The Favored Daughter

by Fawzia Koofi

  The night of the dinner was freezing, and the restaurant was so cold inside that you could see your breath when you exhaled. I asked the restaurant manager to try to sort out some heating. He brought out a very cheap, old oil heater called a bukhari, which leaked noxious fumes. The food was awful, cold and congealed. After a while, guests could barely even see each other because the bukhari was giving off so much smoke. I was extremely tense, but I tried my best to cover it up and be a good hostess. But when we got home, I shook my head and sighed, telling my sister that I’d blown it. After such a disastrous social function, no one was going to vote for me. Being able to entertain people and be a gracious host is an important part of our culture, and if you fail at it people judge you harshly.

  The children were already asleep. I climbed into bed next to them, but I couldn’t sleep. The voting was the next day, and all the candidates were supposed to give a short speech before it began. In the middle of the night, I got up to write mine. I sat there until the early hours staring at a blank piece of paper, not knowing where to start or what to say. Usually I love writing speeches and it comes straight from my heart, but with this one I was at a loss of what say. I started to write, promising this and that, only to tear it up because it just didn’t sound right. All the candidates had been told to prepare only very short speeches. But I wanted to write something that defined me and my values, and it was almost impossible to express that in just a few sentences. Dawn started to creep across the clouds and into my bedroom. By now, I was on my third or fourth attempt; I looked at it again. It still didn’t work. I tore up the piece of paper and resolved to just ad lib. I was sure that once I was standing there in front of my fellow MPs, I’d know what I needed to say.

  The next morning, all the candidates and their supporters were running along the corridors of parliament making last-ditch attempts to win supporters. There were ten other candidates for the position of deputy speaker. All of them were well known except for me. Some of them were powerful people. Around 10 a.m., I had a visit from a staff member of one of my opponents, asking me to withdraw my candidacy and offering to pay me a substantial amount of money if I did so. I was horrified but sadly not shocked. How could these people try to win such an important vote by paying to win? And how dare they think I would be bribed?

  The plenary voting session started. I sat quietly in a corner just gathering my thoughts and watching the situation unfold. If nothing else, it was certainly an exciting scene to witness and be a part of.

  Then, I was called to give my introductory speech. I walked up to the podium, aware of some male MPs watching me with mocking or angry eyes. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my good friend Sabrina give me a supportive smile, which helped control my nerves. This was the first time I had given any kind of speech in front of the other MPs, and I struggled to keep my body from shaking. Then suddenly I remembered that I had won over eight thousand votes. I had every right to be there.

  As I looked around, my sense of confidence and self-esteem grew. I took a deep breath and started by introducing myself. Then I told them that I wanted to run for this position to demonstrate that women in Afghanistan are able to do big things and hold senior posts; that my mission would be to put my country’s interests before my personal interests; that I saw an Afghanistan that had been severely damaged in every way and needed new voices and new energy to rebuild it. I told them that although I was only thirty, I was not a novice and already had a huge amount of professional experience. I went on to say how much I loved Afghanistan and our culture, and how my entire commitment was to change this country for the better. I was talking quickly, as I usually do when speaking from the heart, and I was so focused that at first I almost didn’t hear the clapping. Then it became louder. By the time I finished, several MPs—men, women, traditionalists, the powerful—were clapping loudly.

  Many MPs came up to me, congratulating me on the sincerity of the speech. An old friend of my father’s, a Pashtun man from Kunduz province, came and kissed me gently on the forehead and whispered that I had done my father justice. The reaction was so positive that for the first time I started to think I might actually win. I could barely breathe when the counting started.

  I won with a large majority.

  It was the first time in Afghan history that a woman, a “poor girl,” had been elected to such a senior political position. I couldn’t take it all in. My face was as radiant as a blooming flower and for a moment I thought I was flying through the air.

  Suddenly, I was surrounded by journalists firing questions at me. What were my priorities on women? How would I bring change? How would a woman cope with the scrutiny of such a senior parliamentary position? This was my first real press conference experience and it was fairly intimidating, but I tried to answer honestly and clearly. I am not an MP who dislikes journalists. I think in our country many journalists do a fantastic job of sharing information with the public and challenging those in power, so I have always tried to treat the media with the respect it deserves. Over the next few days, I was almost besieged by media attention. No one had expected a woman to achieve what I had, and I became a national novelty. But I was determined to make each interview show that I was more than just a point of curiosity; I was a serious politician who was more than capable of doing the job I held.

