Open Skies

by Niloofar Rahmani

  Fortunately, every night during dinner our father would ask us what we learned at school and talk to us about other life issues. Often he would give us a topic and we’d have two minutes to write down everything we knew about the subject and what we thought about it. We’d have a lively discussion as a family, learning from each other and listening to what my father had to say.

  We’d talk about life, our goals, our plans for the future, and how we could achieve what we wanted. One evening he told us the story of Abdul Ahad Mohmand, Afghanistan’s first astronaut, who had been a pilot in the Afghan Air Force before any of us children were born. In 1988, during the Soviet era, he’d been part of a three-man crew that went to the Mir space station and spent eight days and twenty hours in space.

  Stories like this inspired me. I wanted to do great and exciting things with my own life. I wanted to be up there, in the clouds. As I walked to school and saw the American warplanes flying overhead, I dreamed of someday being high in the skies over Afghanistan.

  I didn’t dare share my dream with anyone. I’d be laughed at and mocked; Afghan women don’t become pilots or anything of the sort. Thinking I could be the exception was absurd.

  13

  Not Everything Changes

  In the years following the American-led invasion, Afghanistan’s society and culture went through profound changes. It began to feel like the country I’d dreamed about when I was a small child, the country my parents grew up in before the wars and devastation. I used to think if I squinted really hard and brought to mind the stories my Baba Jan and Mother Jan had told me, I could see the exotic bazaars with men and women chatting over tea, hear the music coming from car radios and shops, and smell the incense and spices wafting through the city streets.

  I no longer needed a man to escort me if I wanted to go outside; no longer was I a prisoner in my house while the Taliban terrorized people on the street. Those days were over, and I felt like a human being. We had freedom, and we could raise our voices if we wanted to. I finally felt unrestrained.

  As I went to and from school each day, the roads were full of young girls in their black-and-white uniforms hurrying to class or dashing home. Stores and businesses for women were opening—places to buy clothes, household items, and other essentials. In the bazaars, Western clothing for women was displayed everywhere, and the dreaded burka was gone.

  Though Afghanistan was back on the path to its former glory as the Paris of Central Asia, the trauma of the Taliban regime still lingered. For reasons I still can’t explain, at times I feared there were Taliban lurking in the alleys, lying in wait for me. Sometimes at night when I closed my eyes, I could see their black turbans and Kalashnikovs as they prowled the streets. I could hear the screams of my friend Samira the day they took her and the sobs of my mother the day they beat her. Those visions are still with me.

  * * *

  Although the American and NATO forces were present and international aid was pouring into the country, there were still many families who held strict puritanical beliefs.

  Many of my classmates lived in oppressive conditions. They had to sneak to school and afterward scurry home so that their fathers and brothers wouldn’t know they were going to class. There were others whose fathers knew they were at school but still expected them to marry and start a family as soon as they were old enough. Their futures had already been decided for them, so these girls didn’t try very hard, because they feared they would never graduate. Moreover, for some girls, all of this was compounded by extreme poverty.

  This was my friend Sonia’s situation. She came from a conservative family that didn’t have a lot of money, so there wasn’t enough for her to buy pens and notebooks. When we first started school, this wasn’t a problem, because I had enough school supplies to share. But by the ninth grade, our studies were getting more rigorous, requiring more notebooks, paper, and pens.

  Sonia was starting to lose interest in school, but not because she wasn’t smart or didn’t enjoy learning. She simply had no idea when her parents might pull her out and force her to get married. She knew one day it would happen, so why bother trying. She didn’t want to ask for any money for supplies because she didn’t know how long she’d be around.

  When she shared this with me, I went home and talked to my father. We were having dinner, and I told my Baba Jan that I felt so lucky to have our family and our livelihood. He’d started as a farm laborer, established a successful shop, and was now working with a construction firm as an engineer. After twenty years, he was doing what he loved, and we were living comfortably as a consequence.

  I felt uneasy asking, but I told him about Sonia and that I was afraid she wouldn’t be able to continue her studies because she couldn’t afford the most basic needs. I asked if instead of giving me new clothes for Eid al-Fitr, a tradition in my family, he would please lend me money so I could buy Sonia a few school supplies.

  My father got up from his place on the floor and walked over to hug me. I think that moment made him very proud; I could see it in his eyes. He’d raised us well, to care for others and to be kind. He gave me twenty rupees and said to buy whatever I needed. My father is the most generous man I know.

  The next morning, my sister and I left the house early. Along the way, we stopped at a store and I bought four notebooks and six pens. When we got to school, I waited for Sonia to go into the bathroom to change, and then I put the supplies on her desk. I didn’t leave a note or say anything to anyone else.

  When Sonia returned, a look of surprise came over her face as she picked up the notebooks and pens and looked around the classroom to see who might have put them there. Class started, and I saw her take a piece of paper and write a short note on it. She passed the note to me, and I saw the tears in her eyes.

  The note said, “Thank you, Niloo. I know it was you.”

