by Fawzia Koofi
We hadn’t heard from my brother Mirshakay since the Taliban had first taken control. Like him, many other former mujahideen and government workers had fled, taking their families with them. The Shomali plains and the Panjshir valley—the province northeast of Kabul—were still under the control of Ahmed Shah Massoud. But his men weren’t the only ones fleeing. Others—former communists, university professors, doctors—were also fleeing. Grabbing what they could—a few clothes, jewelry, food supplies—they loaded up their cars and left town. People left behind everything they had worked for. People who had only weeks earlier congratulated themselves on their houses surviving the civil war intact were now locking the gates of those houses behind them and walking out without a second glance.
But not all of them made it to safety. We heard stories of cars being attacked and looted. The few possessions the passengers had were taken from them, gold necklaces ripped from women’s necks, earrings torn from their one ordinary Thursday lobes. Some of the looters were Taliban, others were criminals taking advantage of the chaos.
As they edged out of town and closer to the front line—the other side of which would mean relative safety—many people were killed, their cars hit by rockets or stray gunfire.
I prayed and prayed for Massoud to come back. Each night I went to sleep begging him, willing him, to push back the front line into the city center. I wanted to wake up and find the Taliban and their ideas gone.
Eventually we got a letter from my brother to say he had been hiding in the house of his driver in Parwan province, just to the north of Kabul. It’s a beautiful place with a river and lush valleys full of trees. In the summer people go picnic there. Traditional Afghan picnics are a lovely affair—boiled eggs, juice, and plump mulberries picked freshly from the trees.
My brother wanted his wife and children to go to him. I decided to travel with them. Even now, despite the dangers, I still could not bring myself to put on a burqa, so I wore the black hijab instead, making sure my face was fully covered. I also wore a pair of glasses to disguise myself further. Even with my face covered I feared someone would recognize me as the sister of a police officer. Although Parwan is just next door to Kabul and the direct route is only an hour’s drive, it was too close to the mujahideen and Taliban front line to drive directly. We didn’t want to risk being hit by a rocket so we drove south first which was the opposite direction of where we needed to go. From Sarobi to Tagab and then to Nijrab in Kapisa province—almost a day’s travel on a bumpy road. We had to loop back, then around, then backward again, then forward, then backward. Other people fleeing had created new tracks over fields, puzzling circuitous tracks, some leading to nowhere, others to another loop. It was an awful journey. For the 12 hours we drove I was terrified we’d hit a land mine, be looted, or come under gunfire. We didn’t dare risk stopping for a break or for water.
Once again, I felt like I was driving away from my dreams. Every time I tried to start life it was thwarted. This was no life, constantly moving, constantly escaping, living on nerves, and ever-dwindling reserves of hope.
I was also driving away from Hamid. I hadn’t been able to contact him to tell him I was leaving. And I hadn’t seen him since the last time I was at the university, when he’d walked over to say hello to me. I recalled watching the back of his head as he retreated to the car, loving the way the wind caught his silky hair as it ruffled into little curls. I had spoken hardly more than a few sentences to him but I truly felt that I was beginning to love him. But I knew that by leaving with my family I had no idea when I might see him again.
And now that the war was officially over, the world also began to move on. The cold war had ended and the mighty Soviet empire was collapsing. No longer was the Afghan fight against the Russians of relevance to the West. No more was it broadcast nightly on international television news. Our civil war was over and as far as the world understood it, the Taliban was our government now. We were yesterday’s story. And other tragedies took the front pages.
But our tragedy was not over. And the world forgot us for those next few years, our bleakest years of need.
Dear Shuhra and Shaharzad,
If we Afghans had been living in darkness in those years of war, then the days that were about to follow would truly plunge us into the blackest depths of hell. A living hell created by men who called themselves men of God, men of Islam. But these men represented nothing of the Islamic religion that I and millions of other Afghans follow in our daily life. Ours is a peaceful, tolerant, and loving faith that accords all human beings rights and equal value.
I want you to understand that as a woman true Islam accords you political and social rights. It offers you dignity, the freedom to be educated, to pursue your dreams, and to live your life. It also asks that you behave decently, modestly, and with kindness to all others. I believe it is a true guide to living correctly for as long as you are in this earthly world and I am proud to call myself a Muslim. I have brought you up to be good and strong Muslim women in the future.
These men called themselves the Taliban. Their form of Islam was so alien to us it could have come from another planet.
Many of their ideas about Islam came from different cultures, mostly from the Arab lands.
These men rode in trucks and carried guns, but they promised the Afghan people they would keep the streets safe, restore order, and promote strong justice and local harmony. At the start many people believed in them, but that hope quickly turned to fear and loathing, especially for the women and girls of Afghanistan.
You were lucky not to be a young woman in those days. Very lucky indeed.
With love,
Your mother
TEN
RETREAT TO THE NORTH
In Parwan we stayed with my brother’s driver. The man and his family were not rich, but they let us stay in an annex adjoining their house. They refused to allow us to cook, preparing all our food for us. My brother, his family, and myself were all treated like honored guests, not unwelcome burdens.
