by Fawzia Koofi
It turned out that Hamid had gone to our house and found the curtains drawn and no one there. He had asked around and found out where we had gone. Then he realized that this could work to our advantage. If I was in Mujahideen-controlled land, I was around armed militias and commanders and therefore at higher risk of getting raped. Hamid figured my brother had enough on his plate keeping his own two wives safe without also having to worry about my honour. This might finally make him more open to the idea of our marriage.
So here was his sister at our door with the proposal. She and her uncle, along with her three and four-year-old children, had come from Kabul to ask Mirshakay once more for my hand. The journey had been a dangerous one. In addition to the fighting, they had gotten stuck when an avalanche narrowly missed their car and blocked the road in front of them; they had spent the night freezing. They could have been killed, and I felt rather angry at Hamid for having put them through all that because of me. Nonetheless, I was secretly thrilled at his newfound determination to make our wedding happen.
As Hamid had thought, my brother no longer had the power he had had in Kabul. He was exhausted and stressed. But he still wasn’t quite ready to give in. In our culture, if you want to say no to someone’s proposal politely you don’t actually say so but rather give the person a list of requests they have no way of meeting. My brother knew Hamid’s family had risked their lives to bring this request and he couldn’t be so rude as to turn them away with no hope. But he still wasn’t prepared to let the union happen. So after we had all finished dinner, he quietly told them the engagement could go ahead only if they paid for a house (which would be in my name) and gave large amounts of gold and jewellery and twenty thousand dollars in cash.
That was a lot of money, especially in wartime and especially for this family, who although not dirt poor were certainly not rich. I was not allowed to be part of the negotiations, of course. Hamid’s sister and I were in the next room, and we strained our ears to the wall trying to keep abreast of proceedings. I gasped with horror when I heard my brother’s conditions. Amazingly, however, Hamid’s uncle agreed. He sounded somewhat shocked and not entirely happy but he did a good job of recovering himself and not appearing flustered. He must have been fuming inside, but he took his turban from his head and placed it in front of my brother as a sign of thanks for accepting the relationship.
Hamid’s sister gathered up her children and hugged me goodbye with a warm smile before throwing her burka back over her head. The men put on their turbans before they left. The Taliban had made the wearing of turbans and beards obligatory for all men.
A few days later, my brother was asked to go to the Panjshir Valley, to help plan a new government-led attack on Kabul. After he left, the Salang Pass was closed once again and he was trapped on the other side. We had no news about him for forty days. The tension was unbearable. We had no idea what we would do if he was killed.
Finally, we received news that he had been in Badakhshan. He had been temporarily ordered back there by his commanders to create a new stronghold for the Mujahideen and to help organize a new line of defence. The Taliban were gaining more and more ground, and the commanders feared they were about to take more of the central and northern provinces. Eventually, he was returned to us safely.
The green shoots of spring were already pushing through the snow, but I had started to feel depressed again. Springtime should have meant a new term for me, and I desperately wanted to be back at university.
One day, my sister-in-law asked me to go shopping for the family dinner. For some reason, I kept imagining I was seeing Hamid’s face everywhere at the bazaar. Every time I left a shop or turned a corner, I thought I saw him. Then he disappeared. I started to think I might be going mad. When I got home, we had a visitor. He was a teenage boy, one of our distant relatives who was also related to Hamid by marriage. I started to feel depressed again and politely excused myself to go to my room. The boy followed me to say goodbye. As he did so, he thrust a small piece of paper into my hand.
I closed the door of my room and opened the paper. It was a letter. My eyes scanned to the end of the page to see who it was from, but in my heart I already knew. Hamid. He was here in Puli Khumri. I hadn’t been going mad at the bazaar. I was really seeing Hamid. He had been following me in secret. The letter told me he was here and that he was going to come the next day to talk to my brother about our marriage. This time, he would ensure that it would really happen.
I barely slept that night. The next day, just as he had promised in the letter, Hamid came to our house and asked to see my brother. Mirshakay was surprised, and possibly a little horrified, when Hamid produced the twenty thousand dollars in hard cash and documents showing proof of a house purchase. Despite all this, Mirshakay still wasn’t prepared to give Hamid my hand in marriage. Even now, he couldn’t bring himself to say the final and direct yes that Hamid was waiting for.
Although the family was far from rich, they did own land in Badakhshan and had sold some of it to get the money. It wasn’t as if they had nothing, but of course my brother, who owned four houses in Kabul and a house in Lahore, didn’t see it that way.
Once again, the negotiations were strictly a male affair and we women sat in a different room. That was a strange feeling for me, sitting quietly and straining my ears to hear my future being argued over like a business transaction. In some ways, it reminded me of my childhood, sneaking up to my father’s guest rooms to eavesdrop on the discussions inside. As I listened, I felt an odd mixture of pride, curiosity and powerlessness.
When I heard they had the money, I let out an involuntary squeak. My life had been pretty much dust in Puli Khumri. No university, no stimulation and nothing to do. I had no idea how marriage was going to be, but I figured it had to be less boring than this.
