The Favored Daughter

by Fawzia Koofi

  The West was hoping for a quick, clean removal of the Taliban and the death or capture of Osama Bin Laden and his deputy, Ayman Al-Zawahiri.

  It was a simple plan: US and British airpower would devastate Taliban forces, while new types of bombs would blow apart whole mountainsides to kill Al Qaida fighters in the caves where they hid. On the ground the Northern Alliance and other key forces, again predominantly from the north, would mop up what the bombs had missed.

  Some of these men took to their task with a chilling enthusiasm. We occasionally heard news of the atrocities against Taliban forces, such as hundreds of Taliban prisoners being burned alive. Whoever an enemy is, such gross inhuman abuse in war is always wrong. In some of the villages that had been oppressed by the Taliban, people grew brave and began pelting them with stones and telling them to leave.

  I knew that not all the Taliban had been bad. Some of the low-level people in their ranks were just people trying to survive. And hadn’t I even been helped by some of them? Like the old man who didn’t even know me but had helped me to get Hamid out of prison one time. I was sad these individual men were getting killed, but I was thrilled the Taliban’s theocratic regime was being destroyed and this dark period of Afghan history was coming to an end.

  I didn’t mind that it was the United States and a host of other foreign nations leading the fighting. Many Afghans dislike the help of non-Muslims because they are infidels (or non-believers). But I didn’t see it that way. I had never really considered the Taliban proper Afghans anyway. They were always controlled and led by other nations. I remember when I had lived in Kabul seeing the entire of neighborhood of Wazir Akbar Khan taken over by the Taliban’s “guests”: the Arabs, the Chechens, and the Pakistanis. Hearing their accents and seeing their wives dressed in black niqabs (the Arab style face and head covering), I’d had the sensation that Kabul was no longer under Afghan control but had become an Arab proxy city, like Riyadh in Saudi Arabia or Doha in Qatar.

  And some of the Taliban’s worst atrocities had foreign connections. When the Taliban attacked an area north of Kabul called the Shomali plains, they did so with such ferocity that the land is still known as the burning plains. During one battle they killed thousands of men, and then they deliberately burned all the trees and crops before bulldozing the remains into the ground. This totally annihilated the population’s chances of future survival. Destroying crops and other scorched-earth tactics are things I associate more with Arab countries, rather than Afghanistan. And it is most definitely not something the Taliban would have been clever enough to have thought of themselves.

  After that they went from house to house forcing all the young girls and women outside. The last time people saw these women they were being herded into trucks and cars. The local suspicion was that they were taken to countries like Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, and Qatar and forced to work in brothels. And of course many of the foreign fighters took these women as forced wives. No one can prove these local suspicions are true, but too many of these things happened for me not to believe them.

  So when non-Afghan forces were involved in the Taliban’s defeat I was grateful for their help. I was just so very pleased they were no longer going to be running my beloved country. One by one the provinces fell from Taliban control. In Tora Bora, which had been believed to be Bin Laden’s hideout, the fighting raged for weeks. Then suddenly it was over. The Taliban were gone.

  The men who had tortured my husband and destroyed my chance of a happy marriage were losing their power, just as my poor husband Hamid was losing his own final battle with his health.

  BEING THE ONLY FEMALE STAFF MEMBER at the UN in the country made me the subject of much curiosity. Journalists constantly visited my office wanting my advice on stories they could write—something that was hard to find time for because of all my work responsibilities.

  My workload meant that I was out until late most evenings, and this made for problems at home. Hamid was sick and he needed me. I wanted to be with him, but I also wanted to be doing this essential work for my country. Usually, Hamid was supportive and didn’t mind when I worked long hours, but by now he knew he didn’t have long left and he resented the time I gave to my job over him. I was completely torn emotionally, which only added to the stress.

  Some days I was literally running from one meeting to the next, with no time to eat. I was still wearing my burqa, even during the meetings with foreign officials and aid workers. Then one day, the provincial governor suggested I take it off. He said it was okay. These people needed to see my face to communicate with me. After that, I stopped wearing it at work.

  It was a hard time, but I learned so much, not least about my own ability to lead and to implement. As I gained the trust of both local people and my international colleagues, more trust and responsibility came my way. I knew I really had found my calling.

  In the weeks and months that followed Afghanistan was a country transformed. The air of optimism in Kabul was so potent it was almost as if you could put out your tongue and taste it.

  Overnight hundreds of refugees started returning home. Those who had fled Afghanistan at various points during the last few years, be that during the Soviet era, the civil war, or Taliban rule, felt safe enough to return. Afghan investors who had made money overseas came home and started planning new businesses, hotels, banks, even golf courses and ski resorts.

  The country was still on its knees economically, of course, and most people were living in truly abject poverty. In all the major cities basic power supplies like electricity had been destroyed and few people still had access to clean water. Many people returning found their homes had been destroyed or taken over by other people. Unemployment was rampant and food shortages massive as the country struggled to return to a semblance of normalcy. It was chaos but it was a chaos that for the first time in a long time was forward looking.

  The UN office expanded massively. Funds were coming in thick and fast from all over the world, and the race was on to distribute them where they were needed most.

