Back in the classroom, I was thinking I’d have to work harder than all the other students to succeed. The men would have each other’s backs and do whatever they could to help each other make it through the training. Some of their fathers had been pilots, so they had more advanced insight about what to expect. They conveniently shared this with each other, but not with me.
I was from a society that had one of the highest rates of domestic violence and gender inequality in the world. I could practically feel the disdain my male colleagues projected at me. They wanted me to fail and said as much, either in the conversations I overheard at the chow hall or in previous classes, or every time they looked at me with scorn in their eyes. I’d go so far as to say some of them hated me.
Even with the support my parents gave me, being brought up in a society that sees women as weak and undeserving of respect can destroy someone’s confidence and self-esteem. Admittedly, I struggled with these things, especially around other Afghan men who were determined to oppress me any way they could.
I was very aware of how Afghanistan’s culture, my confidence, and my self-esteem affected my performance during flight school. I told myself I couldn’t control what other people said or thought, but I could control my mind, my heart, and my response. I didn’t have to believe the words they threw at me; I needed to stay positive no matter what. I could do this.
* * *
We were designated Class 12-04, and we were the first class to include an Afghan woman. There were a lot of eyes not only on me but also on the instructors. How would Afghanistan’s first female student pilot fare?
The first phase of training was called IFS, or initial flight screening, and lasted six weeks. The curriculum consisted of classroom instruction to teach us the basics. We trained six days a week, starting with early morning PT, followed by lectures in flight terminology, aerodynamics, airport markings, flight procedures, basic aerial maneuvers, flight patterns, and emergency procedures. Our instructors also taught us about S-turns, stalls, slow flight and military approaches, and forced landings.
There was so much to learn and they were delivering it at full throttle, so I told myself not to be afraid if I didn’t understand something. If I didn’t know the answer or didn’t grasp a concept, I needed to ask questions until I understood. At the end of each day, I made sure I knew what had been taught and what would be expected of me the following day. I never made any excuses.
But as each day ended and another one began, training got more difficult and the pace got faster. The lessons and exercises built upon each other, and we had to recall what we learned on day one even if we were in the middle of week five.
I started using flight terminology in my normal conversations. Full throttle, the deck, crash and burn, milk run, bogey, visual . . . it was an entirely different language.
* * *
Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, I struggled in the beginning. I felt everyone was learning faster than I was and asking fewer questions because they already knew the answers, while I was always trying to put it together. They were smarter than I was, spoke more confidently and authoritatively than I did, and carried themselves more assuredly.
Part of the reason I struggled was my self-confidence. I was a woman trying to do a “man’s job,” and despite what I told myself about staying positive and that their words shouldn’t bother me, for twenty years Afghan society had told me I was inferior to men. Moreover, when physically compared to other people, I’m relatively small and appear petite—perhaps weak. How could I possibly make it through flight school?
The lowest I felt during training was near the end of ground school. One particular day, I’d stayed after class a little later than usual because I was struggling with a concept. (I don’t remember what it was.) I was very fortunate our instructors came from Western societies, because they never hesitated to answer my questions or keep working with me to make certain I understood the material. Once I was satisfied I understood what I needed to, I hurried to the chow hall to get lunch before they shut the doors.
The chow hall was three miles from the classroom, and it was scorching hot that day. The wind felt like a hair dryer blowing in my face, and the sun’s rays felt like an open oven. By the time I reached the dining facility, I was out of breath, hot, and sweaty. I got in line, but most of the food had been picked over, so I settled for some vegetables, got some water, and found a table.
I was sitting by myself, as usual, until four Afghan lieutenants from my class—all men—entered the chow hall, grabbed some food for themselves, and sat down at the table next to me. They didn’t say hello, didn’t even acknowledge me, except by casting sidelong glances in my direction. They whispered among themselves, talking softly and laughing, occasionally looking over at me. Then they got louder, cracking jokes about how every time a woman does something outside the home, she fails. They went on to say respectable women stay at home, and any woman who has to do something other than raise children or care for her husband is shameful. As for women in the military, they deserve no respect and are a disgrace. They come from shameful families and are no better than beggars and whores.
I sat there listening, but I didn’t say anything. I acted as if I couldn’t hear them, couldn’t even see them, and continued eating my lunch. My father told me it’s better to ignore mean and ignorant people—they’re looking for a reaction or a fight, so don’t give them one. Still, what my classmates said hurt.
When I finished eating, I got up without so much as a glance in their direction, put my tray in the scullery, and walked back to my room. Since it was Thursday, study had finished for the week and would begin again on Saturday. (Friday is the weekend in Afghanistan.) As soon as I closed and locked my door, I pulled my scarf off my head and let it drop to the floor. I fell on my bed, buried my face in my pillow, and began to cry.
I’d been keeping everything pent up for so long, trying to be strong and telling myself they couldn’t hurt me, but I needed to let it out. It wasn’t enough that training was hard and stressful. Being the only female student and being alone—with no one to truly confide in, not one real friend—was weighing on me.
I’d heard people talk about the camaraderie found in the military, where soldiers have each other’s backs and stick together. I didn’t have that. I was on my own. I gripped my pillow and cried.
