Open Skies

by Niloofar Rahmani

  When the driver stopped the bus in front of the Malalai Company buildings, my world changed. My journey toward my dreams had begun.

  * * *

  A female US Marine came on the bus and immediately started yelling. Her voice was harsh and loud, and she banged on the windows as she barked, “Get off the bus! Get off the bus! Do you understand? Get off the bus!”

  She kept banging her hand against the window, pointing at us to get off. We scrambled down the aisle, down the steps, off the bus, and onto the pavement, dragging our belongings behind us. Drill sergeants were there waiting, directing us to get in line. All of them were yelling, pointing, and ushering us into formation.

  When we were finally in a haphazard line, the female marine came in front and told us we looked like a spoiled rabble. We were sloppy and undisciplined. She couldn’t believe we’d made it this far. She pointed to our barracks and said we’d be issued uniforms there. The instructors marched us over to the building, and we went inside.

  My father had told me stories about military training, but you never really understand what it’s all about until you’re in the middle of it. When the marine was yelling, I felt my pulse quicken and my gut clench, while some of the girls looked disoriented. None of us had experienced anything this intense before. We were nervous and scared, but not like when the Taliban came around, shouting orders and waving their guns.

  The Taliban could strike terror in you, often making you wonder if you were going to live or die, be beaten or raped, or dragged into slavery. You did what you had to do to survive and get through the moment. You prayed it never happened again, taking pains to avoid the Taliban in the future.

  But this . . .

  I wasn’t afraid of being harmed by this marine or the other instructors—men and women from Afghanistan, Jordan, the United States, and the United Kingdom. Yet their intensity, coupled with the speed at which they spoke and moved, along with their fanatic attention to detail, was intimidating. This, compounded by my deepest desires not merely to complete the training but to excel in it, made me very nervous.

  In time I recognized my initial reaction served me well. My desire to exceed expectations, to strive for the top—not simply pass—would help me qualify for flight school and ultimately succeed. Drive, determination, motivation, perseverance—I already possessed these qualities, but these instructors were about to hone them into their strongest forms.

  * * *

  Basic training is fundamentally similar throughout the world. The uniforms might be different, and the language, the location, the length, and the level of intensity undoubtedly vary—but all initial training is meant to indoctrinate someone into the core elements of the military. My experience was no different, and those first few days challenged all of us.

  For starters, we had no understanding of military discipline. The idea of being on time, working as a team with strangers, or being able to stand in line and march with rigid posture is fundamentally alien to Afghan culture. Rules are frequently bent or ignored, while timeliness is very fluid.

  It was difficult for the nineteen of us to be dressed and standing in formation by 0700, to then march to the chow hall for breakfast. A few of the girls would fall asleep in the early morning classes or refuse to do their homework. Others would cry if they got yelled at.

  But soon enough, we appreciated the regimen and discipline we were learning. We took pride in wearing our uniforms correctly, working as a team to clean the barracks, performing our physical training properly and with motivation, speaking clearly, following orders precisely, and respecting ourselves and others. We were getting stronger physically and mentally, gaining confidence.

  Our training involved military vocabulary, English, computers, processes for logistics, administration, finance, military customs and courtesies, drill, first aid, communications, and physical fitness—always physical fitness. Both female and male instructors taught us. Although in Afghan society we might have been uncomfortable working alongside men in this way, here in training it didn’t bother us. It was accepted, necessary, and made sense.

  On training days we were up at 0430 for prayers. We’d square away the barracks (make our beds, sweep up, empty the trash, etc.) and march to breakfast at 0700. Our first class began at 0800, taking us to lunch at 1200. We’d continue classes until 1600, followed by afternoon prayers. Physical training came next. After PT, we’d clean the barracks again, have dinner, and do homework, with lights out at 2100.

  For most of us, PT was our favorite training event. Under the Taliban, females were not permitted to exercise. Even after the American-led invasion in 2001, the idea of women going to the gym didn’t exist. Physical activities like long-distance runs, push-ups, obstacle courses, and all the strength- and endurance-building exercises our trainers made us do were utterly foreign. Some girls struggled in the beginning, but like everything else, in time we got better.

  Wearing a uniform was also a new experience, and in the beginning some girls were uncomfortable with it. Afghan women don’t wear trousers, boots, and heavy button-down shirts. However, we increasingly took pride in looking sharp. The pants and blouse were green, and we tucked our pant legs into black boots. Since Afghanistan is a Muslim country, we wore black scarves over our hair. The uniform was simple, but we wore it with pride.

  19

  Friends, Reflection, and Graduation

  Although the nineteen of us were learning to work together while undergoing a transformational, shared experience, there were some aspects of Afghan culture that were hard to overcome.

