I knew that whoever it was hoped to intimidate me, scare me, compel me to quit and relegate myself to housework or some other job suitable for a woman. Fear and harassment were how Afghan men controlled women; I’d been dealing with this kind of treatment my entire life.
But I wasn’t going to be intimidated by these faceless cowards. After that night, more calls came from different numbers and different people, but they were always done in this cowardly way. I ignored them and didn’t tell anyone in my family. I didn’t want to worry them. It was my burden to bear.
However, about the same time and unbeknownst to me, my father started receiving similar phone calls. The callers would threaten him, accusing him of being a bad Muslim and a disgrace. They said if he didn’t stop me from flying they would assassinate me and my siblings. They would kill us all.
Then, on one occasion when my father picked me up from the base, he told me about one of these phone calls and asked if I’d ever received anything similar. When he asked me, I could sense the call had worried him. My father is not a man who scares easily, but these calls made him anxious.
I told my Baba Jan I had, in fact, been receiving occasional threats. I apologized for not telling him about them, but I deliberately chose not to because I didn’t want to worry anyone unnecessarily. We’d all been through so much, and I knew everyone was under a lot of stress given our recent move, job and school changes, and the disagreeable situation with our relatives. I didn’t want to add one more thing to the pile.
My father saw things differently. He was very upset I hadn’t told him about the phone calls. These calls weren’t jokes or empty threats. Physical violence and assassinations were real; someone could be plotting against us right now. It could be someone on the air base, someone who knew my whereabouts during the day, perhaps someone working with other extremists who could follow us and find out where we lived.
As I would later learn, it wasn’t just the two of us. My brother received threats, and so did my mother and older sister. All of these threats were anonymous, and they started after we moved into our new apartment. This disturbed me because it meant that, in a very short amount of time, someone or a group of people had found out information about us that we’d tried to keep secret. Who knew what else they might know or, worse yet, what they might do?
I could not go on ignoring these threats, and my father believed I had to report the situation to my commanding officer immediately.
* * *
The next day I met with one of the senior commanders for the air force in Kabul, LIEUTENANT GENERAL ZAFAR. I reported to his office, a grand room with several Persian rugs, a table with chairs, a separate sitting area with a coffee table, a few bookshelves, tall windows (one with an air conditioner unit in it), and an expansive desk, at which he sat. A young officer whom I suspected was his military aide sat against the wall, along with a young boy in service clothes who likely spent his day fetching tea and tidying up the place when the general was out.
In standard military fashion when formally reporting to a superior officer, I came to attention three paces from his desk, saluted, extended a good morning, and waited for the general to put me at ease so I could explain the situation. He stopped reading the papers in front of him and raised his eyes, but the look of annoyance remained etched on his face. Although this man along with others had sung my praises in front of the TV cameras, I suspected he considered me a trinket to be put on display—not a real pilot.
When he finally asked what I wanted, I described the threatening phone calls that I and my family members were receiving. To preempt him from offering any sage advice, I told him about our recent move and that we’d changed our numbers. I then asked him for help, to provide us with some kind of personal protection.
The general thought I was making the story up, that I was just another woman being overdramatic, that I didn’t know what I was saying. He might just as well have said, All Afghan women tend to exaggerate or not understand such things. They’re stupid that way.
But I continued to press, assuring him these threats were real and that my father, who’d also been in the military and was a man of sound mind, also believed these threats must be taken seriously. We needed his help. I was an officer in the Afghan Air Force, and I deserved to have security.
General Zafar allowed me to finish, then leaned back in his chair and regarded me for a moment. After an uncomfortable silence, he finally said there was nothing he could do. These kinds of threats were normal. Most men in the military received them at some point. They came with the job, and if I wanted to continue serving in the air force, I’d have to get used to it.
He dismissed me with a wave of his hand, and that was it. My heart sank.
* * *
General Zafar’s response to my request surprised me. I knew it was common for soldiers and airmen to receive death threats because they were in the military, but this was different.
The Taliban and their insurgent network of supporters and sympathizers were deeply embedded throughout Afghanistan, even in Kabul. Fighters and terrorists routinely infiltrated the city to conduct attacks, and permanent residents—men, women, families, neighbors, relatives—as well as mosques, schools, and boardinghouses scattered throughout the city were giving matériel support. They provided places to hide or sleep, supplies, and food, as well as intelligence about targets, activities by the security services, and so forth.
It wasn’t unusual for a neighbor or relative to find out someone they knew had joined the military, and pass this information to the Taliban to either intimidate the individual or to kill him. If the soldier was alerted to this threat—either directly, via a threatening phone call, or indirectly, through a neighborhood rumor—often the soldier was allowed to bring a firearm home for protection, and sometimes the command would conduct a small investigation or even assign a few personnel for security for a short time.
