The Favored Daughter

by Fawzia Koofi

  But I do not think these things have to be separate. Love can exist alongside duty. Love thrives on duty. And respect.

  With love,

  Your mother

  THIRTEEN

  AN END BEFORE A BEGINNING

  My wedding day marked the next new chapter of my life—as a wife. I had no inkling just what a short and tragic chapter it was destined to be.

  My husband lived in an apartment in fourth Makrorian. It was a threebedroom purpose-built apartment, simple, solid, and functional. He had made a real effort (I suspect with the help of his sisters) to decorate our bedroom nicely. He’d bought new pink curtains, a pink bedcover, and even some pink silk flowers in a pink vase by the side of the bed. It was such a thoughtful gesture, but everything looked so very . . . pink. I had to stifle a giggle.

  By the time of my wedding night I’d been awake for 24 hours. Thankfully my husband was also exhausted after such a long day and didn’t make demands on me. We both fell fast asleep.

  In the morning I awoke first, and for a second I panicked. My eyes opened and I saw a pink curtain with hazy sunlight outside, and I was in a strange bed with a man beside me. For a split second I struggled to work out where I was, then I came to. I was married to Hamid, to the man sleeping next to me. He snored gently, and I smiled indulgently at him as I stroked his cheek. This was the first day of my new life.

  Hamid’s sister and her two children were also living with us. She had recently been widowed and had nowhere else to go. I was happy about this, thankful for the comforting presence of another woman about the place. She had been a teacher and was an intelligent, feisty woman. We got on famously.

  At last I was a little bit content with life. Hamid was the kind, warm man I always suspected he was. We basked in each other’s company, we laughed, and we made plans for our future. I hadn’t felt a joy like that since the first day I started school at seven years old. Life was finally going my way.

  A week after our wedding, we had another ceremony called takht. The bride and groom sit under decorations, flowers, and ribbons, and visitors come and congratulate them and give them gifts. That lasts for three days, and the last day is called takht jami. That signifies the end of the marriage celebrations.

  In my childhood days my sisters and mother would of course regale me with stories of all the riches I would receive on my takht jami—a new car perhaps, or a house in the mountains, or a whole ton of gold. But of course, life during Taliban time wasn’t so ostentatious. Friends and family came, bringing what they could—a tablecloth, some new dishes, 50 dollars.

  About an hour earlier we’d said goodbye to our last guests and Hamid had popped into his office for half an hour to check on things. His sister and I were about to make a cup of tea when there was a knock at the door. My sister-in-law went to open it and there stood bearded men in black turbans.

  Mullah Omar, the Taliban leader, had heard my brother was back in Kabul and had an arrest warrant for him. They had been searching for my brother for the past three days and he’d already gone into hiding. The family had not informed me of this because they wanted me to enjoy my honeymoon period.

  Now here they were at my door. They barged into my newly married bliss like the battering rams of doom. Without asking they walked into the living room, where I was sitting under flower garlands in all my silly makeup and finery. As they looked at me, all the color drained from my face. I had had enough trouble in my life already to know that their arrival meant the end of this happy chapter already. They barked at us to stay where we were and then went into my bedroom. They started tearing the bedsheets off the bed, the bed where less than a week ago Hamid and I had begun our married adult life together.

  It was such an invasion of privacy, of decency, and an affront to our culture. But these brutes didn’t care about that. They started looking under the bed and pulling things out of cupboards. They said nothing, they just turned the house upside down, tearing at the nice furniture with their dirty, unwashed hands.

  Then they spoke, yelling at me: “Where is Mirshakay? Where is the police general?” They waved an arrest warrant in my face. I felt sick to my stomach as I realized who they wanted. I told them calmly I had no idea. By now they’d ripped apart my house so they knew I wasn’t lying. Then my heart stopped again. Hamid!

  “Please don’t come back from the office yet,” I silently willed my husband. “Stay at work, don’t come home yet. Please. Don’t come home yet.”