Engagements in Afghanistan are binding and as serious as the marriage contract. Only in exceptional circumstances can they be broken. The enormity of that suddenly hit me. I started to think about all the warnings my brother had given me. His voice kept repeating in my head: “Fawzia jan, do not marry this poor man. You can have any man you want. You will not be able to survive on his monthly salary. Marry a rich man, a powerful man.”
I must admit, I started to have second thoughts. It is hard to imagine your life as a newlywed when your country is in ruins. Staying safe and alive took precedence over indulging in dreams. I had no idea what was going to happen, how long the Taliban would be here, whether the fighting would ever end, where we would live, whether I would be able to study again or ever be able to work.
My elder sister saw that I had gone white. She looked at me sternly and said, “Fawzia, you must decide. Now. Right now. If you don’t want this to go ahead, this is your last chance to say so. Do you understand?”
A few days earlier, in a last effort to tempt me away from marrying Hamid, Mirshakay had promised me I could go to Pakistan and stay with his second wife in his house in Lahore. He said I could enrol in a Pakistani university. The idea of studying medicine again in a country not blighted by war was a wonderful one. But although I barely knew Hamid, what little I had seen of him convinced me we could make our marriage work. I knew he was an unusual Afghan man, one who would treat me like an equal and genuinely support my desire to work. He was not rich and the future was full of uncertainty, but he still felt like the right choice for me. Because he was my choice.
As is so often the case in my family history, it needed a woman to take the decisive action. When my sister Maryam told me to make a decision, I nodded a silent yes. Then she knocked and entered the men’s room and asked to speak to my brother. Outside the room, she bravely and sternly told him to stop challenging these poor people. They had the money as promised. It was time for him to make a decision. Yes or no. He pursed his lips and rolled his eyes dramatically, let out a large sigh and then agreed with her, albeit reluctantly.
My sister prepared a bowl of sweets and put some flowers and a handkerchief with a small
red flower on it inside the bowl. I still have that handkerchief. The items in the bowl were a sign of our family’s final acceptance. The bowl was ceremoniously sent into the room where Hamid was sitting. I wish I could have seen the joy on his face when he saw it and realized his dreams were coming true at last. The sharing of sweets is the traditional Afghan way of formalizing the engagement. The groom’s family then put money in the bowl to pay for the wedding. Hamid took a sweet, unwrapped it carefully and ate it, then put another five thousand dollars inside the bowl. He had been prepared for that cost too.
The next day, they came back again for lunch. I was in the kitchen from early morning. As I washed rice and peeled cucumbers, I smiled as I realized how much love I was pouring into the cooking. The simple pleasure of preparing food for those they love is something all women feel at some time. It must be something ancient within us, so much part of our biology and nature. I was reminded of my mother cooking for my father and how she always wanted things to be perfect for him. Here I was doing the same. As I chopped the vegetables, I made sure to cut them just so, into lovely little straight pieces that he would delight in eating.
I was still not allowed to see my husband-to-be. The only glimpse I got of him was as he and his family left. I hid behind a curtain at the window and sneaked a glance at him as he walked to the gate. I think he knew I was going to be watching him, because he stopped and paused, pretending to scratch his head. I think he considered sneaking a glance back at me, but he obviously decided it was too risky in case my brother saw.
As Hamid walked to his car, I felt a surge of excitement. It had been almost four years since his first proposal. He had never given up on his quest to marry me. I was now twenty-one years old, and I was finally going to be a bride.
Dear Shuhra and Shaharzad,
So many times, I and other members of our family survived because of the kindness of other people. People who risked their own lives to help us, offer us shelter or hide us from danger. And we weren’t alone. All over our country, ordinary men and women opened their doors to people who needed them. Neighbours turned a blind eye as little girls scurried under cover of darkness to secret girls’ schools in underground basements. These schools were run by wonderful, brave Afghan women, who despite the dangers to themselves knew they couldn’t let the Taliban destroy the education of a generation of girls.
We had so many war widows in those days, thousands upon thousands of women who had lost husbands and fathers and who were now the main breadwinners in their family and responsible for ensuring their children were fed. But the Taliban denied all women the right to work. So these women, who had already lost so much, were forced to beg and rely on the kindness of strangers. Many didn’t survive and many of the widows’ children died of disease or starvation. Some did survive, however, because people who saw them begging on the streets did not walk by. Even though they didn’t have much themselves, they still gave what little they could. This is what it means to be a true Muslim. To give alms to the poor is one of the main tenets of Islam and the Holy Koran instructs us to do it not only at times of great celebration, such as the start of the Eid festival, but also every other day of our lives.
I know sometimes you get frustrated by the constant queues of people outside the door of our house. These are people who want to talk to me or need my help. Every morning from daybreak, a small queue forms outside our house. Sometimes, before we have even had breakfast, a dozen people are waiting. I know you get upset because these strangers never make appointments and they demand so much of my time, when you too need your mother’s time and attention. Especially in the morning, when I am trying to help you pack your school bags and enjoy our few moments together before parliament business takes me away. But girls, as frustrating as it can be, please try to understand that I cannot turn these people away.
