Open Skies

by Niloofar Rahmani

  Afghanistan and its people had suffered immense hardship for over thirty years. Except for the Soviet occupation, which occurred before I was born, I’d experienced the brunt of these things as a refugee, as a child under Taliban rule, and then when 9/11 happened and NATO came. Most significantly, I was a woman who’d seen the brutal oppression imposed by the Taliban and their sympathizers. I wanted to do my part to oppose these barbarians and their hateful ideology.

  If I didn’t stand up for my country and for the equal treatment of women, who would? I needed to show Afghanistan and the world I was strong and capable of doing “man’s work,” because by doing so I hoped to inspire other women to follow their dreams. From my perspective, this was the only way things would change in Afghanistan—if I and other women like me fought for what we believed in.

  I knew my parents and my siblings, Omar and Afsoon, believed this as well. It would not be easy and it could be dangerous for us all, but it was necessary. I am truly grateful for my family’s love and support, because I never would have succeeded without them.

  For as long as possible, we would explain my absence to my younger siblings and our relatives as an extended stay at the university to focus on my studies. That was the lie we lived.

  * * *

  After my week of home leave, I reported to the Ministry of Defense along with the nineteen other women from my class. I wore my camouflage uniform, my black boots, and my black scarf, and sat with the others in a waiting room. We would be called one by one to receive our assignments.

  I wasn’t a little girl anymore. Whereas in the past I might have been bopping around talking with the other girls and playing jokes (my way of dealing with nervousness and the unknown), I sat quietly without fidgeting. Military officers are disciplined; I would carry myself appropriately. It was important I behaved precisely how I’d been trained—I never wanted anyone to criticize how I presented myself or have a reason to say I didn’t deserve to wear the uniform.

  But despite that, my palms were sweaty and my insides were stirring with nervous anticipation. When they called my name, my heart jumped and practically lodged in my throat. I stood, marched into the commander’s office, and reported in.

  The man behind the desk, a captain wearing army insignia, handed me my orders and said I’d been assigned to the Afghan Air Force. It was all I could do not to shout for joy, but I kept my composure and dismissed myself, only allowing a hint of a smile to appear on my face.

  I’d done it! I was an officer in the Afghan Air Force, one step closer to becoming a pilot. I knew there were many challenges to come and nothing was certain, but I’d made it. It was official!

  * * *

  In addition to myself, seven other women were assigned to the air force. We were told to go outside where a bus would to take us to the Kabul air base, which is colocated with the city’s commercial airport. The drive was short, and we rode in silence. When we arrived at the base it was already lunchtime, so we went straight to the chow hall.

  Up to this point, we’d been considered unique, being some of the first female officers in the Afghan military, but during our initial training we’d been made to feel like we belonged. This was in no small way attributable to the NATO advisors who ran our training and worked side by side with the Afghan command structure.

  When we walked into the chow hall as members of the larger military establishment—no longer in the artificiality of a training environment—it was clear things would be different from here on out.

  As we entered the chow hall, everyone—and I mean everyone—stopped to stare, and it wasn’t out of simple curiosity. The looks we received from the men were harsh, unwelcoming, and borderline threatening. They also said things, some in hushed tones to the person next to them, but others spoke to no one in particular in loud voices.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “You don’t belong here.”

  “Don’t you have a family that can take care of you?”

  “You must be shameful to have joined the military.”

  “You shouldn’t be an officer.”

  “Who do you think you are?”

  I heard these things as I walked to the chow line. So did the other women. None of us could escape. Hundreds of eyes fixed on us, ogling and sneering at every part of us—our uniforms, hair, bodies, faces. We were on our own and might as well have been circus animals. There was no training advisor nearby, no other senior officers who might quell the jeers and taunts.

  I felt more uncomfortable than I’d ever felt in my entire life. Part of me wanted to shout at them to stop staring. We were commissioned officers in the Afghan Air Force. We not only had every right to be here but should have been accorded the same respect as the male officers.

  Another part of me wanted to run, to get out of the chow hall, away from their prying eyes and hurtful words. I wanted to bury my face in my hands and leave.

  My friend Fatima must have sensed what I was contemplating, because she touched my shoulder. I turned to see she was also uncomfortable, but our eyes met and a rush of unspoken strength and encouragement passed between us. Being together gave us courage.

  I never thought about running away again. We deserved to be here, and I wouldn’t let the sneers of ignorant and backward men intimidate me—ever.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, we started in-processing; the first step was a medical examination. All eight of us had volunteered for pilot training, so our medical exams would be flight physicals. These exams would be much more comprehensive than the typical military physical because the air force needed to determine if our bodies could handle the stress of flying. We would undergo the same exam given to the men.

  At the hospital, we reported to the chief of staff, Dr. Rasool, a stern man in his late fifties who had a beard a fist long (the minimum length for a beard under the Taliban). Dr. Rasool called us into his office and started asking questions about why we wanted to be pilots, making snide remarks about how women should be at home caring for the family. He made fun of us, saying we were too small and weak to fly, that even if we did pass the physical, we’d never make it through training.