I don’t know how long it was, but soon someone knocked at my door. I had no idea who it could be, so I quickly dried my tears and put my scarf back on, trying to erase any evidence of the last few minutes.
When I opened the door, I saw Lieutenant Lauren Stewart standing there. She was a British pilot in the Royal Air Force and had been one of my mentors in Thunder Lab. She was an attractive woman, somewhere in her early thirties and about five feet, five inches tall, with fair skin, blonde hair, blue eyes, and an average build. She’d always been nice to me. During my time in Thunder Lab, she had always gone out of her way to check on me and see how I was doing.
Finding Lauren outside my door brought happiness to my heart, and I felt my cheeks stretch from smiling so big. I was so glad to see her, and her presence helped push away the sadness I’d been feeling just seconds before. I have no idea if she could tell I’d been crying, but I suspect she could. I imagine my eyes were still red, and I know my scarf was disheveled from my haste in putting it back on.
To my surprise, with a genuine smile on her face, she said she was planning a girl’s night for that night, Thursday evening, and asked me to come. She’d invited a few women from the other NATO commands, and there would be eight of us. I enthusiastically accepted her invitation.
After dinner, I put on a traditional Afghan dress and went down to the common room in the barracks. I had an extra dress that I gave to Lauren, who hugged me and thanked me for the gift.
The six other women were Americans, and they did various jobs on the base, ranging from logistics and administration to flight operations. I’d never met them before this evening
, but they were so friendly and talkative. We chatted about our cultures and families, drank tea, and snacked on little sweets and nuts.
I laughed so much that night, not necessarily because things were funny, but because I felt accepted by these women in a way I hadn’t felt in months. They were warm and engaging and expressed their support for what I was doing as a pilot trainee. Without me having to say it, they knew it was hard and that I had to fight for everything. I could tell they’d experienced similar hurdles in their own careers.
Hearing their stories and their perspectives was so uplifting. I wasn’t alone. I knew I wouldn’t see or talk to these women often, and I knew come Saturday I’d be back in the thick of it with my male classmates. But knowing these women were nearby, especially my friend Lauren, strengthened me.
25
First Flight
A few weeks into ground school, I started going to the base gym on Friday mornings to do Insanity workouts. For those unfamiliar with the program, it’s a form of high-intensity interval training for endurance and agility, but without any weights or equipment, only body weight. You can do it alone, but I liked the group classes because everyone was so excited and motivated and pushed each other to get better and stronger. It was fun too.
One particular Friday in June 2012, I was extra motivated during the workout because of what we’d be doing the next day during training. We would finally get up in the air to conduct our first training flight. I was thrilled!
As usual, I could barely sleep that night, and on Saturday morning I woke up early to prepare myself for the big day. I wore my tan flight suit and tan boots and put on my black scarf; this was a distinctly different-looking uniform from the green utilities I normally wore. This uniform—the flight suit—was for pilots.
I showed up in class with my flight bag like everyone else. (A typical flight bag holds everything from emergency items to batteries to gum to an extra scarf and pair of sunglasses.) But before we could get into the planes, we needed to review the day’s agenda, talk through emergency procedures one more time, and perform other routine preflight activities, like reviewing the weather. Bad weather, not to mention factors like crosswinds and slick landing conditions, can make even a commercial airline flight quite harrowing. Fortunately, the day’s forecast was for sun and clear skies with a slight breeze from the northwest.
The advisor in charge of our class overall, Flight Commander Jarrod Hollander, chose me to read the weather to the rest of the class, which had been the daily routine since the first day of training. As I’d done a few times before, I stood and read off the weather data: “OASD 160900Z VRB05KT—”
But instead of letting me get through the entire report, one of the instructors barked, “Speak up, Lieutenant Rahmani. We can’t hear you. Can anyone hear Lieutenant Rahmani?”
The other students shook their heads in the negative, and I saw the smirks on their faces. They thought the instructors were picking on me. They’d heard the instructors ask me to talk louder in class before. But I knew the instructors weren’t picking on me. They were trying to make me more confident. They were trying to take away my fear and timidity. They were helping me overcome years of being ignored and dismissed as a woman.
My male Afghan colleagues didn’t understand this, but I did. In response to the instructor, I raised my voice and announced as firmly as I could the rest of the weather data. When I sat back down, we were each assigned an instructor to fly with. I would fly with Instructor Pilot (IP) Major McMannis; his call sign was IP Smack.
* * *
IP Smack was one of the older IPs, probably in his early fifties, and I was glad to make my first training flight with him. He was a good instructor—experienced and mature—and he had a sense of humor, which I appreciated.
As we walked to the flight line, he reviewed everything we’d covered in the classroom, as well as what we needed to do before getting into the aircraft. We walked around the C-182 to perform a visual inspection not just of the aircraft itself but also of the area around the plane. We confirmed hatches and panels were secured, no debris was around the wheels, and no tools had been left behind by the mechanics who serviced the aircraft.
