The Favored Daughter

by Fawzia Koofi

  The man was there with his wife, a pleasant woman with green eyes who seemed to share her husband’s sympathies for our plight. They welcomed us into their home and gave us hot green tea. He said he would try to help and he would go and make enquiries as soon as the official offices opened that morning. I was frustrated, but not ungrateful. I was surprised that a Taliban, any Taliban, could show humanity. This man was trying to help me when he didn’t know me and didn’t have to do so. That man changed my thinking about many Taliban. I realized that just because he didn’t share my ideals or my politics didn’t necessarily make him a terrible person. Many Afghan men aligned with the Taliban because of a shared ethnicity and culture, a sense of shared geography, or just out of economic necessity. It was the same then as it is today. If the Taliban pays a salary in a village with no jobs, what is a poor man to do? And of course many Afghan men, particularly in the southern cities like Kandahar or Helmand, agree with the more hardline aspects of Islamic culture. While I disagree with such, I have always had a strong understanding and respect for the many different views, ethnic groups, languages, and cultures that make up Afghanistan. Not many people know that over 30 languages are spoken across the country. For me that diversity is our strength. Or at least it is a strength during peaceful times. In wartime those ethnic divisions are our greatest weakness and the main reason people murder each other senselessly.

  As we left the Talib’s house he kindly walked us to the gates of the apartment block, but he made it clear he wasn’t sure he could do much. On the walk home I began to prepare myself for the worst: news of Hamid’s execution, or a life sentence based on false charges. I didn’t want to think about it, but I knew I had to be ready to face what was very likely to be bad news. I tried not to think of Hamid being dragged, hands tied, into the prison courtyard to be shot. Or lying in a filthy, freezing prison cell, emaciated; slowly going mad with hunger and cold. The thought of it was enough to drive me insane, too.

  I arrived home, preoccupied with my tortuous thoughts, when a familiar face emerged from the bathroom.

  There Hamid stood. Water was still glistening on his hollow cheeks, droplets hanging off his beard.

  I thought I was dreaming. Or that I’d lost my mind.

  My husband was standing in the hallway smiling at me as if it was the most normal thing in the world. He moved toward me uttering my name, his weak legs faltering beneath him. I rushed to him, embracing his skinny frame before he could fall. His arms were like sticks around me, bony and thin. Their normal masculine strength had been stolen by the abuse meted out by his jailers. The unexpected emotion of his sudden appearance was too much for us to bear and we both sobbed with relief. Hamid, my Hamid, was home.

  I made him some breakfast of eggs and sweet tea, and he lay down to rest. I was exhausted from the rollercoaster of emotion but I had no time to rest myself. Without warning they had chosen to release Hamid. But now that he was released they would surely renew their attempts to imprison my brother. We had to find another house in which to hide him. Fast.

  I remembered a woman who used to go to my English class. She lived nearby, only a few blocks away. She was a very tough lady. She had a bad leg, which had made it very hard for her to walk, and since her husband died she struggled to take care of her two daughters. They weren’t a political family, but were just ordinary people trying to survive in the craziness that had become Kabul. No one would look for Mirshakay there. I knew their house would be a perfect place for him to lie low until we could work out a way to get him out of the country. I put my burqa on and ran to her house.

  It was a very modest home, made all the worse by the shortages of the war. A few spartan rugs lay on the living room floor. There were very few luxuries, and I guessed that what few they had possessed were long since sold to buy rice, cooking oil, and gas to fuel the stove. The woman limped around her living room, ushering me to take a seat as she ordered her oldest daughter to make tea for us. I explained that I wanted my brother to stay with her but that it might be dangerous for her if the Taliban caught him there. Her tone immediately became a little offended. Not that she was angry that I should come into her living room and make such an outrageous request, but rather, in a very Afghan way, she was angry that such a request was even necessary. Of course he could stay—what a silly question!