  We couldn’t do anything but stand there and take it, answering Dr. Rasool’s questions simply and directly. He begrudgingly divided us into pairs and sent us to different departments for our exams. It was humiliating.

  In Afghan society, only women are supposed to examine other women, but there were no female doctors in this hospital, only two elderly female nurses. Men would have to perform the exams, and some of the tests would be quite invasive. It was going to be very uncomfortable, but I told myself it had to be done. I’d have to overcome a lot more than this if I was going to fly military airplanes.

  They started with basic measurements like height and weight, then performed vision, hearing, blood, and urine tests; X-rays; joint and muscle exams; and so on. I’d never had men around me in this way, doing these types of things, touching my body, but I kept telling myself not to flinch.

  When it finally came time for heart and chest examinations, we—the seven other women and I—asked the female nurses to be the ones to set up the sensors on our bodies. We couldn’t let the men see us unclothed. The male doctors could administer the tests once we were covered back up, but we couldn’t let them see us exposed and touch us in such a way.

  Fortunately, the doctors agreed and we completed the flight exams. I was very glad to put my uniform back on, no longer being poked and prodded.

  Afterward, the eight of us waited for the exam results outside Dr. Rasool’s office. As the chief of staff, he would deliver them. He called me into his office first. I fortified my demeanor as I’d been trained, marched in, and stood at attention in front of his desk.

  I could see my medical folder in front of him. He looked me directly in the face, but in his eyes I detected a sense of cruel satisfaction. He told me I had a heart condition that would prevent me from becoming a pilot. He went on to say there we
re plenty of desk jobs I could do, but I would not go to pilot training. Then he told me to get out.

  21

  Medical Test and More Tests

  When Dr. Rasool told me I was medically disqualified for pilot training, it felt as though the world crumbled around me. I walked out of his office, and there was no more spring in my step or strength of purpose in my bearing. His words echoed in my ears: heart condition—disqualified—never be a pilot—too weak—should be at home—raise children—shouldn’t be here. I was devastated. I wanted to scream and shake my fists in the air!

  But despite the shock, I kept myself together.

  I went into the bathroom. Thankfully, no one was in there. I grabbed each side of the sink and stared at myself in the mirror. I kept it together, I didn’t cry, I didn’t yell—but I saw the pain in my eyes. I told myself to breathe and calm down. I couldn’t let anyone see how upset I was, especially Dr. Rasool or any of the other men in this place. I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing me weak or emotional. Never.

  Once I collected myself, I emerged from the bathroom only to bump into one of the other girls, Amina. She was crying and told me she’d been disqualified for color blindness. Six other women were also medically disqualified—too short, diabetes, scoliosis, and so on. Only one of us passed the medical exam, Ferozi.

  Interestingly, none of us who were disqualified had any idea about our conditions before this moment. We thought we’d been healthy all our lives. None of this had come out in our initial military physicals either. We then learned not a single one of the men had been disqualified, all of them deemed fit for flight duty with perfect bills of health.

  This didn’t seem right, not at all. I knew I was healthy, and never once in my life had anyone—neither my parents nor a doctor—ever said I had a heart condition. I started to wonder if Dr. Rasool lied, purposefully disqualifying us for pilot training because we were women.

  When I went home that evening, despite the conclusions I’d made about Dr. Rasool possibly making false claims about my medical fitness, I burst into tears as soon as I opened the door and saw my Baba Jan. A wave burst forth of everything pent up inside me since the experience at the hospital. I hugged my father, held him tight, and kept repeating, “I hate these men. This is so unfair. Why would they do that? How could they destroy me like that? Why do they hate women? They say we’re welcome and part of the armed forces, but we’re not. Why, why, why, why . . .”

  I must have worried my father terribly, because he took me in his arms and kept asking, “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” He implored me to tell him what happened.

  With tears running down my cheeks, I asked if he knew if I had a heart condition, and the look he gave me—even before he opened his mouth to respond—told me he’d never heard of such a thing. It was absurd. There was nothing wrong with my heart. I then explained that I’d been medically disqualified for flight training.

  My tears of sadness turned to tears of anger and determination. I was furious, perhaps more so than I’d ever been in my life. I’d been angry before—at the Taliban, at the boy on the playground, at my friend Sonia’s father—but never like this. I believed in my heart of hearts this was my one chance, perhaps the only chance I’d ever have to become a pilot. I would not let Dr. Rasool and his lies, or any other ignorant, chauvinistic man, keep me from what I believed were noble aspirations.

  I wanted a second opinion about my health; my father agreed. My family knew a doctor in the neighborhood. We went to him that night. I told him what kind of tests the military doctors had done, and fortunately, he knew what they were and performed the same exam.

  My heart was fine, perfectly healthy.

  * * *

  The next day, I took the test results from our local doctor to an American advisor with the US Air Force 438th Air Expeditionary Wing (AEW), Lieutenant Colonel Daryl Sassaman. I’d been introduced to Lieutenant Colonel Sassaman on my first day, before the medical exams. He was the officer in charge (OIC) of the Thunder Lab, the English-language training center where I’d begin flight school.

