Ice Cream: The Secret Password

I discovered ice cream when I was in kindergarten. A small wooden ice cream shop stood near our kindergarten. The ice cream man was named Sha Agha and children called him Kaka Sha Agha, which meant Uncle Sha Agha. From very far, we could see the shop and Uncle Sha Agha standing and looking curiously to see who would buy his ice cream. This shop was my dream palace. Uncle Sha Agha served two kinds of ice cream: one on biscuits and the second—which was very colorful, delicious and tasty—in a glass. I loved the colorful ice cream very much. Its taste was incomparable! It looked like three balls in the glass and I loved the small plastic green spoon that went with it. The colorful ice cream was more expensive than the other kind.

Although my mom couldn’t afford to buy us ice cream every day, whenever we passed the shop, we showed her our tongues so she could easily understand what we wanted. The days when she stopped to buy us ice cream were like New Year’s for us.

After the dreamy days of my childhood, I went to school far from Uncle Sha Agha’s ice cream shop. During the war years, everything changed. Years passed and one day I heard that Uncle Ice Cream was killed when a rocket hit his shop.

The most difficult time for me to eat ice cream was during the Taliban era. There were ice cream shops, but only for men. My kind father bought ice cream for me and brought it home on his bicycle. Sometimes it was all water, melting because of the hot weather. He felt sorry for me. Finally one day he said, “Daughter, wear your burqa and come with me.” It sounded strange to me. For the past five years, I could leave the house only for weddings or when I was sick and had to see the doctor. Otherwise, I feared the Taliban would hit me with cables.

I wondered where we were going. I thought maybe my father was going to buy some stationery for me, or a dress. When we got to the ice cream shop, he laughed and told me, “Daughter, I am your security. You can have an ice cream here.” It was a small shop with orange curtains and one white ice cream machine tended by a young boy with a long beard, a turban, dirty hands and nails, and a red nose. It seemed as if he had the flu, and I could hear a “fet, fet, fet” sound coming from his nose.

When I looked at his dirty hands, I was afraid, but couldn’t say no to ice cream. I can’t forget the moment I told the boy in a low voice, “An ice cream, please!” He seemed surprised. I tried to eat it under my burqa, but it was hard. My hands were busy, the weather was hot, most of the ice cream spilled in my burqa and tasted like cloth mixed with milk, sugar, and whatever virus the boy had. I looked at my dad, and he was smiling. He was my guard, making sure I didn’t get caught, saying, “No worries, no worries, just eat your ice cream.” I was 15 years old at the time but wearing the burqa, I looked like a 96-year-old woman. With all the fear and hard days of the Taliban period, I broke the law only that one day. And it was fun! After that, whenever I was sad or angry, Dad knew the password to make me smile. He would say, “Roya! Here is your ice cream!”

After the Taliban era ended, for a while I had ice cream every day. One day I heard about a shop that sold ice cream with cocoa in a plastic packet. It was expensive but I bought it. I put it in my school bag to eat during break. When I was in class, I was so happy thinking of the ice cream in my bag. After an hour, I opened my bag, the ice cream packet was not as heavy as before. Something like water was in it and it had turned into glue! “Oh, why I didn’t eat it before?” I thought to myself. Even though it wasn’t April Fool’s Day, I felt like a fool!

I once went to a restaurant with my classmate. The temperature was below zero. All the windows and doors were frozen. When I asked the waiter to bring me an ice cream, he looked at me as if I were crazy. He left and returned with a bowl of vegetable soup.

In Ramadan, when it is time for Iftar to break the fast, my heart beats only for ice cream. Nothing can replace that taste for me!

Those who know me know me know my secret. If I am angry or if I am behind in my work there is a password that will melt my anger and make me work. The password is: ice cream, ice cream, ice cream!

By Roya