  They left and I listened with bated breath as they walked down the five flights of steps to the door of the main building. With each click-clack of their boots on the stair treads I breathed a little easier—four floors to go, three floors, two. Then on the first floor I heard a door open. I gasped in horror. “No please, please don’t let that be Hamid.” He was seconds away from danger. He had bounded happily through the front door with a gift of chocolates for me and walked right into them. If only he’d paused to buy a newspaper, chat with a neighbor, or even bent down to tie his shoelaces, he might have missed them.

  Angry at their failure to find my brother, they arrested Hamid. He had done nothing. He had committed no crime, but they took him.

  I ran down the stairs, screaming. I begged them. “We’ve only been married seven days, he knows nothing. This is my husband’s house, we are newlyweds, we are innocent people, leave us alone.”

  They simply asked me again: “Where is Mirshakay?”

  They handcuffed Hamid. He barely moved or spoke; he was in shock. The flowers he’d been holding for me dropped to the floor. A few neighbors had gathered to watch the scene. Nobody said anything. I grabbed my burqa and followed my husband. Hamid knew better than to tell me to stay at home and wait.

  They put Hamid in a red Taliban pickup truck. They pushed me aside, laughing when I tried to get in after him. I flagged down a taxi. The driver wound down the window and said: “I am sorry ma’am. I am sorry sister. Do you have a muharram [male blood relative] with yourself?” I snapped at him: “What? Just let me in. I have to follow that car.” He shook his head: “You need a muharram with yourself, sister. These stupid people, these men you want to follow, if they see you alone with me they will put both of us in prison.”

  Then he drove away. I followed the pickup with my eyes as it turned down the street and along the main road, then it took a left toward Share Naw (the new town area of Kabul). I was desperate not to lose sight of it.

  I hailed another taxi. This time I spoke before the driver had chance to. I begged for all I was worth. “Brother, dear brother, please please help me. Please. They are taking my husband. I need to follow him. I’m alone. Can you please take me?”

  He told me to get in. As we drove he spoke hurriedly. “If they stop the car say you are my sister, my name is . . . , I live in . . .” As we drove, this kind man, this complete stranger, downloaded to me all the key details of his life should I, just a random passenger, have to pretend he was my brother. It was so absurd. But the driver’s actions were another reminder to me that whatever those in power threw at the ordinary men and women of my nation, Afghan values of decency and kindness prevailed.

  They had taken Hamid to the intelligence agency office, a building in the center of town, close to the Ministry of the Interior. I don’t know how much money I gave the driver, but I know it was quite a lot. I was just so grateful he was prepared to help a woman despite the risk to himself in doing so. I thought if I paid him well he might just help another woman in the same circumstance. I went to the gate but they refused me entry. Now I took a massive risk. I lied to the Taliban at the gate. I told them that the other Taliban had arrested me but I couldn’t go with the men in their vehicle, and so they had ordered me to come into the building. I said if they didn’t let me in they’d be blamed. They let me in.

  Once inside the main gate I found the prison building. Hamid was standing there, surrounded by two Talibs. Hamid was barely reacting, and I think he was in shock. One moment he was dashing home with
chocolates for his new wife, the next he had been arrested. I ran over and grabbed Hamid’s hand. I looked directly at the Talibs through my burqa and spoke: “Look, look at my hands. This is bridal henna. You are talking about Islam but you do not act as Muslims. We are just married. If you put him in prison I have no more muharram. How should I live? How should I survive? I have nobody to do shopping, to take care of me. I am just a young girl. I am helpless.”

  I was hoping that I could appeal to their sympathy and that they would let him go. But these were men who remained unmoved by the pleas of a mere woman. They ignored me and they walked Hamid to another gate, with me following, still holding his hand and still pleading.