  Karzai then announced his cabinet of ministers. The only female minister was Masooda Jalal, a former medical doctor. She had been the only woman to run against Hamid Karzai in the presidential race. She had lost, gaining only a small number of votes, but Karzai appointed her minister of women’s affairs. To this day, a woman hasn’t held any other mainstream ministerial post, something I find very disappointing. If a woman can be the women’s minister, why can’t she be the minister for business? Or communications? Or indeed any of the other senior posts, provided she has the relevant experience, of course. Karzai did make one other high-profile appointment. A highly-respected woman by the name of Habiba Sorabi was given the post of governor of central Bamiyan province in March 2005. She has since become a very well-known and popular figure in Afghan politics.

  With all the roles in place, the parliament opened for business. This was another truly historic event, and it was broadcast on live TV both in Afghanistan and around the world. As the speaker was not present, I had to chair the first plenary session. I looked around and once again realized that here I was chairing a parliament in which former presidents, ministers, and mujahideen leaders were all sitting. But I wasn’t nervous. Debating is one of the things I enjoy most in life, so to have the chance of chairing such an important debate was wonderful. I simply loved it.

  That day went very well, and afterwards a number of male MPs commented on how surprised they had been that a woman had managed the task of keeping order so well. They too now recognized what an important symbol this was for Afghan women and for the nation.

  But very soon the jealousy started. Some of the old MPs, the corrupt ones, are losing power and public support day by day. And they know it. These oldstyle politicians who use guns and intimidation as their means of communication could not stomach the fact that a young woman like me was growing in political popularity and influence. When I would walk past them in the corridors or step down from the podium, I would hear them muttering, “A woman is chairing our parliament and we must just sit here and watch? She cannot be allowed to continue.”

  I tried to ignore them and started focusing on providing the services that voters had wanted when they elected me. The Kabul-Faizabad road, for example, was still a dirt track with no asphalt. I started to lobby for funds to build a proper highway that would for the first time link Badakhshan with the capital city. On a political visit to the United States, I met President George W. Bush and his wife, Laura. I found Laura to be a very pleasant, warm woman and I liked her immensely. She seemed genuinely committed to civil issues—children’s rights, education for women, school-building projects, human rights. I got the sense that as a mother herself s
he understood the plight of women and children in developing countries. She asked me many intelligent questions about the situation in my country and listened carefully as I outlined what I thought she and the United States could do to help. I felt encouraged by her support.

  I also used my time in the United States to try to gain wider support for construction of the road. The US ambassador told me he couldn’t make me any promises, but that my request had been noted. Four months later, I learned that the US Agency for International Development had approved the budget for the road. I was thrilled.

  The road is now complete and it has improved the lot of Badakhshanis immeasurably. What was once a three-day journey to Kabul now takes less than a day. The road takes in some wonderful scenery, and I think it’s the most beautiful in all Afghanistan. Some Badakhshanis have nicknamed it “Fawzia’s road.” The road on the other side of the Atanga Pass is still not complete, despite my best efforts. But I will not rest until this road is also built. I feel I owe it to my father to complete the dream that he so bravely started.

  In recent years, I have met several other famous international politicians, including Tony Blair, Gordon Brown, and David Cameron, the previous and current prime ministers of the United Kingdom. I met Hillary Clinton twice. I find her an incredibly inspiring woman who has a definite grace and power about her. I also met Stephen Harper, the Canadian prime minister, and Peter MacKay, the Canadian defense minister.

  I have yet to meet President Obama, but I hope I shall. Afghans followed his campaign and subsequent election very closely, and he became a very popular figure here. There was something very inspiring to us about his journey to become the first black president of the United States. Many Afghans also regarded him as someone who would favor negotiation over war and who had a very strong understanding of foreign policy and global issues.

  As the years have passed, I have made some very good friends and allies at the international level, among the fraternity of diplomats and among aid workers and journalists. I believe we all have something to learn from each other and that cooperation between nations is essential. For too long, Afghanistan has allowed itself to be a pawn that is moved and shifted by the hands of more powerful players. I believe that Afghanistan can and will one day take its rightful role as a power player within the Asian region. As a nation, we need to learn to work more strategically with our allies and stand up to our enemies.

  We don’t have to be a nation that the world either fears as terrorists or pities as victims. We are a great people and we can be a great nation. Achieving this for my country is my life’s ambition. I’m not certain what God’s purpose is for me, only that he has one. It may be that he has chosen me to lead my country out of the abyss of corruption and poverty or simply that he wants me to be a hard-working MP and a good mother who will raise two shining stars as daughters.

  Whatever the future holds for me and my nation, I know that God alone wills it.

  Dear Father,

  I was almost four years old when you were martyred. In that short time you only addressed me directly once, and that was to tell me to go away.

  I don’t know how you would react to seeing me in the position that I am in today. But I like to think that you’d be proud of what the youngest child of your favorite wife has achieved.

  I barely knew you, my father, but I know I have inherited many of your qualities. When I hear people tell stories about you I am always proud of your honesty, frankness, and hard work. So many years after your death and you are still remembered for these qualities.