This is a lesson I want you to learn. Never turn anyone away from your door because you never know when you might need to throw yourself at the mercy of another.
With love,
Your mother
· · ELEVEN · ·
Everything Turns White
{ 1997 }
SINCE THEIR INITIAL victory in capturing Kabul, the Taliban had been steadily gaining ground in the north of the country. The Mujahideen were still determined to try to stop them, but areas that had been under the full control of the Mujahideen government began to lose pockets to the Taliban. In the middle of a government-controlled area, a village would suddenly fly the white flag of the Taliban.
Anywhere they had supporters or an ethnic connection among the locals, the flag would appear. In what had previously been government strongholds—Mazar, Baghlan, Kunduz—these white flags kept appearing. As the Taliban gained power in the north, they decimated the culture. They banned women from wearing white trousers or even white socks. They saw the wearing of white as disrespect for the colour of their flag. But in many northern provinces, the common colour for a burka is white. Only in Kabul and in the south was it blue. Most of the women in the north who wore burkas owned them only in white, but the Taliban still beat them for it. They were beaten for not wearing a burka and then they were beaten for wearing a burka in the wrong colour. It was insanity.
By now, the Taliban were moving swiftly across the country. They took full control of Baghlan and Kunduz. Takhar and Badakhshan were the only two provinces in which they couldn’t get a foothold. Once they captured a province, they immediately closed the schools and arrested people. It was barbaric. They would torture people without any justice or trial. It seemed they simply made up the rules as they went along. The north, which generally had a more open-minded culture than the south, was in a state of collective shock.
But then some Northern Alliance commanders (the original Mujahideen) started to make deals with the Taliban in order to protect themselves. It was never a meeting of minds because the Taliban were much more fundamentalist in their thinking and their ideas than the Mujahideen ever were. And besides, the Taliban’s power sources were based overseas. They didn’t really need internal alliances. Even some of the former Communists tried to ally themselves with the Taliban. However, the Taliban usually just used people, then betrayed or assassinated them. As the Taliban saw it, either you were one of them or you weren’t.
By this point, our once close-knit family was spread out in little units all over the country. Most of my elder sisters still lived in Badakhshan, having married local village men. I missed them very much. Mirshakay had never been quite the same since Muqim’s death and he decided he had had enough of Afghanistan once and for all. His plan was to go to Pakistan to pick up his second wife and from there travel onto Europe.
Before he could start to carry out his plan, Massoud and Rabbani’s men sent word that he was needed in Takhar province to help establish a force there to fight against the Taliban. So we followed him there and began yet another temporary life in yet another rented house. A few weeks later, Massoud himself came from Takhar to Panjshir to organize his troops, so my brother took this opportunity to ask for permission and safe passage to take his family to safety to Pakistan via Kabul. Massoud agreed.
Mirshakay took off his uniform and put on civilian clothes, as we women hastily threw what we could into bags. Then, we took a taxi towards Kabul. We reached our old base of Puli Khumri, and because it was late we decided to spend the night there with some of Mirshakay’s friends. In the morning, this family decided to return to Kabul with us.
All the women except me wore a burka. I still had the black Arab-style full niqab, which covered my face in the same way as a burka did. The women rose early, preparing boiled eggs and potatoes for the journey. The distance wasn’t far, but we had no idea how long it would take us because of the fighting.
We set off just before dawn. As the sun rose, we heard the sounds of fighting. We were driving through the front line. The main roads were unsafe because of heavy artillery, so we stuck to the back roads. As dawn broke, we saw a bridge ahead of
us connecting two villages on either side of a fast-flowing river, just as the sound of the fighting seemed to get closer. We were almost at the bridge when a mortar hit it and it blew up, exploding into tiny shards of metal and wood.
We had no choice but to get out and walk. My sister-in-law had recently had a baby and carried the newborn with her. She had not expected that we would need to walk, and she had, perhaps not very sensibly, chosen to wear high heels for the journey. We had to walk for most of the day. It wasn’t a straight, direct path. We had to climb up a rocky mountain, through gardens of rose and mulberry trees, then down to a path that ran along the side of a river. The main road was too dangerous to walk on because of the heavy artillery shelling coming from either side. That would have made us sitting ducks. At times, so many rockets were whizzing overhead that we had to stop and take cover in bushes. Occasionally, a taxi would take us part of the way—not official taxis but ordinary people charging money to drive people. They risked their lives because they needed the cash.
One car took us right to the front line where the Taliban and Massoud’s men were shooting at each other. This was the road over the Shomali Plain crossing Jabul Saraj. We were getting closer to the outskirts of Kabul. Normally, the road would be busy, but no taxis dared drive here now. We joined crowds of people who were also walking. I laughed at the irony: these were the same people we had seen fleeing Kabul the day the Taliban took the city. Now, the once-quieter towns were the scenes of fighting and Kabul was once again the safer option. Hungry wild dogs ran over the plains snarling at people. As I stepped over some grass, I almost trod on a snake. It scared me as much as the rockets.