We got into the cockpit and buckled ourselves in, but before we continued our preflight checks, IP Smack reemphasized one of the most important, yet simple and obvious, interactions between a pilot and copilot. It’s imperative before starting the engine or anything that involves flying the plane for pilot and copilot to confirm with each other who has the controls. You do this by stating, “I have the controls,” or “You have the controls,” and the other person verbally acknowledges control. It’s simple, and it may seem excessive, but it would be really unfortunate if both the pilot and the copilot thought the other person was flying the plane when they weren’t.
Next, IP Smack told me if I started to feel airsick to let him know immediately so we could land. He didn’t want me to mess up the aircraft, because it would be a real pain to clean. We both laughed, which helped make me a little less nervous. He said, “Fear is your enemy.” I needed to be brave.
It was a good lesson. As I would come to find out when I started flying combat missions a year later, wit and a sense of humor were good ways to calm passengers’ nerves, stop them from panicking, and inspire confidence. Leaders need to be cool under pressure, and a pilot is the leader and commander of the plane. I would never forget IP Smack’s wise words nor that moment of levity during my first training flight.
We completed our preflight checks and started the engine, and IP Smack told me to call the tower. I keyed my headset and said, “Shindand Ground, Baaz 11 clear to taxi for departure to MOA with information Charlie.”
A male voice from the tower crackled over the radio, “Baaz 11, clear to taxi via Charlie. Hold short runway three-six. Advise run-up complete.”
We taxied to the runway, joined the lineup, and made our final checks. We were ready for takeoff but still awaiting clearance from the tower. It would be our turn soon.
My heart was racing. I was about to fly a plane! Once the tower said go, I would be the one on the yoke and pushing the throttle, maintaining control of the aircraft as we sped down the runway and then taking off into the air. My palms were sweaty and I was breathing faster than normal, but I was also assured by the presence of IP Smack. He would back me up if I missed something or if we had a problem.
Finally, the tower gave us clearance. “Baaz 11, cleared for takeoff runway three-six. After takeoff fly runway heading.”
This was it. IP Smack told me to maintain the center line on the runway and to keep my left hand on the throttle and right hand on the yoke. He would call out my speed to let me know when we could lift off.
I took a breath, released the brakes, and pushed the throttle forward. We picked up speed, and I felt myself getting pushed back into the seat. I kept the yoke steady, my eyes trained on the runway before us, as well as on the horizon.
About midway down the runway, IP Smack called out our air speed at 55 knots, which was the ground speed we needed for the plane to lift off. I’d already noticed the odd sensation of the plane feeling lighter, like the aircraft wanted to get into the air.
With my instructor’s concurrence, I pulled back on the yoke smoothly, as I’d been trained, and felt the wheels leave the ground. We were flying!
* * *
If I were to pinpoint one thing about flying I truly love, it’s the thrill of takeoff. You’re speeding down the runway, feeling a slight bounce as the aircraft’s tires roll over the asphalt. With your hands on the controls, you manipulate the yoke for liftoff. Everything on the ground is whipping by very quickly, and then almost effortlessly you start climbing higher and higher into the air. As the ground disappears beneath you, the horizon becomes your focus while you continue to increase speed and gain altitude. The experience is totally exhilarating, and it feels the same when I fly now as it did way back then.
Even in the moment, I knew I’d done something extraor
dinary that day. I was an Afghan woman and a newly commissioned lieutenant in the Afghan armed forces, and I was executing my first training flight in a fixed-wing aircraft.
Women hadn’t flown in the Afghan Air Force since the 1980s, and those few who had been pilots back then flew rotary-wing aircraft (helicopters). It’d been nearly twenty years, but now here I was, piloting a fixed-wing aircraft for the first time over western Afghanistan. I don’t consider myself a proud or arrogant person, but the significance of the event was not lost on me.
* * *
For this initial training flight, all students were to transit to an area called the MOA (military operations area), which was a section of air space reserved specifically for pilot trainees who were practicing maneuvers. Once in the training area, we’d practice steep turns, stalls, spins, simulated engine failures, and other aerial drills. These were maneuvers that we’d need to be able to handle reflexively and instantly.
In flight, things can happen extremely fast and with catastrophic consequences, so it was imperative we perfected these maneuvers. Since this was the first day, IP Smack had me practice each maneuver again and again.
I think I did well for my first flight. There were no major problems and I maintained control of the aircraft the entire time, but it went by so quickly. It seemed like time disappeared, until we had to return to the airfield.
But we weren’t quite done. Now we were going to practice touch-and-go landings. IP Smack demonstrated the first landing. He took control of the aircraft and talked me through everything he was doing on final approach and touchdown. He made it look so simple, casually conversing with me while also working the controls gently with his hands and feet. He was an accomplished pilot and a great instructor.
It was my turn, but unlike my takeoff and performance during the aerial maneuvers, I let the pressure get to me. I so wanted to do well, but I ended up working the controls too hard. On my approach I soon realized I had too much airspeed and was too high. I knew if I tried to land it would be rough—I might even crash. I quickly made the decision to wave off and requested permission from the tower to come around again to rejoin the pattern.
Open Skies Page 15