Things continued to get worse in Kabul and my sister and her husband (who was a policeman and at risk from the Taliban) came to join us. It was decided they would move on again to Puli Khumri in the north, and we would all join soon after. Although Parwan was still safe for now, it was not far enough from Kabul to remain so much longer.
And importantly for me, no one in the north forced you to wear a burqa. For me that was reason enough to go.
My sister and her husband had been in Puli Khumri, almost 200 miles away, almost one week when the Taliban started gaining ground outside of Parwan, edging closer. I was fast asleep when Mirshakay shook me awake and screamed that we needed to get into the car. The Northern Alliance had closed the Salang pass, the second-highest road pass in the world. In a feat of incredible engineering the Russians had blasted a three-mile-long tunnel right through the center of the mountain. It was a one-lane pass, only accessible in the drier months. It is also the gateway to Northern Afghanistan. The remaining Northern Alliance was worried thousands of people would now try to flee, and in doing so bring more insecurity and possibly the Taliban with them. So in a brutal but strategic military move they ordered the pass, the escape route from south to north, closed—a move that trapped everyone on either one side or the other. And that meant we would be unable to join the others in Puli Khumri.
My brother had managed to get an approval letter from one of the mujahideen commanders that would allow us two cars to go through the pass. One for us and one for our security escort. One of the women in our party didn’t have either a hijab or a burqa, so I gave her my hijab. All I had left to wear was a bright red scarf. We were trying to escape Taliban control, and by now we could hear the bombs, the fighting was coming so close. If they reached us and caught us I would be badly beaten.
The escort car was also red, a Hilux pickup. I laughed at the irony of it and wondered how much more visible we could possibly make ourselves. We drove out of the house into the main stree
t, and people were everywhere trying to escape. A large bus drove toward us. It was full of terrified-looking people; they were crammed inside, three or four hanging out of each window, some lying on the roof. They looked like bees swarming a hive.
As we left the village for the main road we joined a convoy of cars. Thousands of people were trying to escape the encroaching Taliban. The cars were full of clothes, kitchen equipment, blankets, and animals. Everything the passengers owned. People were hanging off the sides of cars, holding on anywhere they could. An injured man hanging from one of the taxis saw our car—I think he was a fighter. He was Uzbek from appearance, with a round face and almond-shaped eyes. He looked like a mujahideen fighter. Blood was running down his leg and obviously he couldn’t hold onto the side of the taxi for much longer. He made his way over to our car, holding a gun. He waved it and told our driver to stop, but the driver carried on. Then he aimed at the tire and shot. As the tire burst the car swerved and almost hit the man. I was sitting in the front of the car and I was terrified he would come and drag me out of the vehicle, but our driver held his nerve and managed to keep going. The man moved on to the cars behind, shooting desperately. I dared not look back to see if he had killed a poor family.
People had no idea where they were heading. They just wanted to get out. It was the beginning of winter, and as we rode rose up into the mountains toward the Salang pass the air temperature began to bite, the altitude made it harder to breathe, and the chill bit toes and fingers, even inside the car. The pass was already closed and those families without letters of permission had no choice but to stay on the freezing mountain or drive back home and straight into the Taliban front line. Even with the letter it took hours and hours. The commanders didn’t want their fighters on the other side of the pass to know they had lost battleground and that refugees were fleeing, so only a few cars were allowed through to make it look as normal as possible.
In the car queue my sister-in-law saw her cousin, a young girl who had recently married. She and her husband had their six-week-old baby in the car. They looked terrified and they had no letter of permission. In the freezing cold the baby would surely die. So we agreed to leave our security car behind and allow their car to take its place. Everything we owned was in the security vehicle. Our bags, money, jewelry, everything. We were promised it would be allowed through later.
On the other side of the Salang pass, the road to Puli Khumri doesn’t go over the mountain but around it, precariously clinging to the edges. Normally I am terrified of such heights and flimsy roads, but on this day I was just relieved the Taliban hadn’t caught us.
My sister-in-law had managed to arrange a place for us to stay. It only had a few rooms, and there were some 60 people already there. They were my brother’s men, former policemen, and they now had nowhere else to go. That’s why we now have so many illegal armed groups in Afghanistan. When the system collapsed those men didn’t have any options, so they just went with whoever had been their officer or leader and formed a militia. My brother didn’t want us to be surrounded by so many men, though, so he asked them to return home to their families.
At midnight we were told the security vehicle containing all our things had been allowed to pass and was here. I grabbed the bags as they were carried inside. I think I knew already that our jewelry was gone. The people who were supposed to be guaranteeing our safety had taken the lot. They were men belonging to another local commander who had done my brother a favor by sending us the escort, so there was little we could do. My sister went through hers, sobbing. She was almost manically searching through all the pockets. I thought she was hysterical, still hoping her jewelry was there. But then she pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose loudly. That handkerchief was pretty much all she had left. But at least we were safe again. For now.
