in awe at a map of Canada and tried to imagine what it was like to live in such an enormous country, which could fit more than a dozen Afghanistans into its expanse. On weekends, Bashir would tutor Mozhdah and Masee in English: “Hello. My name is Mozhdah. I am from Afghanistan. Thank you.” Making her repeat the words over and over—like a mantra of hope.
It was a late afternoon one steaming summer day. Bashir had just returned from Peshawar. He was hot and tired, his dress shirt sticky with sweat from the walk home from the bus stop. Opening the gate into the yard, he watched the children, including Masee and Mozhdah, as well as some neighborhood kids, seated on the grass in the shade of the laburnum tree. They were enthusiastically rubbing the heels of their bare feet.
Laughing, he said, “What are you up to?”
“Daddy!” exclaimed Mozhdah, leaping up to hug him. “We’re trying to make it rain. They say that if you rub your heels and pray, then the rains come. We need rain, right?”
“Yes, Mozhdah, we need rain. It has been very hot. That is an excellent idea: rubbing your heels to make it rain. I am sure you will be successful,” he said, still laughing.
“Oh,” Mozhdah said. “Mommy has a letter for you. I think she said it was from Canada.”
Bashir stopped in his tracks, momentarily forgetting his fatigue. “Thank you, Mozhdah. I shall go find Mom.”
Bashir kicked off his shoes at the door and walked into the cool hallway, calling out: “Nasrin, are you here? Do we have a letter from the Canadian embassy?”
He strode to their bedroom and opened the door. Nasrin was hanging clothes in the closet. She turned to Bashir. “Shhhh. Nap time,” she whispered, nodding towards Safee, who lay on his back on a toshak, eyes closed, arms and legs splayed out.
“Letter?” Bashir whispered back.
Nasrin nodded again, towards a small table where a white envelope lay. Bashir picked it up, staring at the return address: High Commission of Canada.
He sat on the bed, slipped a fingernail underneath the envelope’s flap, and opened it slowly. The paper was thick, with Government of Canada letterhead. “Dear Mr. Bashir Jamalzadah . . .” Bashir closed his eyes, unable to read any further. What if it was a rejection letter? He couldn’t bear to think about the possibility.
Fearing the worst, Nasrin went over to him and placed a comforting arm around his shoulders. “Oh no, Bashir,” she said softly.
“I actually haven’t read it yet,” said Bashir, opening his eyes and smiling ruefully at Nasrin, who rolled her eyes.
Bashir scanned the letter twice to make sure he understood it. And then he broke into a huge smile and hugged Nasrin and kissed her on the cheek. “We have an interview. All of us. At the embassy office.”
“Really?” said Nasrin, her voice rising in excitement. “All of us get to go?”
Safee opened his eyes and blinked sleepily, looking at his parents curiously.
“Yes, they want us at the embassy office at ten o’clock next Wednesday. They are going to interview me, you, and the kids.”
“Finally!” Nasrin exclaimed.
“What do you mean, ‘finally’?” Bashir asked.
Nasrin moved over to the closet. “I can finally wear my beautiful shoes that I brought all the way from Afghanistan—hidden in the diaper bag!”
Bashir opened his eyes wide and shook his head, chuckling at Nasrin’s optimistic daring. Safee had woken up and rolled onto his bottom, putting his hands out, thrilled to see his dad after the five-day absence.
“Yes, you’re coming too, Safee,” said Bashir, grabbing his younger son and holding him aloft. “We’re off to the Canadian embassy!”
SEVERAL HOURS BEFORE their appointment at the High Commission of Canada on Embassy Road, Bashir called a taxi to pick them up at the house, rather than take a bus or minivan. It was better to be early than late, and a taxi would be more dependable in Islamabad’s infamously chaotic traffic.
Nasrin fretted about what to wear. She finally opted for a cream-colored dopatta scarf, a symbol of modesty for Pakistani women, light brown shalwar pants, and a satin tunic dress in lapis blue with blue flowers and satin cuffs that complemented the fashionable black high heels smuggled out of Afghanistan.
Mozhdah wore a traditional shalwar kameez outfit that Nasrin had sewn; the shalwar pants were red, topped by an aquamarine tunic. Her long hair was kept out of her face with a flowered headband. She couldn’t stop admiring herself in the bathroom mirror, making Nasrin and Bashir laugh. The boys wore new shorts, shirts, and runners. Bashir wore his only suit: gray, with a blue tie and white shirt. He polished his brown leather shoes to a high shine and carefully trimmed his beard.
The letter explained that each member of the family would be interviewed separately—even the children would have an interview without their parents present. Nasrin and Bashir briefed Masee and Mozhdah on what to say.
“Be truthful,” Bashir emphasized. “Say that living in Kabul was scary because of the missiles. The bombing often woke you up at night, so the family traveled to Pakistan to be safe. You can tell the interviewer that your parents were scared too,” Bashir said to Masee and Mozhdah, who nodded in understanding.
The taxi ride was uneventful, so the family was early. Nasrin (trying to keep a squirming Safee under control), Bashir, Mozhdah, and Masee disembarked carefully from the taxicab so as not to brush up against the dusty vehicle. A guard stood watch at the gate to the embassy compound, surrounded by a tall concrete wall. Bashir stated his name to the guard, who turned to another watchman seated in a tiny office just inside the fence. Their names were on the log of the day’s visitors, and the guards beckoned the family inside. The compound was lush, with artfully arranged flowerbeds, and bushes and trees in bloom. A flagstone walkway led to the front door.
“Smell the jasmine and roses,” Nasrin said to the children, inhaling deeply.
Inside, they were greeted by the rhythmic whump of a large slow fan that did little more than circulate the humid air. A marble floor led to a waiting area with several neat rows of chairs. A secretary sat behind a wooden desk that held some cardboard files, a container of pens and pencils, and a telephone. Other couples with children also sat waiting.
Bashir approached the secretary, who was Pakistani. “Good morning,” he said nervously in English. “My name is Bashir Jamalzadah, and my family and I are here to be interviewed.” He slipped his hand into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out the letter he had received from the Canadian embassy. “Here,” he said, unfolding and placing it carefully on the desk.
The young woman glanced at it briefly and looked at a typed list of names on the desk. “Your appointment is at eleven o’clock,” she said. “You’re a bit early. If you like, you and your family can take a walk in the gardens outside.”
“Thank you,” said Bashir. “But we are fine waiting here.”
Nasrin rolled her eyes at Bashir as he sat down in the chair beside her. “The children will squirm out of their skins if we wait here for very long,” she said. “I’m taking them into the gardens.”
“Don’t let them get dirty,” Bashir said anxiously. “And don’t be longer than fifteen minutes, in case they call our names early.”
Nasrin wandered the gardens for about twenty minutes, smelling the flowers while admonishing the kids not to pick them. When she returned, the children were still relatively clean, though Safee had grabbed a handful of dirt from a flowerbed and flung it at his brother. Nasrin brushed away the remnants of dirt from Masee’s clothing.
The hands on the large round wall clock crawled by so slowly Bashir was convinced it was broken.
“Mr. Bashir Jamalzadah,” the secretary finally announced. “Please go up the stairs and take a seat in the chairs provided.