“Did you know about any of this?”
Faisal shook his head. “She didn’t want to tell us. She was too ashamed. One day her mother-in-law came to her and said that they wanted to bring up the baby as a boy, to restore the family’s honour.”
“What?”
“It happens more often than you might think. For poor families it means that the child can go out to earn money, but rich families do it too. Some people believe that it can help them conceive a real boy. We call them bacha posh. They wear their hair short like boys and dress in trousers, and do all the things that boys do, like go to school and to the mosque and out on the streets.”
“And what happens when they get older?”
“Usually the parents decide that she will go back to being a girl. She is dressed in girls’ clothes again and grows her hair and stays at home.”
“Isn’t that a terrible shock for her?”
He nodded. “That’s what Leila thought. You saw our household when you first came to Kabul. Our parents were modern in the way they treated us. Leila didn’t want to put her daughter through this. Especially not to please a family that had treated her so badly. So she refused.” He gave his sister a look. “After that, everything was terrible. The beatings became worse and happened more often, whenever the baby cried. Her husband threatened to take another wife, one who could give him sons. Leila grew very miserable. She had no one to talk to, and still couldn’t admit it to us. She couldn’t run away either, because she didn’t want to leave her daughters. So one day, when the baby had been crying and she’d been beaten by her mother-in-law again, she took some cooking fuel and a box of matches, went to the kitchen and poured the fuel over herself, then lit a match.”
“But… why?”
“She says she wanted her husband to see how bad she felt, to understand so that the beatings would stop, and he would go back to being as he was when they first married. I think perhaps, though, she wanted to kill herself. She says that if she had died she would not have cared.”
“What happened then?”
“She was badly burnt. Thirty per cent of her body. She ended up in the hospital – she was lucky: they have a burns centre there. It’s needed – this kind of thing happens a lot.”
“And did her husband understand why she had done it?”
Faisal shook his head. “The family refused to visit, apart from once, when her husband went to tell her that she couldn’t come back to the house: she had brought more shame on the family and she would be even less use than she had been before. That was when she asked a nurse to telephone us. I went that day, and stayed until she was well enough to leave the hospital. Then I brought her back to Kabul to live with us.”
“Poor, poor Leila.”
“The worst of it is that she has lost her daughters. She’ll never see them again. She worries about what will happen to them, knowing how the family treated her.”
I felt a choking sadness – for Leila, for her children, for Faisal.
“Will you tell her I’m very sorry?” I asked him.
As he told her what I’d said, Leila looked over at me and made an attempt at a smile, then said something to Faisal, who looked surprised.
“She wants to ask you something.”
“Of course.”
She began to speak, looking not at me, but down at the floor. Faisal listened, then said something back to her, frowning. When she replied, her voice was raised. They were clearly having some sort of disagreement.
After a while, Faisal turned to me. “She wants you to take photographs of her, to show people what has happened.”
I was surprised – if Leila was ashamed enough of her injuries to wear a burqa at home, why would she want to show her picture to the rest of the world?
“And you think it’s a bad idea?” I asked.
“I’m just worried,” he said. “I wouldn’t want her husband’s family to see them. They would say we have shamed them.”
“They’re the ones who should be ashamed.”
“You’re right, but that doesn’t mean that we should shame ourselves too.”
“Why does Leila want me to take pictures?”
“She says that when she was in the hospital she met lots of girls like her. She wants people to know what is happening. She knows your photographs are shown in newspapers in the UK. People will see and understand, and perhaps they can do something to make it stop.”
And here’s the problem, Suze – I immediately thought of the Time magazine cover that came out a year or so ago, with the picture of an eighteen-year-old Afghan girl who’d had her nose cut off by her husband for running away from the abuse that she suffered from his family. The caption next to it said: “What happens if we leave Afghanistan”. No question mark.
The picture stirred up massive debate and publicity. Some people called it emotional blackmail, others saw it as an appeal to the American conscience to reconsider leaving. It was a Taliban commander who’d ordered the punishment, to make an example. The woman, Aisha Bibi, said she wanted the world to see what would happen to Afghan women if the Taliban came back into power.
So the Time cover came out and the photographer won awards, and Aisha Bibi went to the US and got a prosthetic nose, and people talked about women in Afghanistan for a bit – but now? Her husband has been released from prison, probably after a bribe. And despite that caption, despite all that debate, America’s pulling out.
But that’s not even the point. The point is that, because of that Time cover, I knew what the editors on the big magazines would say: “It’s been done before.”
Could I say to Leila: “Sorry, love, you’re an Afghan woman with a messed-up face because of what your husband did to you, but I’m afraid you’re not news”?
So instead I nodded and said: “It would be an honour.”
Twenty-Six
ELIZABETH WILLOUGHBY’S DIARY
3rd March 1915
Something quite ghastly has happened at the Kitchener Hospital: one of the sub-assistant surgeons has tried to shoot Colonel Seton, the hospital commander. Thankfully the gun was wrested from him and no one was hurt, but everyone is shocked.