  I finished my tea and rushed to collect Mirshakay. We gathered a few clothes and some extra food together—I knew the lady would probably feign offense if I took food, but she was already taking a great risk hiding my brother. An extra mouth to feed would stretch her meager resources to the limit. We returned to the lady’s house. It was imperative I went with my brother—not because he didn’t know the way, but rather because the surest way to arouse suspicion would have been for a strange man to enter the house alone. A man and a woman in a burqa looks like a social visit, while a man by himself looks like a morality crime in progress and would surely set tongues wagging locally, which would trigger a visit from the Taliban.

  The woman and her family were very kind to Mirshakay and I think he was able to relax a little. He stayed in that house for ten days. After that we decided things had cooled down enough for him to move back to my house. It was still too dangerous for him to move home with his family. As it was the Taliban harassed his wife often, dropping by uninvited and announced, threatening her with quiet voices of menace: “Where is your husband? When did you last speak to him? Tell us.” He was a hunted man and they watched for him daily.

  In the end his wife became so scared she also moved into my house.

  Hamid and I were still newlyweds—we should have been enjoying our new life together, but I was so busy running the house that it was hard for us to snatch more than a few moments of quiet together. I suppose young wives all over the planet have romantic ideas of how those first few months of marriage will be, but for me, and I think for a lot of other women, they soon discover that the realities of adult life begin to overtake the girlish notions of marital bliss. At first I was quite resentful of the intrusion on what was supposed to be one of the happiest periods of my life, but mostly the resentment was short-lived and my sense of duty would take over. Also, this was my brother, whom I loved dearly. I would remember how kind he had been to me as a child, and how much of an influence he had on my life. In those moments I would feel guilty at such selfish thoughts. Now was my time to take care of him and his family. I knew he would do the same for me, no matter what the risks or hardships.

  Mirshakay was determined to flee Afghanistan. It was the only way to guarantee his safety, even though it meant a life of uncertainty as a refugee abroad. For the next three months he didn’t trim his beard, but instead he let it grow long, thick, and dark. After a while we barely recognized him. We prayed the Taliban wouldn’t recognize him either.

  The plan was to get a taxi to Torkham, the busiest border town into Pakistan. It’s close to the famous Khyber Pass and lies on the edge of Pakistan’s Federally Administered Tribal Areas, a region ruled by tribal elders where Islamabad doesn’t have any great measure of control. Most of the people who live in that region are Pashtu, Afghanistan’s largest ethnic group.

  But the Pashtu people of this border region are also famous for their wonderful hospitality. They are people who would die for you if you were their guest, but kill you without regret if you offend them. Historically Pashtu occupy an area encompassing Southern Afghanistan and Northern Pakistan, an area known as Pashtunwali. For centuries the Pashtu have come and gone freely over this frontier. To them, the border is merely a line on a map, not a reality. In Afghanistan the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan has still never been formally recognized. It’s known as the Durand line, and is even today one of the greatest tensions between the Pakistan and Afghanistan governments. The Afghans refuse to recognize the line. The foreign forces, the Americans, and NATO, who are fighting Al Qaida, claim this loose border is home to thousands of Al Qaida fighters. Pakistan denies this, but does little to con
trol fundamentalism in the area.

  The Pashtu codes of honor are so strong that even when American bomber planes have pounded the area looking for Bin Laden or his sympathizers, the local villagers refuse to reveal their whereabouts. Bombs may rain down on the villages but “honored guests” will never be betrayed. I realize it is hard for people in the West to understand this. But the locals simply cannot and will not change. These ancient codes of honor are what Pashtunwali is founded upon and how it operates. The codes create an unbreakable rule book and a way of life that has remained unchanged in hundreds of years and is as immovable as the jagged mountains. They far outweigh any laws or commands laid down by formal governments. To go there is to step back in time 500 years. Understand that, and you begin to understand the area. Fail to understand that, as successive governments and foreign forces have done, and you will always be defeated.

  In the year we were planning my brother’s escape, 1997, Afghans didn’t need a visa to enter Pakistan across the main border crossing, unlike nowadays. My brother was hoping he could slip across the border unnoticed amid the noisy chaos of trucks, traders, and travelers that flocked through Torkham on an hourly basis.

