Open Skies

by Niloofar Rahmani

  There was a reason for this; we needed to become more independent and able to think through problems on our own. We weren’t always going to have experienced instructors by our side—either as copilots or talking to us on the radio from the ground—to affirm our decisions or put us back on course if we were off azimuth.

  In short, we needed to operate on our own and with confidence. It was very important we learned to do so, because in a few short weeks we’d make our first solo flights. An instructor would make a practice run with us to ensure we were good to go, but then they’d get out of the cockpit and we’d be on our own to take off, perform general handling maneuvers, and land.

  This would be the ultimate test. The solo flight wasn’t the end of flight school—after our first solo, we’d move on to more advanced academics and handling and eventually transition to flying the C-208, the advanced trainer—but to me the first solo flight would determine whether I had what it took to be a pilot. I’d been dreaming about this day for a very long time. When they finally announced the date for our solo flights, I felt the excitement growing inside me.

  * * *

  On the morning of September 30, 2012, I sat in the cockpit of the C-182 alongside Colonel Bands, the commander of the training squadron. I’d just completed a practice flight, which he supervised, and everything had gone well. I’d taken off, flown a bit, and landed. Simple and smooth.

  The time had come for me to pilot an aircraft on my own. My dream was going to come true. In a way it was surreal, because I recognized I was living my dream. I took a deep breath to savor the moment and also to pass the time.

  I was waiting for Colonel Bands to get out of the plane, but he hadn’t moved to unbuckle himself, and I wondered if he had something else to tell me. Then, unexpectedly, he removed the aviation wings from his flight suit and pinned them on my chest.

  “I know you’ll keep these safe for me and make me proud,” he said. With the edge of his mouth upturned in a small smile, he looked in my eyes. He saluted me and got out of the plane.

  I was dumbfounded. The American squadron commander had entrusted his wings to me? Never in a million years would I have expected him to do that, but it filled me with confidence as I watched him walk back to the control tower where he would monitor everything, to ultimately assess whether I would pass or fail.

  I thought, So be it. The warm-up is over. I am on my own now. I took another deep breath, expelling the air slowly through my pursed lips. I could feel my heart pounding like a sledgehammer. I needed to calm down. I’d trained for this. I’d prepared every part of my body and soul for it.

  I was about to make my first solo flight, and I’d been selected to go first for the entire class. No pressure.

  I wiped the sweat from my hands and took a deep breath. Courage is not the absence of fear; it is the ability to overcome it. The IPs had taught me that, and I believed it down to my core. I also remembered my classmates, who still said I shouldn’t be here, that women couldn’t be pilots, and that they’d never follow me. Well, that’s OK, I thought. You don’t have to follow me. I will bring you along.

  I looked down at the airplane’s control panel to go over the preflight checks once more. Since before 0500, I’d been mentally reviewing what I had to do to fly this plane, and this was my final check. The practice touch-and-goes I’d done with Colonel Bands had gone well. I’d done fine then, I’d do fine now.

  With a fleeting thought of my father—his warm smile of encouragement, the man who had supported me in every way to reach this moment, my lifelong dream—I spoke into the mic. “Shindand Ground, Baaz 11 ready for taxi, pattern.”

  “Baaz 11,” came the crackling response over the radio, “taxi to runway one-eight via Foxtrot, Bravo, hold short runway one-eight. Altimeter two-nine tac nine-two.”

  “Wilco,” I replied, nudging the throttle forward and heading back out onto the taxiway.

  I took another look at the wind sock and saw the wind had increased to 6 knots, coming perpendicular to the runway. Not ideal, but a light breeze never hurt anybody. That was my hope, at least.

  When I reached the end of the runway, I called over the radio again. “Shindand Tower, Baaz 11, holding short runway one-eight at Bravo, ready for takeoff, pattern.”

  “Baaz 11, winds zero-three-zero at one-five, runway one-eight cleared for takeoff, left closed, report base.”

  I took another breath, felt the light perspiration on my face, and adjusted my black headscarf, the one I wore every time I flew. It had become my trademark, my good luck charm. It’s the little things that comfort us, help us to stay calm.

  I settled into my seat and pushed the throttle forward. The plane began to move. The aircraft picked up speed, accelerating down the runway, and everything my instructors had ever told me rushed through my mind.

  More speed, faster, faster. The single-engine aircraft approached 55 knots, roughly 60 miles an hour. Outside, the ground whipped by. The plane started to feel light, the outside air passing faster over the top of the wings’ airfoil to create lift. The wheels began to pull away from the runway. Moments later they lifted off, and I knew if I made one tiny mistake, I could drive this 1,600-pound aircraft into the deck, which would result in a spectacular mangle of aluminum, plastic, and glass. It would be the end of my life.

  At that instant, the anxiety of my first solo flight, all the stress and pressure leading up to it, should have been whirling inside me, setting me on edge, perhaps making me panic. But it didn’t. My fear dissipated, like it had in previous flights.