  I needed to spend time with Hamid so I took a month’s leave and came to Kabul.

  I tried to re-admit myself to Kabul University so I could continue the medical studies I had been forced to abandon when the Taliban banned women from higher education. But I was told too much time had passed for me to pick up where I left off. But in reality I think I was denied the chance because I made the mistake of taking Shuhra with me to the interview. The admission officer made it clear to me he did not approve of mothers going out to work. I was upset they wouldn’t admit me, but I had bigger concerns. Hamid was coughing up blood almost every hour.

  I took him to Pakistan again, to the same doctor who had prescribed the $500-a-month medicine. The doctor gave us the devastating news that because Hamid hadn’t been taking the medication continuously his tuberculosis had developed a resistance to it. The condition was now so serious that doctor said he could do nothing. He advised we try a hospital in Iran that was experimenting with a new technique. I gave Hamid the money and he went alone. I returned to Faizabad. Hamid stayed in the Iranian hospital for four months. Our contact was limited to a few phone calls, but he sounded upbeat and said he was feeling better.

  Back in Faizabad things were changing at the government level. A democratic constitution had been debated and agreed upon at a national loya jirga (tribal council). For women the future was looking brighter than it had in years. Hamid Karzai had been declared interim president of the country until formal elections could be held.

  Human rights activists who had been persecuted under the Taliban were now working openly to create civil society and women’s movements. But of course Badakhshan was no longer the seat of government, and the central power base had moved back to Kabul. Suddenly I felt isolated and provincial. I wanted to be part of the action. So I applied for and got a job as a UNICEF women and children protection officer based in the capital. Fortunately UNICEF provided at-work daycare so I was able to take the gir
ls with me. It was busy work and I thrived on it. I became deputy chairperson of the staff association and was expected to travel the country overseeing projects. I recall one trip to Kandahar, a city that had been the spiritual heartland of the Taliban. When I arrived, the community leaders I was working with barely spoke to me. These were conservative men who had been Taliban supporters. In a few short months they’d gone from Taliban rule to the indignity of a woman turning up and telling them what to do. Gradually I won them over and after a few days we were all cooperating as if we’d always worked together. Even today I stay in touch with some of them and they visit me when they come to Kabul. I truly believe that people change their opinions only from first-hand experience. And opinions on gender can and do change, even among the most conservative men.

  Hamid came back from Iran and initially I was thrilled by how much he seemed to have improved. But within a few weeks he was back to square one: He couldn’t walk more than a few yards without coughing up thick globules of blood again. It was heartbreaking to see. The disease is transmittable and whenever he started to cough he would put his handkerchief over his mouth and order the girls to leave the room. He was terrified they might catch it. We were living back in our old apartment, on the fifth floor of the Makrorian buildings. He was essentially housebound because walking up and down the stairs was too difficult for him. We had long since ceased being able to have any physical intimacy, but he was still a good husband as much as his health allowed him to be. The illness had not destroyed his mind and he had great problem-solving capacities. Whenever I had a bad day at work or couldn’t figure out how we were going to implement a new project he would always be on hand with advice or a sympathetic ear. Even now he was my rock.

  After a few weeks he needed a check-up so we flew to Aga Khan University Hospital in Karachi, one of Pakistan’s most modern hospitals. He was too weak to walk and I had to push him through the ward in a wheelchair. He was so thin and gray by now that one of the nurses assumed he was my father.

  We stayed overnight in the hospital. I slept by his side just as I had done with my mother in the days before she died. The following morning the doctor gave us the news. It was too late. His lungs were now like leathery shoe soles, not essential organs. His medicine was so strong the side effects made his whole body sick and he felt very nauseous. He said he wanted to stop taking it. It was summer 2003 and the sun seemed to perk him up. Now that the medicine wasn’t killing his appetite by making him vomit, his hunger returned. He started to eat proper meals again and the color returned to his cheeks. I had a week’s leave from UNICEF and wanted to spend every moment of it with him. It was Wednesday and I had decided to prepare a chicken broth for him. He hadn’t slept well the night before and was tired. I was trying to force him to eat the soup but he barely had strength to lift the spoon. That evening both my sister and his sister, my sister-in-law, came to visit.

  He was chatting with them and as I watched I noticed how very handsome and fresh faced he looked. It was as if the illness had lifted from his face, and suddenly he was the old Hamid again. I joked with him: “Hamid my love, you are kidding me aren’t you? I think you are teasing me, you are not sick. How can you look this good?”

  He laughed too, but when he did so his breath caught and he started gasping for air.

  We carried him to his room, and I had to turn my head away so he didn’t see me cry. It was late and I lay down in the other room with the women for a while, but I couldn’t settle. I went into Hamid’s room and lay down next to him. I took his hand and we both started to cry. I was thinking back to the first week of our marriage when we were so happy, when we were planning our future together. We hadn’t asked for much yet all we had been given was sadness and sickness.