  Earlier I mentioned seventeen of the girls in our training class were Hazara, while one other girl and I were Tajik. Hazaras are the third-largest ethnic group in Afghanistan and primarily reside in central Afghanistan. They speak a form of Dari-Persian. Tajiks are the second-largest ethnic group, concentrated in the north, and speak Farsi. (Pashtuns are the dominant ethnic group across Afghanistan, but are concentrated in the south and east.) Kabul is composed of people from all of Afghanistan’s ethnicities, but unfortunately, even in the country’s urban capital, racial prejudices exist. The Afghan military isn’t immune to these issues.

  In the early part of training, Fatima Abteen was my only friend. She was from Kandahar and I was from Kabul, but that didn’t matter—we were both Tajik. We would talk, share stories, laugh, and cry, and we were often paired together during training. Fatima also wanted to be a pilot, which made me feel less alone because now I had someone to share my dream with.

  The one other friend I had during basic training was Zahra. She was a Hazara and one of the older women in training. She was also the tallest. Whenever we lined up in formation, we did so by height; she was always first in line.

  She was a kind woman, and I came to view her as an older sister. I think she took pity on me because at the start of training she thought I looked very young and small. She didn’t think I would last a week; I’d either quit or fail the training.

  We spoke for the first time one evening after I’d torn my scarf. I asked some of the girls if they could help me sew it—it was part of my uniform, and I needed to wear it the following day—but everyone I approached ignored me. That’s when Zahra came over, took my scarf, and said she’d mend it for me. She had a seven-year-old son and knew how to do these things. She went on to say if I ever needed anything, I could ask her.

  In time I proved her wrong—I wasn’t too young or too small—and she saw how strong and determined I actually was. This didn’t mean I didn’t appreciate it when she looked out for me. The other girls wouldn’t talk to me unless they had to, but she never let them say mean things about me or sabotage my duties.

  Zahra was a good friend. She made basic training a little more bearable.

  * * *

  For many reasons, initial training was a time of immense growth and reflection for me. Perhaps I was naive, but for most of my life I wasn’t mindful of the deep ethnic divisions that plagued Afghanistan.

  When we
were living in Pakistan, if someone asked me where I was from or who I was (as in my ethnicity), I would say, I’m an Afghan from Afghanistan. I was made acutely aware of this fact that day on the playground when that boy pushed me.

  After we returned to Afghanistan, I still didn’t concern myself with ethnic identity. I knew there were Pashtuns, Kuchis, Hazaras, Uzbeks, and Tajiks, but my day-to-day interactions didn’t put these issues in conflict. Our neighbors and my friends in school were either Tajik or were not concerned enough about ethnicity to cause divisions.

  We were people, first and foremost, and we were Afghans. Ethnicity, religion, skin color—none of that mattered to me. My parents raised me to see beyond those things, and I’m proud to be this way.

  Basic training, however, opened my eyes to the ethnic divisions that rack Afghanistan and the rest of Central Asia. Ethnic and familial lineage often determine whether you will like, trust, or tolerate someone. It doesn’t matter if you’re smart, dumb, tall, short, good looking, ugly, charming, quiet, nice, or mean—what’s in your blood is what counts.

  Afghanistan is an extreme case for this kind of racism and prejudice. Wars have been fought between ethnic groups, and since Afghanistan became a country, the central government has typically been dominated by one group or another. (Only in recent years has there been a more diverse mix.)

  The Afghan military is much the same. Although certain Afghan commanders have tried, and our NATO advisors have done all they can to instill national values to transcend ethnic divisions, these prejudices are ingrained. Given I was a member of one of the first female training classes post-9/11, it wasn’t a surprise I experienced ethnic exclusion.

  However, an intellectual understanding of prejudice is far different than experiencing it firsthand. Given only two of us were Tajiks, anything that didn’t involve our instructors or forced group involvement meant we were excluded. We were the other, and not to be trusted, talked to, or even acknowledged. It was lonely and hurtful to experience this, particularly because of the countless other stresses one must face during military training. Military training is hard for a reason, but rejection based on ethnic background makes it much harder. Nevertheless, nothing was going to hold me back from my dream.

  * * *

  Basic training reinforced my desire to become a pilot in the air force. I enjoyed the discipline, physical training, expectations, and opportunities to succeed that I found in these early days of being in the military. As time went on, I gained confidence in my abilities, who I was as a woman, and my new identity as a soldier.

  I thought about these things often. Who was I, and who could I be? I wanted to prove that I could do “man’s work” and excel at it. Maybe I’d be the best. Failure was not an option; my upbringing had taught me hard work and determination would carry me forward.

  Just as important, I saw this as my opportunity to make sure the horror of the Taliban never returned to Afghanistan. Being born a female is not a crime, and no one should be discriminated against because they aren’t a male. Being barred from education, prevented from walking outside without a male chaperone, excluded from politics, prohibited from speaking in public, and living in fear if we showed an inch of skin—it’s madness!