  Mirshakay had arranged for a taxi to come collect him early in the morning. I was rushing around helping him get ready to leave—organizing food for the journey, some naan bread and hard-boiled eggs to sustain him, while his wife packed his suitcase. There was a knock at the door and before I had time to stop and think I opened it wide, expecting to see the driver. Two black turbans stood in the doorway—Taliban. They pushed their way into the apartment, waving their guns. Everybody froze. There was no time to react, and nowhere to hide. We exchanged looks—this was it—we were caught.

  The two men were openly triumphant as they grabbed my brother, forcing him to the floor. The larger of the pair—both looked like they were only in their twenties—jammed his knee hard into the small of my brother’s back, making him yelp with pain. The other, in an act of barely concealed spite, grabbed Hamid by the neck and pushed his head toward the living room floor. Hamid was still very weak from his time in prison and the Talib pushed him around like a ragdoll. They were laughing and jeered at my sister-in-law and myself as they dragged and shoved our men into the hall and down to their pickup truck. As they went my brother shouted at me not to follow them and to stay at home. Even in a moment as bleak and desperate as this, his male pride could not allow the disgrace of a woman coming to the jail to try to get him out.

  At the police station my brother managed to persuade a guard to smuggle a note to the family. It contained instructions for us contact an old colleague of my brother’s who held a senior position at the Ministry of Defense during the communist years and was now working for the Taliban government. In communist times this man had been a general, now he was a senior Taliban military advisor. My brother hoped this man might be able to pull some strings to get both he and Hamid out. The note included an address for an apartment near the airport.

  Once again, it was a brutal waiting game. For once my strength left me and I lay on the bed for two days, paralyzed by frustration and fear. Hamid had been taken from me again. But this time it was not only me he’d left behind. It was also our unborn child.

  Three days earlier I had learned I was pregnant. Like many new mothers I had my suspicions when I started being very ill and vomiting in the mornings. A visit to the doctor confirmed what I had suspected. Hamid and I were delighted, of course. But the excitement we felt was tempered by the turmoil in our lives. There are perhaps few things as worrying as being a first-time mother in a time of war. In war everyday survival is a battle in itself and only the strongest survive. Was it fair to bring a helpless infant into that kind of hell? Perhaps not.

  But I also knew that life goes on despite the bullets and bombs. And in some ways the desire to celebrate life and creation, however bad the circumstances, is an intrinsic part of the human spirit. I was scared, yes, but I also thought it would be wonderful to have something as precious and positive as a newborn child to focus on.

  But despite the joy I felt, it was clear from the outset that this was not going to be an easy pregnancy. Afghanistan has one of the highest maternal and infant mortality rates in the world. A lack of health resources and a cultural reluctance to openly talk about gynecological and pediatric care means doctors can be hard to find, and the few that do exist are badly trained. Families often resist seeking medical attention for a woman until there is absolutely no other choice and it’s clear she will die otherwise. But by then it’s often too late to save either the child or the mother. Working in these conditions takes great skill, patience, and dedication. Some of Afghanistan’s best doctors were women. I’m sure women everywhere feel more comfortable being treated for health issues of a personal nature by someone of their own gender. For a long time I wanted to qualify as a doctor myself and join their ranks.

  However, the Taliban had banned women from working; a decree that completely depleted Afghanistan’s medical staff. And then in a further twist of insane cruelty, they banned male doctors from treating women. Even for a common cold a male doctor was not allowed to prescribe a female so much as an aspirin. So women doctors weren’t allowed to work and male doctors weren’t allowed to treat females. The result? Hundreds of women died unnecessary deaths during Taliban rule. They died because they caught the flu, because they had an untreated bacterial infection, because they had blood poisoning, or a fever, or a broken bone, or because they were pregnant. They died for no sane reason, but simply because these brutal men who ran the country thought a woman’s life was as worthless as a fly’s. These men who claimed to be men of God had no sanctity for one of God’s greatest creations—woman.