  When they opened the gate my heart sank as I could see hundreds of prisoners inside. Some were handcuffed, some were bound, others were standing, all were crammed into a central stinking courtyard. One of the Talibs took Hamid’s other hand. We’d started our new life, it had just begun, and now they were taking him away from me, tearing us apart. I was terrified that they would just execute him with no trial. They had arrested him without charge, so it was entirely possible. I was holding on tight and not letting go. I was begging: “I’m coming too. How can I go alone? I am a woman, I cannot live alone outside. You are a Muslim, how can you do this?”

  The Talib answered me in Pashto; he spoke crudely, with the accent of an uneducated village man. “Shut up woman, you talk too much.” Then the man pushed me hard, so hard that I fell. I was still wearing my high heels and a fancy dress. It was less than an hour ago that we’d been receiving guests. I fell over into a puddle of stinking water, and Hamid turned his head to try and help me up, but the Talib pushed him in the opposite direction, inside the gates. My last glimpse of my husband was as I struggled to stand up and the gates closed.

  With Hamid behind the gates, my thoughts turned to my brother. It was him they had come to arrest. Was he safe? Where was he?

  I had no money left for another taxi so I ran as fast as I could in heels across the city and back to my brother’s apartment. His wife was there and she told me he was hiding in different relatives’ houses. For the past three days he’d been changing places every night so as not to be discovered. Right now she told me he was in Karte Seh, an area west of Kabul that had been badly destroyed during the civil war. I couldn’t do anything for Hamid now but I could still try to help my brother.

  I went to my relative’s house and entered the house rudely. I didn’t stop to say salaam or greet the family. I just needed to see my brother with my own eyes. The couple who owned the house are both professors. The husband is a professor at the Faculty of Economics at Kabul University and the wife was a teacher. They had no children. Because female teachers had been banned from working, she was one of the several brave Afghan women who took great personal risks secretly running a school from home.

  The room had no sofa, just lots of cushions lining the walls. My brother Mirshakay was lying on a mattress, facing the wall. When he saw me his face registered alarm. It was the first time he’d seen me since my wedding day, when he’d hugged me and wept as I went to my new life. Now we had entered chaos again.

  Very quickly I told him the whole story about Hamid and how they were searching for him now. It wasn’t safe for him here, they would be searching all of our relatives’ houses one after the other. It wasn’t safe to take a taxi either. There were Taliban checkpoints everywhere and if they stopped us they might have my brother’s photo and recognize him.

  We left the house and started to walk. I was still in the blasted heels and my feet were killing me.

  This was the first time I’d worn a burqa to walk such a long distance. I was never very good at walking in it anyway, but in heels and with such anxiety it was even worse. I stumbled over what felt like every stone and crack in the pavement. We walked out of the city toward the outer suburbs. We didn’t have anywhere specific to go, but we had limited choices. Somewhere too public or central and there would be checkpoints; in the outer suburbs there would be buildings we could hide behind but not so many people. So we headed out. As we walked we chatted. My brother asked me about Hamid, about whether he had met my expectations as a husband. In some ways I was happy to tell my brother that yes, indeed, Hamid had and I was right to marry him.

  I told him how Hamid and I had discussed where we would live, whether we should leave Afghanistan. Hamid had suggested a new life in Pakistan. But I’d told him I couldn’t; I would not leave while my brother was still in Kabul. Then we’d discussed moving back to Faizabad, the capital city of Badakhshan province, and the place I had first gone to school. Badakhshan was not controlled by the Taliban. My sisters were there and Hamid’s family was there, and we both missed the region. So that had been our plan. We would move back to the countryside, where I could teach and Hamid could run his business.

  Telling my brother these plans was more painful than the weeping blisters that now coated my heels. All those newlywed dreams and plans were now in ruins.

  After fours hours of aimless walking we hailed a taxi. I remembered one of Hamid’s relatives, a lady who lived alone with her son. I didn’t know the exact address but knew it was fourth Makrorian, near where Hamid and I lived. On the way we passed a checkpoint. We sat inside the car, terrified they would wind the window down and see my brother, but we were lucky. They waved the car past without looking inside.

