Sofia knew then that this was the reason she had come to Afghanistan. This was the gift her soul had always known was waiting for her here.
Coming out of that moment, she looked around to see the everyday: a young boy near her hut was using a switch on the goats’ woolly hides, gathering them together to herd them out of the village and down to more fertile feeding pastures below. The welcoming crusty smell of the flat naan bread being cooked inside the huts for breakfast had reached her as the smoke from the fires began to curl up in the chilly mountain air, to hang thin and wispy over the village. Watching her as he walked past with a bundle of sticks balanced high on top of his white turban was the old man she had seen the day before.
‘As-salaam alaikum,’ he had offered with a shy, toothless grin.
‘Hello … good morning … yes, how are you?’ she had stumbled, laughing at her clumsy inability to remember even one word of Dari.
A woman working nearby, who had been splashing water from a bucket over the bare ground in front of her hut, laughed before exchanging words with the old man, which caused them both to laugh and Sofia to smile. Looking around the village, she had tried to imagine being back in busy, noisy Sydney, plugged into her phone with her head buried in a book as she caught the bus to the hospital where she had worked. She knew then that she never wanted to return to that life.
As the wind began to pick up and wisps of hair tickled her face, Sofia had reached up to thread them back under her scarf when she felt someone watching her. Turning toward the ridge she saw a tall Afghan man walking toward her.
‘Daniel Abiteboul,’ he had said, offering his hand when he reached her.
Surprised and a little confused by his English, together with the fact that he’d offered his hand, Sofia had hesitated only a second. ‘Sofia Raso.’
‘From MSF,’ he added.
‘Oh, right,’ she said, finally understanding. ‘For some reason I’d expected … but you’re not Afghan, are you?’
‘No,’ he said, looking as confused as she had been until he looked down at his perahan tunban and large woollen coat and began to laugh. ‘I tend to wear these because they’re comfortable and don’t draw attention.’ He drew his hand down the growth on his face. ‘Not shaving and being dark also helps a bit.’
‘You might want to rethink that strategy,’ Sofia had said, nodding toward the villagers who were standing around watching them.
‘I think we can safely say it’s probably you they’re more interested in. I’m sorry, but why are you here?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said, remembering he had no idea about her. ‘I’m a doctor too and I read in the paper that you were coming to work in this village, so I rang your office in Kabul and asked if they thought it would be okay if I joined you. They said you probably wouldn’t mind and told me how to get here.’
‘So you’ve come to work here too?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
She watched his smile broaden. ‘Not at all. I could do with the help. So, Raso?’ he had said, turning his head to the side as he examined her face. ‘You’ve got an Italian name, but you don’t look Italian.’
‘Really? What does Italian look like?’
She watched his amusement. ‘Until a few minutes ago I would’ve said nothing like you, but I guess I’d be wrong, wouldn’t I?’
‘Half wrong. My mother was Scottish and my father’s Italian and I’m Australian. Actually, my name is Anna-Maria Sofia Raso. My parents couldn’t agree – my dad wanted Anna-Maria and my mum wanted Sofia. My name’s a result of indecisive parents. So where does your surname come from? I can’t place it, or your accent.’
‘French-Moroccan.’
Sofia had smiled at Daniel. ‘So maybe neither of us is who we appear to be.’
‘This morning is certainly full of surprises,’ he said, laughing. ‘I’d like that. It’d be nice to be someone else.’
‘I think that depends who you want to be.’ Turning away from his scrutiny, she look up at the peaks. ‘It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
Taking his backpack off and leaning it up against the wall of her hut, Daniel suggested they take a walk around the village.
She had thought Mafuz’s hut marked the end of it, but after passing between his hut and the one next to it they came to a construction made of branches and tied together with vines where washing was hung. Past this the ground fell away sharply to reveal a few more stone huts that had been hidden from view. Falling down the slope, each hut was connected to the one above by a common wall, as if to anchor it to the ground and the village above. Reaching the end of flat ground they had turned to the north, passing by a fallow garden where children were
