.
Malika sat silently as she weighed the idea. She, too, had been hearing of women who, out of sight of the Amr bil-Maroof and interfering neighbors, sewed dresses or knitted blankets in their living rooms to earn money for their families. Necessity was turning these women into entrepreneurs. With no jobs available and no employers willing to hire them, they were making their own way, creating businesses that would help them feed their children.
Malika worried about her sister taking such risks, but she knew the family needed the income. It was the best option Kamila had.
“Yes, of course I'll help,” she said. “I'm sure you'll learn quickly; you always have, ever since you were little!”
But there were conditions.
“You have to follow my rules, Kamila. Number one: never go out alone, as you did today. You have to bring Najeeb or someone else with you. And you can't ever be on the streets during the time of prayer--that's when soldiers are patrolling the shops and it will be very dangerous.”
Kamila listened, nodding at everything she said.
“No talking to strangers, ever, including women, because you never
A woman sitting opposite answered in a quiet voice, shaking her head from side to side while she spoke. She sounded exhausted.
“You know, my husband has left for Iran and now I fear they'll try to send my son to the front lines. What will happen to my children? There's no one left to help us. It has become so difficult.”
Kamila listened as the women shared their troubles. At last, about fifteen minutes later, the bus arrived in Karteh Parwan.
Stepping onto the street, she walked down Karteh Parwan's main boulevard until she arrived at Malika's narrow lane. Once there she exhaled fully for the first time since she left Khair Khana. She hadn't realized how nervous she had been. After passing row on row of one- and two-story houses she finally reached Malika's, a white, squat, two-family home. Malika and her husband lived on the first floor and her brother-in-law's family lived above them.
Kamila knocked on the wooden door, and in only a few moments she found herself in her older sister's warm and powerful embrace. Kamila felt a rush of relief as she stepped inside the living room she knew so well.
“Come in, come in, I'm so glad you're here. This is a surprise!” Malika said as she kissed her sister on each cheek. Her belly had gotten so much bigger; Kamila realized that the baby must be due soon. “Did you have any problems on the way? I've heard the patrols are very strict now. You have to be so careful when you go out.”
“Oh, no, it was fine,” Kamila said, dismissing her fears of just a minute earlier. No need to make Malika worry more than she already did. Her oldest sibling had been like a parent to the younger children in the large Sidiqi brood; she had helped to raise all seven of her younger sisters, feeding them and getting them ready for school every day, since their mother had her hands full with eleven children, a husband, and a household to run. “There were a lot of women on the bus. Everyone was talking about how hard things are.”
The two women sat down to steaming glasses of freshly made chai and a plate of nuts and butter cookies. Kamila filled Malika in on all that was happening at home, including Najeeb's imminent departure and her own worries about their finances. Then, after a moment's silence, Kamila came to the point of her visit.
“Malika Jan,” she said. “I need your help.”
She recounted to her sister how she had explored every idea she could think of to make money for the family, how she wanted to find a way to support them, to make things easier for their father and mother.
“Malika, I think that if I knew how to sew I could start making dresses at home and perhaps I could sell them to the shops at Lycee Myriam.”
Malika listened intently as her sister spoke.
“Would you teach me?” Kamila finally asked.
Malika sat silently as she weighed the idea. She, too, had been hearing of women who, out of sight of the Amr bil-Maroof and interfering neighbors, sewed dresses or knitted blankets in their living rooms to earn money for their families. Necessity was turning these women into entrepreneurs. With no jobs available and no employers willing to hire them, they were making their own way, creating businesses that would help them feed their children.
Malika worried about her sister taking such risks, but she knew the family needed the income. It was the best option Kamila had.
“Yes, of course I'll help,” she said. “I'm sure you'll learn quickly; you always have, ever since you were little!”
But there were conditions.
“You have to follow my rules, Kamila. Number one: never go out alone, as you did today. You have to bring Najeeb or someone else with you. And you can't ever be on the streets during the time of prayer--that's when soldiers are patrolling the shops and it will be very dangerous.”
Kamila listened, nodding at everything she said.
“No talking to strangers, ever, including women, because you never
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