  My morning sickness was really bad. And it wasn’t just limited to the first few hours of the day. I can joke about it now, but at the time, trying not to vomit into the face covering of my burqa was no laughing matter. I hope no other young mother ever has to learn to pull up the hood of their garment, tilt their head forward and aim for the gap between their feet—all while fighting the natural urge to drop to their knees.

  For three months I vomited most of what I ate—it was a burden I could have done without. Especially on the day when I took my brother’s letter and set off to find the house of his former colleague who was now a Taliban. My brother knew it was a long shot asking this man for help, but long shots were all we could cling onto right now.

  I was feeling very sorry for myself when I entered that house. But as my eyes adjusted to the gloom I realized I still had an enormous amount to be thankful for. Sadly, most Afghan people are desperately poor, but they are also immensely proud, taking pride in their home however simple it is, and always offering food, tea, and sweets to guests. Perhaps that is why I was so shocked by the terrible state of the living room. The floors were filthy and had clearly not been swept or washed in a long time. I wanted to take the carpets outside and give them a good dusting. The walls needed wiping and I wanted to throw the windows open wide and let in some light and fresh air to clear the musty smell that filled the house. The lady of the house greeted me. That was when I realized she was just a very simple woman who had never been taught any better. Even her ability to greet a guest into her home was stilted and awkward, from her speech to her manners to the very way she carried herself. Looking around the room I scanned a row of dirty faces, her children and other members of the extended family, each face more grubby than the next. That at least explained the smell.

  I couldn’t find anywhere clean to sit, but having found the least dirty spot I squatted down. I felt desperately nauseous. I kept my burqa on even though I was indoors and prepared for a long wait. I was becoming familiar with dealing with the Taliban now. The first rule was patience. I was told the man would speak to me in 20 minutes, but I was prepared to wait all day if necessary. It seems strange now, but I was far less worried about Hamid than before. The fact that he was in prison with my brother and not alone was a
big comfort. I knew they would both draw a lot of strength from each other, no matter what terrible things were being done to them.

  I sat, waiting, idly watching the woman clean the river of black and green snot that was oozing out of a young boy’s nose. We made small talk, but it was difficult. I found it hard to be civil sitting there in a filthy room, in a filthy house, waiting for a filthy man who is now one of the key security advisors of my country’s government. What sort of nation can you create when even your own home is filthy and the women and children who live there are trapped in ignorance? What hope for Afghanistan, I thought, while these ignorant uneducated people are in power? And then I shivered with horror. The realization had come to me. If this was the family living room of a senior Taliban advisor, then what must the Taliban prisons be like?

  When the man finally appeared he looked rough and disheveled like the rest of his family, not the man of power and authority I had expected. I explained the situation of how Hamid and my brother came to be in jail. The man was not unpleasant and told me he remembered my brother well. He listened patiently and made assurances that he would get them released. He asked me if I would wait while he made some phone calls in private, then excused himself. I made myself as comfortable as I could on the dirty floor and sat back to wait. The smell had gone now. My nose must have become accustomed to it.

  When the man eventually returned the news was not good. With a sigh he looked at his filthy hands and told me it would take time to get them out. He promised he would keep monitoring the situation and would contact me with any news. His tone had the sort of half-baked sincerity of someone who felt obliged to help, but did not really want to, and certainly was not willing to go to any great lengths to do so. This worried me. I walked home dejected. Hamid was still so very weak. He’d only just begun to recover from his first incarceration. The air was getting cold and crisp now. We were well into autumn and the winter snow was already settling in the mountains around the city. Soon Kabul itself would be covered with snow and temperatures would drop as low as 5 degrees Fahrenheit. I could imagine Hamid and my brother huddling together for warmth on the freezing prison courtyard, each of them only wearing the clothes they were arrested in. No warm jacket, no thermal vests, no woolly socks. I bit my lip hard to stop the tears flowing as I thought of Hamid’s toes freezing and turning blue. I didn’t know how much more my husband’s fragile body could take. His mind was a fortress of strength and intelligence and could sustain whatever tortures they threw at him. But every person has a physical breaking point. In the freezing grip of the night air, air so cold it hurts to catch your breath, I knew Hamid’s breaking point would be fast approaching.