I was aware of this, but I believed my situation to be different. I was the first female pilot in the Afghan Air Force. That fact didn’t make me any more important or deserving of special treatment than a private in the infantry, but it did make my family a bigger target. As a consequence of the publicity, I had a higher profile than most military personnel, further dangling me in front of the Taliban and anyone else who didn’t like what I was doing or the direction Afghanistan was heading.
Without a doubt, the general’s dismissal of my situation reiterated that, despite everything I’d accomplished, I wasn’t welcome in the air force. This realization hurt, but what bothered me more was that my career was also hurting my family and putting them at risk. By joining the military, I’d chosen to put them at risk.
I can’t put into words how much this weighed on me, every single hour of every day. I felt it at home, when I helped my younger sisters with their schoolwork, and when I saw my older sister crying out of despair from being separated from her child. I felt it when I put on my uniform, when I walked through the halls of the squadron building hearing the whispers, and when I ate in the chow hall and could practically feel the disapproving looks from other soldiers and airmen boring into me.
The only time I didn’t feel this crushing weight was when I was up in the air flying. Up there—in the open skies—I was free and I genuinely felt at peace. Flying meant everything to me; it had become an integral part of my identity.
I also believed it was important for me to advocate for the plight of women in Afghanistan. If I couldn’t be strong and make sacrifices, who would? My service as a pilot was necessary, not just because I was flying missions but because I was a woman in a male-dominated society proving it could be done. My efforts and my struggles were for all of Afghanistan, and hopefully when my younger sisters were grown they’d have a better chance to achieve their dreams, regardless of their gender.
But early one morning, everything fell apart.
33
India and AWOL
It was August 2013, and the sun was starting to come up. I
was inside our apartment with my father, getting ready to drive to the air base. My mother was cleaning up after breakfast, taking the trash outside, when she noticed a yellow envelope had been slipped under our front gate. It was addressed to me.
My mother rushed inside with the letter. She was breathing fast, and I could see the fear in her eyes. She handed the letter to my father, and even though I saw my name written on the outside, he opened it.
The actual letter was very short. It read: “If you continue doing your job and if you don’t stop working with the Americans and working in the military, you will be responsible for your death and that of your family.”
As he read the letter, I watched my father’s face fall. It was the first time in my life I’d ever seen him appear truly scared. He handed the letter to me, and I felt my throat constrict. No longer were they making cowardly phone calls, hiding behind the anonymity of a faceless voice—they’d found us and had been so bold as to deliver a letter to our front door.
My Baba Jan didn’t hesitate. He knew this threat was much worse than anything we’d received before. We had no time. He told everyone to pack a bag, nothing more. We were leaving immediately. In less than an hour, we were in the car, except my brother, who’d already left for class. As we drove away, my father called Omar and said not to tell anyone; we were going to my grandmother’s house to hide. Our home was no longer safe. Once he finished class for the day, he was not to go home but to come straight to my grandmother’s place.
When we arrived, my grandmother took us in, but my father refrained from telling her the details of what happened. I believe she knew I was a pilot, given how the news had spread among our relatives, but we’d never spoken about it, and now was not the time. My father needed to focus on figuring out what we were going to do next.
* * *
Later that afternoon, my father and I went to the air base, but instead of dropping me off, he stayed with me. We went straight to General Zafar’s office and requested to see him immediately. He was in a meeting, so we waited, but that was fine. My father would wait as long as necessary.
When we were finally admitted, General Zafar looked at us quizzically. My father was dressed as he usually was, wearing a pair of pants, button-down shirt, and a vest, but I hadn’t put on my uniform for the sake of time and to avoid going to the squadron building.
My father explained the situation, hoping as a man he might have a better chance at persuading the general to help us. I didn’t like the idea that General Zafar might take my father more seriously on this matter than me, but I knew how Afghanistan worked and knew my father was right to think this was the best course of action.
My father showed the general the letter with the death threat and repeated everything I’d already told the general about the anonymous phone calls we’d all been receiving. He implored the general to authorize an investigation and asked if there was anything he could to do to help protect us.
The general assumed that same look of annoyance he’d had with me and told my father there was nothing he could do. His tone changed to one of admonishment when he said no one had forced me to join the military—I’d known what I was getting into. “Did you think it would be easy? Did you think this wouldn’t happen? We’re fighting an insurgency; this comes with the job.” He turned his attention back to my father and said I was free to quit whenever I wanted, but there was nothing more he could do. At this point, the general was clearly done wasting his time.
My father gave the general a defiant look, then turned to me and said we should go. On the drive back to my grandmother’s house, my father discussed what we were going to do next, talking it out as he drove. We couldn’t stay at my grandmother’s for long. Whoever was after us would most likely track us there soon. It wasn’t safe for my younger sisters to go to school, nor could my brother go back to university. It wasn’t even a consideration for me to report to work. The likelihood someone would attack me on base was low, but both my father and I suspected someone was watching our comings and goings and could set up an ambush.