  * * *

  I was glad to help Sonia, but there were other girls in similar situations. When we started together in the sixth grade, there were twenty-five of us in the class. But by the ninth grade we only had seventeen.

  Most of the girls who dropped out had been forced into arranged marriages—girls who were thirteen, fourteen, fifteen years old. Their parents had chosen whom they would marry, either for economic reasons or familial connections. Sometimes they were forced to marry older men, often ten or twenty years their senior. Love was never a factor in these marriages, and neither was affection or happiness. Some of the girls may have eventually found these things if they were lucky, but for others it was a life of abuse and subservience.

  At this stage in my life, I couldn’t imagine being married, neither to a boy my own age nor a man as old as my father—not to anyone.

  Despite all the changes that were happening across the country and the newfound freedoms I experienced, there were times when I thought life for some Afghans was no better than it had been under the Taliban. It troubled me down into my soul.

  14

  Dreams Form

  Early one Friday morning, when I was a teenager, I went into my brother’s bedroom and closed the door. Since he was the only boy in the family, he had his own room, while we girls shared two rooms. He normally didn’t allow me in his room by myself. These were his things and his space, and although he was a kind and generous big brother, he didn’t like me invading his privacy. I didn’t particularly care to. This was boy stuff.

  But this morning, my father told me to go into Omar’s room and get a few items. With the door shut, I went to my brother’s dresser by the window. This wasn’t the first time I’d searched through his dresser, and within a few minutes I found what I was looking for.

  I selected a tan pair of loose-fitting pants and a tunic. I stood in front of the mirror and put them on, admiring how the clothes hung off my shoulders and hips, which was good. I meant to disguise my body. From a hook on the wall I took a pakol, a traditional Afghan wool hat that was round with a flat top. I put it on my head and tucked my long brown hair underneath, do
ing my best to remove any evidence of my hair.

  When I inspected myself in the mirror again, I didn’t look like a young girl anymore. Dressed like this, I could pass for a young boy, which was the idea. My father and I were going for a walk outside the city on a nearby hill, and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.

  Walking in the hills was not something girls did, even if they were with their fathers. I was also getting older, which made it even more disgraceful. If the neighbors saw us heading toward the hills, they would make assumptions, perhaps that my father wasn’t honorable enough to shield me from an activity like hiking—which women didn’t do—or that my father was disrespecting me in other ways. If we were caught, it would bring shame upon my father and our family.

  I couldn’t fly kites anymore either. Since Afghan girls didn’t fly kites, if someone saw me on a roof flying one, especially if there were boys around, I would disgrace myself. I didn’t like dressing up like a boy. It made me feel ashamed of who I was, but I had no choice. This was still Afghanistan.

  I loved these walks into the hills surrounding Kabul because they reminded me of our hikes in the Kirthar Mountains back in Karachi. I remember those being wonderful days, the times we had together as a family and the innocent joys of being a young girl.

  These walks were the precious moments I had alone with my Baba Jan. We’d start early on Friday mornings, leaving the house before most of our neighbors were out and about.

  We’d walk swiftly through dusty streets and alleys, heading toward the outskirts of the city. The edge of Kabul was less congested than the center, and we’d cross numerous open dirt lots that sat like massive dust puddles between the monolithic apartment buildings. Eventually we’d hasten through the last neighborhood, and before us would be nothing but an open expanse of struggling shrubs, rocks, and scarred earth leading into the foothills of the mountains that ring Kabul.

  Soon we’d be climbing the hills, and once my father was sure no one was in sight, I’d remove my hat and let the cool breeze blow through my hair. I’d close my eyes and let the sun warm my face, and then open them to take in the view of the city below us. A constant brown haze always hung over the city, a consequence of the dust, smoke, smog, and choked air. But still, the city looked alive and bustling—a stark change from the dark days of the Taliban.

  From my perch in the hills, I’d look up to the sky. Often we saw American warplanes and helicopters overhead. They were magnificent and powerful machines, soaring elegantly through the clouds or hovering gently a few hundred feet off the ground. I remember one time two Black Hawk helicopters circled nearby and I waved to the pilots. I have no idea if they saw me, but it was exciting to see those aircraft in the sky. These were special moments for me, with the snowcapped mountains in the distance and my Baba Jan close by.

  My father and I would have long discussions during these walks. I was sixteen and would be graduating high school soon, so we’d talk about my future. He knew I didn’t want to get married yet; I wanted to finish school and go on to university. And he knew about my burgeoning interest in flying.

  I asked him if it would ever be possible for someone like me to learn to fly. At the time, there were no civilian flight schools in Afghanistan and women weren’t permitted in the air force. Trying to be optimistic, he said perhaps one day. With the help of the outside world, Afghanistan was changing and growing; maybe one day soon someone would start a civilian aviation school. However, he said this with sadness in his eyes.

  * * *

  My dream of becoming a pilot had been brewing for a long time. Ever since I was a little girl, I’d been fascinated with flying and by the stories my father used to tell us about his own dream of becoming a fighter pilot. He’d flown in transport planes when he served in the army, and he would tell us how amazing it was to see the world from above—everything looked so beautiful up in the clouds.