  As soon as the plane lifted into the air—with my hands firmly on the controls and my eyes fixed on the horizon—a complete sense of calm washed over me, and I suddenly noticed how quiet it was. No instructor chattering next to me, no cars honking, no devastating explosions from across the city, no one yelling or gesticulating, no one criticizing me. There was nothing but me and the airplane, up where I belonged.

  Life, people, problems . . . they stayed on the ground. Up here in the sky, where the birds flew, I felt incredible freedom and unbridled euphoria. Niloofar Rahmani, daughter of Abdolwakil and Tahera Rahmani, Afghan woman, sister, former refugee, dreamer—I was flying all by myself, a lifelong aspiration I’d dreamed about since I was a little girl!

  The minutes passed as I took the plane to greater altitude and leveled off, and when the initial excitement waned, I gathered myself and focused on the task at hand. To pass my solo flight I had to perform basic navigation, execute two touch-and-goes, and land the airplane back on the ground without crashing.

  Keeping major landmarks in sight to maintain my flight path, I called over the radio to request permission to attempt my first-ever solo touch-and-go. The tower responded, identifying the runway and clearing me for the maneuver. Just like I’d practiced hundreds of times before with my instructors, I put the Cessna into a bank and lined up on the runway. I double-checked the extra cushion I was sitting on, making sure it was positioned right and sitting high enough. (I’d opted for a cushion to act as a booster rather than my flight bag.)

  I performed both touch-and-goes flawlessly, maintaining the proper airspeed and descent rate for soft landings each time before accelerating back up into the sky. My final landing was one of the best I ever executed. I put the aircraft on the runway like I was laying a baby in a crib for an afternoon nap.

  And that was it. I completed my first solo flight. It took me thirty-five minutes.

  I believed I’d done well. I had that feeling you get when you think you’ve aced a test or executed a perfect maneuver, and you see the smiles and nods from the IPs. An instructor came over the radio and commented on my nice landing, which absolutely cemented my confidence. I knew I’d passed.

  I taxied off the runway toward the apron and saw over two hundred people waiting for me. It was overwhelming, to say the least. It was a sight I’ll never forget.

  When I powered down the aircraft and climbed out of the cockpit, with my feet back on solid ground, Colon
el Bands walked up to me sporting a big grin. I handed him back his wings, pride welling inside me, and I could see it in his eyes too.

  The Afghan commander of Shindand Air Base, General Shams, handed me a bouquet of flowers and congratulated me. My fellow classmates stood in the crowd, some smiling and clapping while others frowned, but I ignored their negativity. The people who mattered, the ones who’d trained and mentored me as a pilot and a military officer, they were ecstatic and cheering.

  Then something very sacred happened. Because I am a woman, my male classmates were not allowed under Afghan custom to physically touch me. But the female instructors from the USAF’s 838th Air Expeditionary Advisory Group could.

  Carol and Amanda, both USAF pilots and friends of mine, picked me up and tossed me in a pool of water, drenching me and completing a time-honored tradition. Everyone flies solo, and everyone gets dunked, as the saying goes among pilots.

  Although embarrassed at first, dripping wet, with my clothes sticking tightly to my skin, I immediately embraced the moment. It was my moment. I’d done it, and no disapproving glares from my male Afghan colleagues were going to ruin it.

  Yet, with all the excitement and revelry, a tinge of emptiness tugged at me. None of my family had been here to witness my solo flight, and it’d been a long time since I last talked to them. I’d been intensely focused on the training, and I hadn’t called as often as I should have. The connection was usually bad; sometimes I couldn’t get through at all. I felt guilty.

  Although family members were allowed to come observe the solo flights, there was no way my family could have come to see me. Just like back in Kabul when we told everybody I was at university, the risk of exposure was too great. If they’d traveled from Kabul to the base, someone would have known and asked questions. If that happened, I would have been outed, and my family and I would have been put in jeopardy. All our lives would be in danger.

  But today I would call home, because I needed to share this moment with my father. Later that afternoon, I finally made the call and let out a sigh of relief when the phone started ringing. When my Baba Jan answered and I heard his voice, my heart warmed.

  “Baba Jan,” I said, “I completed my solo flight, and I get to move on to advanced flight training.”

  My father’s voice was filled with joy, and I could picture the smile on his face, stretching from ear to ear. It touched me deeply as I fought back the tears. I could feel him bursting with pride, and I’d never felt so respected and loved. Just like me, he knew I could accomplish this. He had always encouraged me, never doubted me, and I knew he had been with me when I’d soared through the clouds.

  28

  Outed

  While I was in flight training at Shindand, I was not allowed to take leave to go back to Kabul to see my family, and they couldn’t visit me. For military training, this kind of situation is not unusual or unexpected; undergraduate pilot training (UPT) lasted a year, and there was a lot of material to cover. Not a day could be wasted. I missed my family, of course, but I also needed to stay focused on my training if I hoped to graduate.

  I knew they understood this, because if I failed, everything I’d gone through and everything my family had done to support me would be for naught. That’s what I honestly believed.

  So, after my first solo flight, I told myself I needed to call home more often. It would be good to hear my father’s voice, and I needed to hear it more often, along with my mother’s, my brother’s, and my sisters’.