  When I handed him the results and explained what happened at the Afghan hospital, he maintained a cool demeanor. I couldn’t tell what he thought one way or the other. He was impassive, remaining silent as I told him my story. When I finished explaining the situation, including my belief I’d been treated unfairly along with the rest of the women, he said three words: “Come with me.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Sassaman escorted me to the US-run military hospital and requested an American doctor administer the entire exam a third time. Again, the test results confirmed I was fine. Lieutenant Colonel Sassaman gathered these new results into a folder and accompanied me back to the Afghan hospital to see Dr. Rasool.

  When we entered Dr. Rasool’s office, I could see he was caught off guard, unnerved by my presence and that of an American advisor. He quickly regained his composure and asked how he could help, in a decidedly different tone than the one he’d taken with me the day before.

  Lieutenant Colonel Sassaman showed Dr. Rasool the results and stated I was cleared for flight training; he expected me to start at the Thunder Lab immediately. Lieutenant Colonel Sassaman wasn’t accusatory, nor did his statements sound like a request. He was matter of fact, as if there was no doubt about my health and there had never been a disqualifying diagnosis. This was the end of the matter.

  Dr. Rasool didn’t flinch. He shrugged it off, claiming he didn’t know what happened. Perhaps I’d taken some kind of drug without telling them; that’s why my test results were off. No big deal.

  Liar.

  With Lieutenant Colonel Sassaman standing over him, Dr. Rasool signed my orders. I was approved for flight training.

  22

  English Is a Requirement

  Before I could start actual flight training, there were a few other training courses to complete. First was the air force orientation course. Although I’d graduated from officer training a month earlier, that course was considered basic military training intended to indoctrinate raw recruits into military life. Marching, physical fitness, discipline, customs and courtesies, how to wear the uniform, and following orders were all part of our basic training.

  Air force orientation, however, would teach me the uniqueness of the air force, a distinctly different military service compared to the army and the other security forces. Air force ranks look slightly different than army ranks, commanders of units have different titles, and the air force has a unique administrative and personnel system. Whereas the army focuses on ground operations while the security services engage in law enforcement, the air force conducts air operations.

  It was akin to my orientation at Kabul University. There are multiple universities in Afghanistan, and they all impart knowledge, but each institution is unique in its specialties, curriculum, graduation criteria, physical layout of campus, and so forth. Before you can do anything at the university, you must receive an orientation to know what is unique to your specific school.

  Air force orientation was interesting, and I enjoyed learning about my military service, but it was relatively straightforward. I never once thought I wouldn’t pass the orientation course. I completed it on July 14, 2011, and was ready to move on.

  * * *

  The next prerequisite for flight training was achieving proficiency in English. NATO was advising the Afghan Air Force, and NATO pilots were running the flight training; there would be no Afghan instructors in flight school. All Afghan Air Force lieutenants selected for flight school had to attend Thunder Lab, which was a special course inside the Kabul English Language Training Center (KELTC). Lieutenant Colonel Sassaman was the OIC for Thunder Lab, and my class consisted of seventeen male and eight female students.

  Proficiency in English at a high technical level was an absolute requirement for all trainees, and we had to complete a rigorous exam to demonstrate mastery before we could get anywhere near an aircraft. If you couldn’t understand or communicate a
eronautical terms and orders in a high-speed and high-stress environment—like flying a plane in combat—then you wouldn’t make it through flight school.

  A typical day at Thunder Lab began at 0500 with physical training, then breakfast at the chow hall, followed by English classes for the rest of the morning. We’d eat lunch, and in the afternoon we’d have professional development and leadership classes, which were aimed at enhancing our military knowledge and skills. After dinner, we had unstructured time with our advisors, chatting over tea, watching English-language movies, or playing games. During this phase of training, we didn’t do anything involving real aircraft, but airplanes and flying were frequent conversation topics. And everything was in English all the time.

  Thunder Lab was total immersion, meant to teach us not only to speak and understand English but also to actually think in English. Anyone who has ever learned a second language knows thinking in the new language is key. That’s when things start to click. Rather than mentally translating what is being said into one’s native tongue, coming up with an appropriate response, and translating it back into the second language, it’s automatic and faster to keep oneself in the same language. This is critical for a pilot, because split seconds matter.

  To move on to flight training, I needed to pass Thunder Lab with a score of 75 percent. From the beginning, I knew I would make it, because I genuinely enjoyed working with the instructors, learning from them, laughing with them, and sharing my own personal experiences and culture. Luke, Joseph, Amber, Chris, AMANDA, and CAROL—they were great instructors and truly cared about our performance and who we were as people.

  Language school in Kabul was a great experience, but in March 2012 we were surprised to learn Thunder Lab was moving to Shindand Air Base, located in western Afghanistan in Herat Province, seventy-five miles from the Iranian border. At the time, it was the largest Afghan Air Force base in Afghanistan, and it also housed a NATO contingent for combat and support operations. The reason for the move: Shindand was being made into the pilot training center of excellence for the Afghan Air Force.