The news began as a rumour from the ambulance drivers, but this afternoon it was confirmed by Colonel MacLeod himself. When Major Williams asked what had led to it, the Colonel looked uncomfortable and said that it was apparently a protest against levels of discipline. The sub-assistant surgeon objected, it seems, to having to obtain a pass to leave the hospital after dark.
I have never been to the Kitchener: ladies are not allowed there, not even officers’ wives, but I know the rules are much more strict than at the Pavilion. I heard Colonel Seton once in Colonel MacLeod’s office complaining about his Indian staff, calling them “the sweepings of Bombay”. He had decided that the only way to prevent them drinking and chasing women was to ban them from leaving the grounds and to establish a military guard. Officers – both patients and staff – were to be allowed out in daylight, but the other ranks would be escorted for exercise on route marches. It was the only way, he said, and he advised Colonel MacLeod to do the same.
I am very glad Colonel MacLeod decided differently. He is, I think, a gentler man, despite his evident mistrust of me. If he were as strict as Colonel Seton, I wouldn’t be allowed to work at the hospital at all.
It was Hari, of course, who asked what had happened to the sub-assistant surgeon. The answer was swift: the surgeon would be court-martialled.
There was a pause, then Colonel MacLeod said that he was particularly concerned that the patients and attendants should not hear the news, and asked us to be discreet, as rumours might lead to insubordination.
I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the sub-assistant surgeon. He must have been so frustrated to have attempted something so extreme. Being cooped up in that old workhouse all the time would be tedious for anyone. When I said so to Hari he agreed, saying that it was an outrage to lock up one’s employees.
“D
o you go out much?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Where do you go?”
He muttered something about being late for an appointment and all but ran out of the door. I was left feeling a curious combination of intrigue and irritation. I cannot imagine him like Colonel Seton’s “sweepings of Bombay”, chasing women in town. I hope that isn’t the case. I don’t know why that should matter to me, but it does.
This is not the only bad news. Yesterday brought a very sad occasion: the death of one of our patients, Mohan Lal. He was in a poor state when he came to us, with both legs amputated and a suppurating head wound. The journey to England must have been agony: I’m surprised that he survived it. He is the first patient that we have lost, and I feel so very sad about it. It wasn’t the head wound that killed him, but a type of influenza. His body just could not cope with a Western disease on top of everything else. We are taking precautions now so that nobody else contracts it. Luckily, he was an officer and had his own room, so we hope it can be contained. The room has been disinfected and his bedding destroyed. We are being very vigilant: our patients are simply not used to this type of illness, and who knows what might happen if there is an epidemic.
Like everything else here, death is divided. Mohammedans are taken to their special cemetery in Woking; Hindus and Sikhs have their bodies burnt. I got special permission from Colonel McLeod to attend the cremation at the place built for such occasions, up on the Downs.
Before we set off for the funeral, a photographer came to take a picture for Mohan Lal’s relatives in India. His body lay on a bier in a little anteroom to the side of the entrance hall. Over it was draped a piece of heavy cloth, printed with a beautiful design of orange flowers against a background of dark blue. White chrysanthemums were strewn all over it.
Mohan Lal lay under his flowers, the folds of the plain white cloth in which he was wrapped turned out to show his face: very peaceful, very young. The photographer spent a long time over his picture, wanting to make sure he got the best likeness, confessing to me that he had never taken a picture of a dead man.
It struck me when he said it that I hadn’t seen a dead body before either. This was the first death at the hospital, and before the Pavilion my nursing duties had never been with the terminally ill. Grandmother and Grandfather died when I was small, and besides, I don’t think they would have been put on show.
A small crowd had gathered in the entrance hall: patients and staff, everyone from the sweepers, who hung at the corners of the room, to Colonel MacLeod and Colonel Campbell, who is in command of all the military hospitals. When the photographer had finished, Mohan Lal’s face was covered, and the bier was carried to the big black motor-hearse that waited outside the arches of the main entrance.
Mohan Lal was a Brahmin, and the other Brahmins at the Pavilion wanted to attend the funeral. Hari came too, to say goodbye to a fellow Bengali, as well as the subahdar-major and those with the knowledge and caste to carry out proceedings, plus a journalist from The Times, very smart in a three-piece suit. We all clambered into two of the big motor-ambulances and set off to the Downs.
Taking the road out of town, we made our way through the village of Patcham, past the church and the duck pond, then continued out of the village, the road becoming a steep track through the grass. After a while, over the brow of a hill, we saw our destination: the burning ghat. It looked more like a shepherd’s hut, set amongst the gorse bushes and hawthorn trees. It was a wild, blustery day and I feared that there was too much wind for a fire, but I did not have long to wonder, because the hearse and the ambulance stopped and we all climbed out.