  I think that if you are not honest with yourself then you cannot be honest with others. I know your frankness made you different from the other members of parliament. I know you always believed in what you did and would stand by your values and the decisions you took on behalf of your people. These characteristics made you a great man.

  In my job as an MP, the very same job that you used to do before me, I often think of you and wonder how you would react to a difficult situation.

  Remembering you gives me the courage to remain fearless and determined—over 30 years later and you still lead by example.

  I inherited more than your values, Father. I inherited your political legacy. It is a legacy I will never betray. Even if I know that one day, just like you, I will probably be killed because of this work.

  But I don’t want that to happen, Father. And perhaps, God willing, it won’t. If I stay alive then perhaps one day I might even get to be president. What do you think of that, Father? I hope that thought makes you smile in heaven.

  With love,

  Your daughter

  TWENTY

  A DREAM FOR A WAR-TORN NATION

  Let me share with you a memory.

  Two years ago I went to one of the villages in Badakhshan in order to hear the problems of the people and to find out what I could do to help them. On the way the weather became dark and we had to spend the night in one of the houses in the village. The family that we spent the night with was one of the richest families of what was a very poor village. The house owner guided us toward his home, and the young people of the village had lined up on the both sides of the road to welcome us. After greeting them we went on toward our host’s house.

  A beautiful young woman, about 30 years old, wearing ragged clothes and a red scarf came out of the house to welcome us. I greeted the woman and she bent to kiss my hands. I was embarrassed. I did not expect the young and beautiful woman to respect me in that way. I hadn’t done anything for this woman or for her village, so I didn’t allow her to kiss my hands. The woman, who seemed unhappy and worried, invited us into the living room. The room was small and dark. It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they did I noticed she was heavily pregnant.

  The woman brought us green tea, dried mulberries, and walnuts. I asked her how many children she had. She replied that she had five children and was now seven months pregnant.

  I was worried about the woman because she did not look right. She left the room again and came back with a big plate of sweet Afghan rice pudding that she had made for us. She spread out a cloth and then put the big wooden bowl of rice on it.

  Dinner was a good time for me to try and engage her in conversation in order to get more information. I started by talking about the weather. I said: “It’s summer but your village is high in the mountains and the weather still feels cold; in winter it must be very cold here.” The shy woman replied: “Yes, in winter we have a lot of snow, we can’t even get out of the house it snows so heavily.” I asked her: “How do you work then? Is someone helping you with the house work?”

  She replied: “No one helps me. I wake up at four in the morning. I clear the snow until the doors of the stable are accessible, then I feed the cows and other animals. After that I prepare dough and bake bread in the tandoor oven. Then I clean the house.”

  “But you are heavily pregnant,” I said. “Do you still do all this on your own even when pregnant?”

  “Yes,” she replied. She seemed surprised that I was surprised by her answer.

  I told her I didn’t think she looked well and that I was worried about her. She told me she felt very ill: “I work all day and at night I cannot move because I am in so much pain.”

  I asked her why she didn’t see a doctor. She told me that it wasn’t possible because the hospital was far away.

  I told her that I would talk to her husband on her behalf and tell him he must take her.

  She replied: “If my husband takes me to the hospital then we would have to sell a goat or a sheep in order to pay for my treatment. He would never agree to that. On top of that, how would we get there? The hospital is three days walking and we don’t have a donkey or horse.”

  I told her that her life should be more important than a goat or a sheep. If she is healthy she can take care of the whole family, but if she is sick then she can’t look after anyone.

  She shook her head and smiled a slow, wistful smile o
f sadness: “If I die then my husband will marry somebody else, but the whole family is fed by the milk of the goats and the meat from the sheep. If we lose a goat or sheep then who will feed this family? From where will this family get food then?”

  I HAVE NEVER FORGOTTEN this poor woman. And I doubt she is alive today. Her multiple pregnancies, her poor diet, her exhaustion, her lack of access to a doctor. Any one of these things could have killed her.

  There are hundreds of thousands of women like her across Afghanistan.

  Her attitude was typical of many. The typical Afghan woman does not fear death and wants to keep her family happy and satisfied at any cost.

  Brave and kind, she is ready to sacrifice herself for the sake of others, but what does she get in return? Normally very little. And a husband who puts the cost of a goat or a sheep above his wife’s life.

  When I remember this woman, tears come to my eyes and I feel more compelled than ever to help all those others like her.

  I have a dream that one day all the humans in Afghanistan will have equal rights. Afghan girls have talent, skill, and the capacity to be educated. They should be given every opportunity to be educated and literate, and to participate fully in the political and social future of the country.

  I dream that the culture of ethnic division disappears in Afghanistan. I hope also that the Islamic values that have shaped our history and our culture are kept safe from false and wrong interpretations.