Flight
Fiction by Constance Higdon. "The burqa means I can only see straight ahead, like a horse wearing blue blinders. It traps my sweat. I’ve never worn one before, swore that I never would."
Recording: The author speaking about “Flight,” its origins, and its development
The air is thick with billowing dust from hundreds of military transports and white pickup trucks—I’d forgotten the white trucks. The frightened crowd nearby falls silent as they pass. A contagion of despair drifts around us.
My brother Amin and I sit on the ground by the road west of Jalalabad. We whisper together, wondering if we will be rescued. My name is Aadela Karimi. I am hidden in a burqa my brother bought for me, wearing hiking boots I stole from a store as we fled the city. I’ve never stolen anything before, but the ATM was out of order, and my high heels were out of the question.
A water bottle hangs over my shoulder under the burqa. Amin carries another one. He wears cargo pants, pockets crammed with dried fruit, candy bars and cigarettes, also grabbed on our way out of town. His running shoes are covered in dust. He left the gym so fast that he didn’t pull on his socks. “My feet are already blistered,” he says.
We had no time to return home for our parents and the family car. Amin called them. They promised to do whatever the militants order. We told them we must leave the country. They blessed us and cried. I think they’ll be okay. Mother and Papa are harmless people, even though he once worked in America.
Amin and I are not harmless. He teaches political science. I write for a feminist press. He speaks often on the radio; I have a popular weekly podcast, interviewing women who do amazing things that will no longer be allowed. Like working as environmental biologists, nuclear physicists. Like creating foundations to help girls get through high school and go on to college.