Once again the traumas of my birthplace had forced my life to spiral out of my control. My dreams of being a doctor were shattered. By now the Taliban had banned all women from school and university. So even if Kabul were safe enough for us to return to, which it clearly wasn’t, there was zero hope of a return to my studies. Instead my days were spent in Puli Khumri cooking, cleaning, drinking chai in the garden. It was the life of boring drudgery my mother and sisters endured, and the one I had battled so hard to escape. I was very depressed. Days rolled into dusk, into sleepless nights and reluctant mornings when I squeezed my eyes shut to block out the sun and the gaily mocking light of another new day.
After a few weeks the Taliban reopened universities for men, but by then many male students, teachers, and professors—the country’s intellectuals— had already fled the country. Taliban rule had transformed Kabul from a wartorn city into a dead city. I honestly couldn’t say which one was worse.
People were arrested and beaten for the slightest misdemeanor. The Taliban went door to door asking people to hand over their weapons. They refused to believe that not everyone in Kabul kept guns and wouldn’t take no for an answer. If someone refused to hand the gun over or genuinely didn’t have one, they were arrested and put in prison. Some families had to go out and buy weapons just to give to them to the Taliban in order to release the person who’d been arrested.
One of the worst places someone could be taken was the Ministry of Vice and Virtue. Just the mere mention of this name could strike petrifying fear into the hearts of the bravest people. This pretty, white stuccoed villa had a garden full of lush grapes and scented roses. It was situated in Share Naw (what is known as the new town area of Kabul).
Here people who had been accused of crimes against religion or what were called “morality crimes” were brought to be judged. Men without long enough beards and women caught without burqas were brought here to be beaten on the soles of their feet with wire cables, while outside Taliban guards sipped tea and told jokes among the roses. Terrified Kabuli women who had been accused of lacking morality were brought to be judged for their “crimes” by bearded mullahs from the conservative countryside villages of southern Afghanistan. Until now, Kabul and those villages had been culturally and socially worlds apart. Women who had proudly worn the latest fashions and carried books to the university just a few months ago were now being judged by unwashed men who couldn’t read or write.
The Olympic sports stadium, a large, round-domed building that had once rung to the sounds of applause and cricket or football glories, became home to a new kind of sport—public executions. Adulterers and thieves were stoned to death or had their hands chopped off in front of cheering crowds. In grisly scenes reminiscent of a Roman coliseum, the prisoners were driven into the center of the stadium in a pickup truck, then dragged out and walked around for the crowd’s entertainment before being shot in the head or buried up to waist, then having rocks thrown at their head until they died. No matter to those judging them or the brutes casting the first stone that the thief may have stolen a loaf of bread only to feed his hungry child or that the adulteress had in fact been raped.
All this was supposedly in the name of God. But I do not believe these were the actions of God. They were the actions of men. And I am sure God would have turned away to weep.
Thousands of the Taliban’s supporters flocked into Kabul. Ultra-conservative families from the south moved in, buying houses at knock-down prices from those seeking to get out and escape. Wazir Akbar Khan, which had been one of the smartest and most sought-after addresses in Kabul, with modern, architect-designed houses, beautiful gardens, and swimming pools, became known as the “street of the guests.” Favored Arab and Pakistani fighters who had connections to the Taliban leadership were given houses. If the house was empty they just moved in and took over, and if it had inhabitants those living there were forcibly moved out at gunpoint.
Even today some families have still not regained control of properties they lost at this time. When the Taliban were defeated in 2001, many of those who had been refugees in Europe or America came back to try to take ownership again. But with no documents, post-war chaos, an
d corruption rife in government, it is a difficult process. Many people ask for my help in tracing property ownership. Few of them succeeded. And sadly, in the past couple of years a building boom has seen the often illegal destruction of hundreds of these elegant villas, with their fruit trees and grape arbors. They are replaced with what have become labeled as “poppy palaces,” ugly Pakistani-style buildings with over-the-top decorations of mirrors, smoked glass, and lurid, fancy, patterned tiles. An architecture that owes nothing to Afghan culture and everything to post-conflict new money, all too often gleaned from corruption or the proceeds of the heroin trade.
Those houses that have survived both the war and the developers have stood the test of time and look just as stylish today as they did when they were built. Today different types of guests have taken over Wazir Akbar Khan. Now they are occupied by foreign aid workers and international journalists from global networks like BBC, CNN, and France 24. In response to the insecurity inhabitants feel living and working in a capital city with frequent suicide bombings, large sections have been barricaded off. In an area known as “the green zone” the streets are blocked with concrete bollards and checkpoints in an attempt to keep suicide bombers out. Those without identification or the correct passes are barred from entering or driving through, something that creates traffic chaos and is a constant source of frustration and anger among many Kabulis toward these latest guests.
The British Embassy has recently taken over an entire street of houses for their compound, blocking entrances at both ends. What was once a bustling, rich neighborhood with children playing ball games on the streets is now sadly a fortress, barred to most Afghans except those who need to travel there for work.
IN THOSE LONG DAYS that we waited in Puli Khumri, I spent every moment hoping for a return to Kabul. The front line and the areas controlled by the Taliban and the mujahideen-led government kept shifting. But what was clear was that it was the Taliban who were slowly gaining more and more ground.