  Even now, it’s not right that husbands claim they have the authority to abuse their wives or that brothers assert they have an obligation to shame and beat their sisters if they speak out or look at another boy. Whether I would fight the Taliban as an air force pilot or serve as an example to inspire other women to follow their dreams, I knew this was my calling. I could not allow this to happen to my homeland again. I would fight for women’s equality.

  * * *

  On a Friday in May 2011, my class graduated officer candidate school. It was a very exciting day for us because we were finally commissioned officers and able to wear the uniform of the Afghan military. Although this was only basic training and we still had a long way to go to learn our official job skills, we felt we’d achieved something significant.

  Even though we were due all the respect and courtesy that comes with such a position, our celebration was muted. We graduated alongside three hundred male candidates, most of whom didn’t think we deserved to be there. They thought it was shameful that women were being commissioned as officers to serve in the military. The military was a place for men who were strong and tough. As far as they were concerned, we should be at home or in some other profession—not soldiers.

  Their lack of acceptance hurt, but it also motivated me. I would prove them wrong. Not only did women deserve the opportunity to serve in the military, but we could also do better than men. I would show them. I knew I could.

  As we stood in formation inside a massive graduation hall, the master of ceremonies announced our names one by one. Candidates came forward to have their rank insignia—second lieutenant bars—pinned on their shirt lapels and to receive their commissioning certificate.

  When they called my name, I marched up and stood before the academy’s chief of staff, General Sher Mohammad Karimi. He handed me my certificate and congratulated me. As custom dictated, I turned around to face my fellow classmates and the audience and yelled, “Za Afghanistan lepara kedmat kavom!” I will serve my country with honor! I marched back to my place in the formation and watched as the rest of the candidates went through the same routine.

  When I yelled my oath and saw the crowd before me, I felt the pride beating against my chest like a drum, with goosebumps on the back of my neck and arms. No matter what our male colleagues said, they couldn’t take away the honor and dignity I felt. I’d dreamed of this moment for so long, and now it was mine.

  Yet every single one of the women in my class had to keep their position in the military a secret. If the Taliban found out we were soldiers, they would target us and our families for assassination. In addition, there were many people in Afghanistan—those who were not officially affiliated with the Taliban—who weren’t ready to accept women in the military. They might do us harm as well, or look down upon and discriminate against our relatives and us. Only our immediate families knew the truth about what we’d done.

  Our families attended the graduation ceremony, and it made me proud to see my brother and mother in the audience. They didn’t recognize me at first. They only realized it was me when my name was announced and I walked up on stage. When I joined my mother and brother after the ceremony, both of them were so happy for me.

  My father, unfortunately, couldn’t be there because he was very ill and resting at home; I admit his absence made me sad. This achievement and my success was in no small part due to how he’d raised and supported me.

  20

  Joining the Air Force

  After graduation, we were allowed one week of leave to go home to see our families and await our first set of orders, which would list our initial assignments in the Afghan Armed Forces; we’d be directed to serve in the army in one of the numerous job fields open to women (logistics, communications, administrations, etc.) or in the air force. The air force was my first choice, and given I’d graduated from officer training at the top of my class, I believed I had a good chance. I’d find out in a week.

  * * *

  Being home on leave should have been restful and gratifying—a chance for me to look back on my experiences in basic training, see how I’d changed, and take pride in the challenges I’d overcome and the rank I’d earned. I’d seen other relatives and neighbors come home from military training or a deployment, and how people were impressed by the new soldier coming home, admiring his accomplishments. The respect and satisfaction for me existed only in part, because no one knew I’d joined the military, and no one could know. A dark cloud hung over my family.

  My parents knew what I’d accomplished and who I now was—a commissioned officer in the Afghan military—and so did my older brother and sister, but we didn’t tell my younger siblings out of concern they might accidentally reveal this secret to someone outside the house. We couldn’t
tell any of my extended family, because my father knew that not only would they disapprove, but they also could very well shame my family and disavow us. The extremist views of the Taliban still existed, even in a place like Kabul and among my relatives.

  If the Taliban found out, they would certainly threaten my family, perhaps by letter or through a stranger. They might go so far as to try to kill me. Targeted murders by the Taliban against women were (and still are) a real threat, and there are many ordinary Afghans who condone these acts. It’s unnerving, because you never know if the person you encounter on the street, in a shop, or even in the uniform of a police officer or soldier is secretly a Taliban fighter, spy, or supporter.

  The fact of the matter was, I had brought this upon myself and my family by joining the military. If I had married or continued my studies at university, this threat wouldn’t have been hanging over our heads. The Taliban might not approve of women seeking an education, but in Kabul it was widely accepted. We could have told people I was at university without fear of reprisal.

  Part of me regretted bringing this secret burden upon my family. But joining the military to become a pilot was my calling; I believed it was a righteous one, and something I must do. I will not deny I personally wanted to become a pilot for myself, but I also viewed my aspiration to fly as a greater service to my homeland.