  Unbeknownst to me, in a few days this dream I’d been living was about to be shattered.

  One night, I called my brother, Omar, to say hello, hear how the family was doing, and find out how university was going for him, but he told me something terrible had happened. There was a picture of me on social media—someone had taken it when Carol and Amanda dunked me in the water after my solo flight.

  After I hung up, I quickly did my own search and found the picture on the Internet. It showed my two friends, Carol and Amanda, holding me up in the air on their shoulders. Their uniforms were unmistakably Western, and I was in my flight suit, soaking wet. But the comments below the image—hundreds of them—said something totally different.

  The comments said foreign men were carrying me. Carol and Amanda had their hair pulled back and their uniforms were loose fitting, making it hard to tell they were female. Other posts said they were baptizing me, that I’d abandoned my religion and was no longer a Muslim, or that I was now a prostitute and shaming myself with foreigners. Some said the evidence of my betrayal warranted putting me to death and that my family was a disgrace for allowing this to happen.

  I was both shocked at how such a proud moment had been savaged and grossly distorted, and scared for my family’s safety. I feared that as the picture circulated and the news of my status in the air force spread, my extended family, my parents’ neighbors, and our friends would find out. Once that occurred—questions about what would happen next roiled inside me. I feared my parents and siblings would be shamed and ostracized, perhaps even threatened with death themselves.

  I didn’t know what to do, but I needed to talk with someone outside my family to see what else might be happening. The only other person who knew about me joining the military and wanting to become a pilot was my best friend from high school, Sonia.

  I called her, hoping she could give me some comfort, but when she answered the phone and realized it was me, her tone changed. She spoke as if we’d never been friends, never been close. I felt the tears coming, and a pain in my chest erupted almost immediately, even before she told me the news. Her parents had seen my picture on the Internet and found out I was in the air force. They forbade her to speak with me, and she was never to see me again. They called me and my family disgraceful and traitors to our culture and religion.

  Sonia said she knew I would regret my decision to join the military and pursue my dream of becoming a pilot. She urged me to quit and come home immediately, otherwise my reputation and my family’s would be irreparably damaged. Then she hung up.

  That moment—this situation—felt like one of the deepest betrayals of my life. The childhood friend I’d trusted with my most precious secret had turned her back on me and told me it was all my fault. I was to blame for this trouble. The lies people were saying about me on social media were outrageous and brutal. I felt attacked by the entire world.

  I cried myself to sleep that night, questioning everything I’d accomplished in the past two years, wondering what I’d done. I was truly terrified of what would happen to us—me and my family. I knew I hadn’t done anything to dishonor myself or my family; rather, I was serving my country and doing something extraordinary. Yet I still doubted myself and couldn’t shake those thoughts. It felt like my insides were being torn apart. I didn’t know what I was going to do.

  * * *

  Over the next few weeks, I did my best to stay focused on my classroom work and training. I had to. I was distraught about the situation back home, but I had to keep going. I told myself if I failed now, all of this would be in vain, and I would truly bring shame upon myself and my family. For my own sake and for my family, I relied on the discipline the military had built into me. I showed up in class each day, just like always.

  After our solo flights, we were deemed skilled enough to move beyond the C-182 aircraft and start training on the C-208. The C-208 is a single turboprop aircraft with a high wing, like the C-182, but it’s considered a more advanced trainer and utility aircraft. It is larger than the C-182, able to carry up to thirteen passengers or be outfitted for cargo, and can be equipped with other types of payloads, including weaponry. I’d eventually fly this kind of plane all over Afghanistan supporting combat operations.

  In addition to starting to work with the C-208, we also moved beyond basic handling skills, many of which can be done using visual techniques for navigation and maneuvers. Now we were being trained to use our instruments for navigation so we could perform longer and high
er altitude flights, as well as night operations. The emergency procedure training got more difficult, because the increased size of the C-208 made it less forgiving if we made a mistake, and we had to be spot-on with our immediate actions and responses.

  Even though the situation back in Kabul weighed heavily on me, I must admit that training and getting into the cockpit each day to fly an aircraft was my salvation. Unfortunately, I soon found out the situation at home was getting much worse.

  * * *

  In January 2013, I called home again and my younger sister Maryam answered the phone. She sounded worried and said our Mother Jan had fallen sick and was bedridden. Recently she’d been very depressed and scared; the situation was getting to be too much. Hearing this put me over the edge.

  In the weeks that followed my solo flight, every time I’d called home my brother had said things were fine but that my picture was still out there and people were still making comments on social media, including threats. He hoped the situation would eventually quiet down and wouldn’t extend to our relatives or neighbors. But things had deteriorated further.

  As soon as I got off the phone, I reported to Flight Commander Hollander to request emergency leave to go to Kabul and visit my family. I explained the situation, and although he was concerned about me missing training, he authorized me to take a week of leave.

  I flew back to Kabul on an air force transport flight, and Omar met me in the terminal. Seeing him after all this time truly brightened my spirits. He looked like a man now, similar to my father, and was finishing up at university. He would graduate with a degree in computer science. But more significantly, I noticed how he carried himself.