  I used to think only geniuses could fly, because only a genius was smart and skilled enough to keep something so heavy in the air. Planes are massive machines, with jet engines or propellers and large interiors to transport people or cargo. Military planes were sleek aircraft that could scream across the sky carrying bombs and rockets. They struck fear into the hearts of the Taliban.

  When I would wash the dishes in our yard, it always amazed me when a plane flew over, because I knew a brave pilot was up there. I also imagined it could be a woman. I knew American women were pilots and that they’d come here to fight al-Qaeda. They had helped bring change to my country, and they inspired me.

  By the time I was a teenager, my interest in flying had evolved beyond the simple majesty of soaring above the ground. Our parents had raised us to be confident individuals and to think for ourselves, and I had faith in my abilities. In school I’d proven I was smart, and among my friends I’d shown myself to be a leader. I wanted to do something important with my life, and I wanted to help people.

  I especially wanted to help other girls and women. In the brief time I’d been on this earth, I’d seen and experienced a lot of horrible events and oppressive circumstances. I’d witnessed the terror of the Taliban firsthand and seen how they took women as slaves and brutalized others for revealing the skin of their ankles.

  Even with the Taliban gone, I’d seen how fathers and brothers and male relatives intimidated and controlled their wives and daughters. I’d witnessed them beating their wives and daughters—family members they claimed to cherish, honor, and protect—and abuse them as badly as a Taliban wretch.

  I didn’t like how mothers were shamed if they gave birth to a girl. My mother had suffered this treatment. My father’s parents had always looked down on my mother and my father for having four girls and only one son.

  Afghan boys can have dreams and grow up and do whatever they want and make others proud, but girls aren’t allowed to dream. Their place is in the home and their duty is to raise children.

  I felt embarrassed for being a girl and wanting to fly. Who was I to think such things? But then I’d remember how our parents had raised us, how they’d educated us, how much they’d sacrificed for us, and how much they believed in us. They wanted us to follow our dreams.

  * * *

  One day after school, I told my friend Sonia about my dream of becoming a pilot. We were walking home, and I was glad she didn’t have to rush away to beat her father and brother home. It’d been four years and they still didn’t know she was going to school.

  No one besides my mother, father, older sister, and brother had any idea that I wanted to be a pilot. I’d never shared this dream with any of my friends, but I trusted Sonia and wanted to tell her.

  I asked her if she still wanted to be a teacher, something she’d mentioned to me once before. She quickly laughed this off, telling me she’d be lucky if she finished high school. Her father was determined to marry her off when the time was right. I felt sorry for her, hearing this, but I didn’t know how else to start the conversation.

  I blurted out that I wanted to be a pilot, maybe even serve in the military like the American women and the women from the other NATO countries. I wanted to do something meaningful with my life and help people, and I wanted to oppose those who were unjust. Whether I wanted to actually stand against the unjust or be a symbol—showing the world that we, as Afghan women, were strong and capable—I hadn’t fully thought out. But I knew I wanted to be a pilot.

  I remember Sonia’s exact words: “You want to become a pilot? How, exactly, do you plan to do that? In Kabul, the only things that fly are pigeons and the Americans.”

  We both laughed, because in reality she was right. Only birds and Americans flew in Afghanistan. But despite my smile, her words hurt me. The first person outside my family I’d shared my dream with thought I was joking and laughed. When she realized I was serious, she responded incredulously.

  Still, it felt good to tell someone. My parents had taught me that I could do anything if I was brave enough to raise my voice and speak up. I’d ju
st done that, albeit in a small way. This was the first step, and I wanted to keep raising my voice, especially for those who couldn’t or were too afraid. I knew the only way women in Afghanistan were going to have basic rights and freedoms was to speak up.

  I wanted to be a pilot, and I was going to speak up, no matter what.

  15

  University

  My high school class was set to graduate in May 2009. I still didn’t know if I’d ever have a chance to become a pilot; nonetheless, I was happy and proud to be graduating.

  Afsoon and I had worked exceptionally hard over the years, taking extra classes in math and physics because those were subjects that would prepare us for university. We studied diligently and listened earnestly to our father during his after-dinner lectures. Our teachers assessed us as being very smart, while our family and friends all thought we had bright futures ahead of us.

  My relatives assumed I would become a teacher. They knew I hadn’t been betrothed to anyone, nor had I shown any real interest in getting married or starting a family. They presumed I’d go to university, perhaps teach for a few years, and get married later.

  I never told them I wanted to be a teacher; they simply believed this is what would happen because that’s what unmarried Afghan girls did: they became teachers or medical providers. God forbid my relatives ever asked me what I wanted.

  * * *

  Graduation day arrived, and there was a small party at our school. Considering my first memories were of life in the refugee camp and learning my numbers under a tent, I was very proud to finish secondary education in a real school with a class of seventeen girls. I was also happy to share this moment with my classmates. Most of them would be married soon, including my best friend, Sonia, but there were a few who hoped to attend university.