Farewell to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul

Sunny sat wedged between Halajan and the back door of the old Mercedes convertible, the large pink elephant slumped on her lap as if it were a petulant child. There had barely been room for her luggage, what with the entire family insisting on coming along to greet her at the airport, showering her with flowers and balloons and kisses and more than a few tears. Fitting everyone in the car to go home was like trying to put toothpaste back into the tube. Despite the dust clogging the skies, they’d had to open the top to accommodate everything she’d brought—most of it gifts, including the stuffed animal for little Aarezo that was now blocking Sunny’s view of the city.

After twenty-nine hours in the air, from Seattle to London to Doha to Kabul, the jetlag was taking its toll. Things felt a little surreal. Landing once again in Afghanistan, being with her friends, not having Jack by her side—it seemed weird and familiar, happy and sad, all at the same time.

The hot summer air felt like a blow dryer set on high, aimed smack at Sunny’s face. She could feel the moisture being sucked right out of her skin. The balloons were batted around by the breeze, making her feel as though they were aboard a float in some sort of bizarre parade. Halajan was downright giddy, holding Sunny’s hand in a tight squeeze, jabbering away like a magpie. They had barely left the parking area when she’d launched into a rambling story about how she’d outsmarted an unscrupulous vendor at the Mondai-e, the city’s largest market, by pretending to be the mother of the chief of police. “And do you think that man’s prices suddenly turned to half of what they were? You bet your ass!” she cackled. The old woman seemed to have barely aged in the eight years since they’d last seen each other. They’d video chatted regularly, but in person, somehow, Halajan seemed more vibrant. Sunny was relieved.

Halajan’s husband, Rashif, was seated on the other side of his wife with eight-year-old Aarezo on his lap. What little hair was left on Rashif ’s head had gone completely gray. He looked distinguished, grandfatherly. In the front seat Halajan’s son, Ahmet, was behind the wheel sitting straight and proud. Sunny couldn’t help but think of the tortured young man Ahmet had been when they first met, struggling so hard with his tradition­alist views in a changing world. Since then he had become such a loving husband and father, a man dedicated to standing up for what’s right, committed to supporting his wife, Yazmina, in her efforts to help those who couldn’t help themselves. There she sat, right by his side, that naive girl from the mountains, who had landed on the Kabul Coffee Shop doorstep scared and alone so many years ago. But that girl was long gone, and in her place was a woman bursting with confidence, which was only right considering how much she had accomplished. Next to Yazmina was her younger sister, Layla, balancing her twelve-year-old niece Najama on her lap.

Sunny wrestled with the head scarf that kept slipping off her in the gritty wind. How the Afghan women always wore the chador so effortlessly remained a mystery to her. Halajan reached in to help, looping the cloth into place in one quick move.

“Hey, Hala, why aren’t you the one driving?” Sunny asked. Halajan had taken great pride in secretly learning how to drive not long before Sunny’s last visit.

“He says I’m too old to drive.” She pointed her chin toward Ahmet as she spoke. “Ach!”

Sunny peered around the elephant’s ear as they passed some of the new, massive wedding halls that had gone up in recent years. Las Vegas was what the road had come to be called, due to the mirrored glass and bright neon lights that far outshone the starry Afghan night skies. The traffic was still heavy, the smell of diesel and the blaring of horns as familiar as her face in the mirror.

It wasn’t long before they found themselves in gridlock, stranded in the open car like sitting ducks for the constant flow of beggars and peddlers desperate for a little cash. A small hand thrust a rusty tin can billowing with smoke into Sunny’s face. Espand bala band! the little boy pleaded. A spandi, one of those many children spending hours a day working to bring home a few afghanis to help feed their mothers and siblings by trying to sell the burning herb thought to ward off evil spirits. The boy eyed the balloons with envy, and Sunny’s heart broke. “Give him some coins, would you please, Yaz? I haven’t changed any money yet.”

They finally inched forward, but again had to slow to a stop as they approached the police checkpoint near the American embassy, to wait their turn for inspection by the K-9 unit. Sunny felt herself stiffen. The mere sight of dogs sniffing around the tires and the swarm of men in full uniform and bulletproof vests, wielding rifles almost as big as they were—weapons they seemed to be itching to put to use—was enough of a reminder of just how dangerous a place Kabul could be. Horns honked. Tempers were on edge. Sunny watched as a pair of police wove through the chaos, sweeping mirrors on long poles under the cars’ chassis to check for explosives.

The Mercedes was almost through the mess when there was a commotion up ahead. A battered red Toyota had tried to back up. Guns were drawn. A man and a woman were dragged from the car. There was shouting, lots of confusion. The man yelled back then was suddenly on the ground. The woman looked frightened. Sunny held her breath. She knew how unpredict­able the police could be. Suddenly a loud pop sent her diving toward the floor of the car with the pink elephant clutched tightly around her head. And then, silence.