  The girls came in to the room. They’d dressed up like little Kuchi (gypsy) girls and started to sing a song for their father. It was their childish attempt to cheer us all up. It was beautiful and it was heartbreaking. They twirled and spun veils over their heads, singing: “I’m a little Kuchi girl, look at me dance.” After they sang they asked Hamid to kiss them, but he refused because he was scared of the risk of transmission. He wanted so much to kiss his little girls goodbye but he couldn’t. I was still trying to force food into him, begging him: “Please have this mulberry, please just try a little more soup. Just swallow one spoonful.”

  I was exhausted and started to nod off. My sister came into the room and told me to go rest. I didn’t want to leave him but he insisted. He was still joking with me: “Fawzia, your other supervisor will look after me. She will make sure I keep eating my food and my fruit and keep breathing. Go rest for a little while please.”

  I went and lay down with the girls on their bed, holding them tight, wondering how these little creatures would live without the love of their father. About an hour later I heard a scream. I will never forget it. It was my sister screaming his name. I ran into the room just in time to see him take his last breaths.

  I shouted in terror: “Hamid, no. Please don’t go yet.” When he heard me he opened his eyes to look at me. Just for a second our eyes met: Mine were full of fear, his were calm and resigned. Then he closed them again and he was gone.

  Dear Shuhra and Shaharzad,

  When your father died Shuhra was exactly the age that I was when I lost my father.

  A bitter irony that I wish fate had not repeated across the generations.

  In the first days after your father died I blamed myself for this. From an orphan mother came orphan daughters! I had tasted the bitterness of not having a father. I knew how difficult it would be for you in our society. I knew that you would not only suffer not having a father but you would suffer not having a brother as well.

  But just as my mother helped me find strength and encouraged me with enough strength as if she were two parents, so I have had to do the same for you.

  You only have me. But know that I love with the might of a hundred parents.

  And know your father would be so proud of you today if he could see you growing up into the beautiful young women you are.

  When I listen to you talk about your futures my heart bursts with pride. Shaharzad wants to be a rocket scientist and Shuhra wants to be president of Afghanistan. That’s for this week anyway. Next week you will probably change your minds again. But I know that what will never change is how high you are both aiming. And you are right to aim high, my darlings. Aim for the stars. That way if you fall you land on the tops of the trees. If you don’t aim high then all you see is the bottom of the branches.

  I can’t give you your father back. But I can give you ambition, decent values, and confidence. And these are the most precious gifts from a mother to a daughter.

  With love,

  Your mother

  EIGHTEEN

  A NEW PURPOSE

  Hamid died in 2003. My life felt empty, bereft, all love and laughter stolen from it. For two years I worked like an automaton in my UN role, but mentally I was lost. Aside from looking after my daughters, I felt purposeless. I didn’t socialize. Weddings, parties, picnics—none of the things I used to love interested me anymore. My days followed the same routine: wake up, go to work, take the girls home for dinner, play with them, bathe them, put them to bed and then get back onto the computer and work until midnight.

  I lived for my daughters, but as much as I loved them I needed more from life. I needed a sense of being. Remarrying was out of the question. Despite my family gently suggesting it to me, I had no desire to do it. Hamid was, and remains to this day, the only man I have ever wanted to marry. To remarry would be to betray his memory. I still feel this as strongly now as I felt it in the weeks after he died.

  But politics became a husband of a different kind. Politics was in my blood and I believe it was my destiny. God wanted me to live for a purpose and what greater purpose can there be but to improve the lot of the poor and bring pride to a nation torn apart by war?

  In 2004 Afghanistan held its first ever democr
atic elections. Back in the 1970s when my father was an MP, King Zahir Shah had promised to bring more democracy and there had been similar elections for local MPs, but that process was derailed by the Russian invasion and then the war. Now, 30 years later, it was happening and the country was elated.

  Hamid Karzai had been interim president since the fall of the Taliban in 2001. He was still a popular figure and was elected in a resounding landslide victory. There had been fears that this election day would be marred by violence but it passed relatively peacefully.

  It was a chilly autumn day with a thick fog swirling through the streets. Hundreds of thousands of people came out to vote. In some polling stations a sea of women in blue burqas lined up to vote beginning at four o’clock in the morning. It was an extraordinary moment for Afghanistan and despite my grief the significance of it was not lost on me. I think that was the first day I allowed myself to feel emotion since Hamid died.

  President Karzai had initially promised women’s rights, civil society, all the things I believed in. After his first victory his attitude changed and he has become much more focused on appeasing the hardliners, but back then he was like a breath of fresh air. Sadly the landslide victory he secured in 2005 was not repeated in 2009. He won that election, too, but amid allegations of widespread fraud. It was another reminder that in my country everything can change for the worst in four short years.

  In 2005 it was announced that parliamentary elections would be held in order to select the members of parliament who would each represent the different districts and provinces of Afghanistan.

  My family decided the Koofis should reaffirm their political history and be part of this new generation. One of us had to stand.

  There were a lot of inside negotiations within the family about who should run.

  My brother Nadir Shah, the son of Dawlat bibi, one of the two wives my father had divorced, also wanted to stand.

  Nadir had been a respected mujahideen commander and was already a district leader in Badakhshan, so understandably he believed he was the person best placed to represent the family.