I had expected everything to take place in silence, but there was much discussion between the mourners and those in charge as the body was taken from the hearse. After a while, we began to climb the hill. The mourners chanted Indian verses as they went, and their voices echoed around the Downs.
“Ram Nam Satya Hai. Om Ka Nam Satya Hai.”
The journalist asked Hari what it meant.
“The name of Ram is truth,” he said. “They are saying that the body no longer contains the breath of Ram – the truth – and so is of no importance.”
“Right,” said the journalist, scribbling something in his notebook.
The gates to the ghat were unlocked, and we went inside a small enclosure in which stood three platforms made out of cement. One of them was carefully swept with a small brush, sprinkled with water and then heaped with blocks of wood. Outside, on the grass, the body waited on its bier, and when the preparations had been made we gathered around it, the Indian mourners closest, the journalist and me standing at a respectful distance. Then Mohan Lal’s face was uncovered, and his body sprinkled with purifying water, then honey and ghee – that strange-smelling butter that the cooks use in the Pavilion kitchens – and other ritual things were passed between his lips. The mourners gathered around him, squatting down with folded hands and lowered eyes, and began to chant.
While this was happening, the other members of the party had been busy melting more ghee and preparing platters of raisins, almonds and other foods. At a certain point, when everything was ready, Mohal Lal was laid on his funeral pyre. Carefully, the mourners laid on more wood and some straw, and then a white substance held in a spoon was lit and poured on the centre of the pyre. A flame leapt and a torch was lit from it, then held to the four corners. Some of the melted ghee was poured on top, and soon all of it was on fire.
A strange, unearthly smell came towards us, lifted on the breeze, of woodsmoke and singed hair and something else: the sweetish animal smell of burning flesh. I covered my nose and mouth with my handkerchief, and forced myself to look on as the mourners threw on little pinches of ghee mixed with grains of wheat and fruits and spices.
We stood for half an hour, maybe more, and then word was given to return to the Pavilion, while some of the official mourners stayed on to supervise the fire.
Hari had been silent during the ceremony, staring into the flames with particular intensity, as if to discourage the journalist from asking more questions. When I asked what would happen next, he said that the fire would burn for many hours, and then by the next day all there would just be left a few fragments of bone and a mound of ashes: some would be scattered on the sea and the rest taken back to the Pavilion, where they would be put in a coffer and sent back to Mohan Lal’s family.
I tried to imagine his family gathered together, trying to understand what had happened to their husband, their father, their son. All I could be sure of was that they would never be able to picture the scene at that strange place on the Downs.
Twenty-Seven
After my visit to Faisal, I went back to the guest house, where I spent the night sitting on my bed, chain-smoking, trying to think.
In the morning I met Rashida at the café.
“It was awful,” I said. “She must have been so desperate. The last time I saw her she was a different person. To see someone changed so much – well, it’s just—”
My eyes filled with tears.
Rashida looked startled.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, trying to hold them back. “I don’t usually…”
She hesitated for a moment, then slowly slid her hand across the table and patted my arm, lightly, just once.
After a minute or two, I managed to pull myself together. “OK,” I said. “Let’s get to work. Last night I had an idea. In every war I’ve ever covered, doing awful things to women is a way of getting to the men.”
Rashida inclined her head a little, so I went on.
“So, in Bosnia, rape was part of ethnic cleansing. In the Congo, it’s a deliberate means of spreading terror.”
Rashida flinched.
“I’m sorry,” I said, worried that I was being too explicit. “It’s not a nice subject, I know.”
She bit her lip. “It’s all right.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded.
“Now, in Afghan
istan, as far as I can see, it’s slightly different. These things happen, but it’s opportunistic, not part of a strategy.”
“You want to do a story about” – she hesitated – “rape?”
“Not exactly. I’ve been thinking about what happened when the Taliban were in power. The Ministry for the Promotion Of Virtue and Prevention of Vice, the public stonings, the executions in that Kabul football stadium. All that.”
“Ghazi Stadium,” she said quietly. “I was just a teenager then. My parents tried to keep it from me, but we knew. We all knew. It was horrible.”
“And it would be horrible again if the Taliban came back. But you know, life’s pretty bad for women without them too. Look at what happened to Leila.”
“It was worse when they were here.”
“Absolutely. But they got away with it because enough people let them.”
I paused.
“Go on.”
“As far I can see, most of the violence, or a lot of it anyway, comes from men towards their wives. Remember those women we met in that compound, with the midwife: we asked them about their husbands and what they did for them, and they said ‘They beat us and they fuck us’?”
She nodded.
“And then there’s what happened to Leila, at the hands of her husband’s family. I was thinking about those men in the café, having that conversation about Afghans loving war. I still don’t think most Afghans love war, but I do think that being at war for so long has had a terrible effect. People have become so used to brutality that it feels almost normal. And a lot of men feel powerless, then they take it out on their women. That’s our story. That’s what I think we should look at.”
The Repercussions Page 11