As for my dear mother, the stress was becoming unbearable for her. She was very nervous and no longer slept well. It was affecting her physically, making her sick.
To make matters worse, my father wasn’t working. He’d been unable to find another job after his last employer told him to leave, and it was unlikely he’d find work in the near future. The word had spread—by our relatives and his former coworkers—that he was the father of Captain Niloofar Rahmani, a disgrace to Islam and a treacherous, shameful woman who worked with the American occupiers.
In light of our predicament, my father decided the only option we had was to escape to India for a few months. (Pakistan and Iran were not safe for us either.) He hoped after the passage of time and our disappearance, those threatening us would think I’d quit and drop the matter. Our disapproving relatives and neighbors might shift their attention to something else. Maybe we could return later and live quietly.
* * *
Within a week, my father obtained visas for the seven of us, and we flew on a commercial flight to New Delhi the next day. This was the first time any of us had been to India, and when we took a taxi to a nearby hotel, we couldn’t help but marvel at the city.
Although Kabul is a large city, New Delhi is much bigger, more modern, and packed with people. There are shopping malls, five-star hotels and restaurants, tall buildings, expansive gardens, and a host of other sights and sounds unique to this impressive South Asian city. But we weren’t booked at the Ritz, nor were we here on a sightseeing tour. We were safe, but we needed to figure out how we were going to survive the next couple of months.
We stayed the first few nights in a hotel, though we knew this would not be tenable for the long term. Since we were here on tourist visas, we couldn’t work to generate income. Also, we expected my salary from the air force would eventually stop. Out of precaution, I hadn’t told my command I was leaving; I just didn’t show up for work. Technically I was AWOL (absent without leave), and they would probably put a hold on my salary in a few weeks. We needed to find an inexpensive apartment where our money would last for a while.
A day after our arrival in New Delhi, a journalist from an Indian newspaper showed up in the hotel lobby. Through his immigration contacts, he’d learned I’d come to India, and he wanted to do a story on me.
It’s important to note, as Afghanistan’s first female pilot, I’d achieved a level of regional recognition in Central and South Asia. This was also the same time the Pakistani education and women’s rights activist Malala Yousafzai had been recognized internationally for her work. This journalist, whom I will not name, believed I was a good story too.
We spoke for about an hour, but ultimately I convinced him not to write a story about me. My family and I had fled Afghanistan for our personal safety, and we didn’t know what the future held. If a news story appeared in the Indian press, our situation could become even more complicated. It was quite possible the people threatening us in Afghanistan, whom we assumed were from a Taliban cell, would follow us or use their international connections to target us here. I’m forever grateful this reporter did not run the story.
But the day after I spoke with the reporter, three men from the Indian government came to the hotel front desk asking for me. They also wanted to meet with me, but not for a news story.
The Indian government was willing to offer me citizenship if I wanted to stay in India. They said the government would protect me, and they believed in my advocacy for women and what I symbolized as a female pilot. While they seemed genuine, I suspected there was a geopolitical angle to the offer, given the regional rivalries that exist between India, Pakistan, and Afghanistan.
Although the prospect was tempting, I knew my family would not want to stay in India. Like me, my family loved Afghanistan. At the height of the Taliban’s rule, we’d moved back to Afghanistan because it was our home. We all believed our time in India was temporary; things wo
uld eventually get better and we would return home.
Speaking for myself, I needed to go back to continue serving my country. Although I’d fled with my family, I wasn’t giving up on my career as an air force pilot. I felt it was my duty, and I would not run away. I turned down the offer of citizenship, but I will be forever grateful to the Indian government for reaching out to me. Their concern meant we would be safe while we were there.
* * *
We continued our search for housing and found a place to rent. For the next two months, seven of us crammed into a small two-room apartment. Since we couldn’t work, we had time on our hands, and with our limited financial resources we were very conscious about preserving what we had.
We thought we might receive the proceeds from the sale of our house (my father had put it on the market right before we left), but the security situation in Kabul was deteriorating rapidly. No one was buying residential property.
We couldn’t ask any of our relatives to send us money. Most of our extended family had forsaken us because of what I’d done. My father and I also believed it was imperative none of us told anyone back home where we were or what we were doing. The risk was too great. If by chance the Taliban found out, they could come after us.
The prohibition on communication included any contact with my squadron too. I should have kept them informed and notified them where I was, but I didn’t trust my leadership. Part of me even wondered if some of them were connected to the threats. I would never know, but for the time being I would not communicate with them.
Nevertheless, I realized I needed to let someone know where I was and why I was gone so that when I eventually returned, I would have sufficient proof I hadn’t gone AWOL without cause. I reached out to two people I did trust, MAJOR OLIVIA JOHNSON and CAPTAIN SOPHIA RICHARDSON. Both were officers in the US Air Force and assigned to the advisory wing working with my squadron. They were my trusted friends; they would keep my whereabouts secret until I returned.
Open Skies Page 20