  My brother had met this woman when Hamid’s relatives had come to ask for my hand in marriage and she was among them. He had not warmed to her. He said she wore too much makeup and her nails were too long. In Mirshakay’s view that was the sign of a lazy woman. But now he had to throw himself on her mercy. I asked around and was pointed to her apartment. I quickly explained the situation and asked if she could prepare a room for my brother for one night. She said yes but she wasn’t happy. She was understandably scared—if she had been caught sheltering a non-blood relative she would have been arrested and taken to the Ministry of Vice and Virtue. I felt awful putting her in that position but I had no choice.

  I left my brother there and walked home. By the time I reached the house my feet felt like they were on fire, sweat caked my eyes and ears, and my hair was like a mattress of caked grease on my head. I threw the wretched burqa up and off my head, ran into the bedroom, and wailed with frustration.

  Dear Shuhra and Shaharzad,

  Loss is one of the hardest things for any human being to bear.

  But loss of those we love is a part of life and a part of growing and no one can be protected from it. Perhaps you are reading this letter because I’ve been killed and you’ve lost me. We know one day that will happen, we’ve discussed this and I want you to be prepared for this inevitability.

  Losing a home, as we did many times during the war, is also a horrible thing. Losing a home is hardest on children. It’s something that has happened to millions of poor children in Afghanistan. Be aware of how lucky you are to have a house with a warm fire, a nice soft bed to sleep in, a lamp to read by, and a table to do your schoolwork on. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but not all children have this.

  But perhaps the worst thing that can happen to any woman is to lose yourself. To lose sense of who and what you are or to lose sight of your dreams is one of the saddest things.

  These last three are not inevitable life losses but are forced on us by those who don’t want us to dream or succeed. I pray you will never lose your dreams.

  With love,

  Your mother

  FOURTEEN

  THE DARKNESS PERVADES

  I was half mad with worry and fear. My brain was racing, thinking of anyone who might be able to help me. All night I barely slept, trying desperately to think of a plan.

  In the morning as I stood in front of the mirror brushing my teeth, an idea came to me.

  I remembered a friend who told me she had been teaching embroidery to the wife of a Taliban official. I threw on the burqa and ran to her house. She listened, wide-eyed with shock and
sympathy, as I recounted what had happened to Hamid. We didn’t know if it would do any good, but she said she would take me to their house and make the necessary introductions. We walked there together across the eerily quiet roads of this once bustling city. A few cars and taxis spluttered noisily into life, the early morning sun dancing in the dust of empty street stalls and boarded-up shops. I caught my reflection in the grimy window of an empty photography shop. I saw a dejected-looking woman with hunched shoulders in a blue burqa. For a second I didn’t recognize it was me looking back at myself. The burqa had stripped me of so much identity I didn’t even know myself.

  Startled by the strangeness of that sensation I peered into the shop. It was long deserted. Faded photographs lined the walls, young men posing next to backdrops of waterfalls and posing like Bollywood actors; babies holding aloft balloons, smiling toothlessly at the parents who would have been standing just behind the camera trying to make them laugh; little girls in lacy dresses and ankle socks grinning shyly; brides in white veils standing proudly next to besuited husbands. I stared at the images, wondering what had happened to all those smiling faces. Who were they? And where were they now? By the time Taliban rule came to Afghanistan a third of our original population of 18 million was dead, killed in the fighting. Another third were refugees overseas. Only 6 million of the original 18 million remained. Were all the faces I was staring at dead? And where was the owner? All photography was now banned by law of the Taliban. With his livelihood gone he might have just closed the door and found another way to survive. Or he may have continued to work in secret, breaking the Taliban law. He could be in prison right now. With Hamid. The thought of the mystery photography studio owner lying next to Hamid in a cell brought me back to reality. My friend touched my arm gently and we walked on until we reached the Talib’s house. He lived in a gated apartment block. A little boy played outside the front door. A scent of boiled mutton wafted out.