by Fawzia Koofi
Sometimes, I long to see the day you will get married, but other times I don’t want it to happen because I know that on that day you will stop being my little girls and become grown women. I don’t want that to happen too fast.
But of course, I hope you will find love one day. Love is important. But not everyone thinks so. Many people believe duty, respect, religion and rules are more important than love.
But I do not think these things have to be separate. Love can exist alongside duty. Love thrives on duty. And on respect.
With love,
Your mother
Photographs
My loving mother, Bibi jan.
My father, Wakil Abdul Rahman.
A happy adolescence surrounded by family.
My father’s house in the Koof district, more than one hundred years old.
I chose a pink dress for nikah, the first part of the wedding ceremony with Hamid. It was a vibrant pink that shone a beam of joy amid all the misery of living under the Taliban regime.
Hamid was everything to me, a true and great Afghan man
My brother Mirshakay was always one of my most loyal supporters. Here he is surrounded by his children during a birthday.
Pilgrimage to Mecca. My faith has helped me overcome life’s most difficult hardships.
I like visiting in the field with the Badakhshani workers.
A speech to a rural Badakhshani community during my electoral campaign in September 2010.
Conversing with a group of illiterate women during my campaign in the rural areas of Badakhshan in September 2010.
Handing out pens to children in 2010.
With Canadian prime minister Stephen Harper. To my right, Sabrina Saqib, the youngest member of parliament.
With American president George Bush and Laura Bush.
To my right, Condoleezza Rice, U.S. secretary of state.
With British prime minister Tony Blair.
My two amazing daughters, Shuhra and Shaharzad, accompany me as often as they can. Here we are in the airplane during my electoral campaign.
A tender moment at home.
By the Koof River in my native village.
These days, I’m seen as a politician first, rather than just a woman. For this, I’m extremely proud.
Traditional Afghan closet!
· · THIRTEEN · ·
An End before a Beginning
{ 1997 }
MY WEDDING DAY marked the next new chapter of my life—as a wife. But I had no inkling just what a short and tragic chapter it was destined to be.
My husband lived in 4th Makrorian, in a three-bedroom purpose-built apartment. It was simple, solid and functional. He had made a real effort (I suspect with the help of his sisters) to decorate our bedroom nicely, buying 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 when I first saw it. By the time my wedding night arrived, I had been awake for twenty-four hours. Thankfully, my husband was also exhausted after such a long day and didn’t make any sexual 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. I was in a strange bed with a man beside me. For a split second, I struggled to work out where I was, and then I remembered. 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 felt some contentment with my life. Hamid was the kind, warm man I always suspected he was. We basked and glowed in each other’s company, laughing and making plans for our future. I hadn’t felt a joy like that since the first day I started school at age seven. Life was finally going my way.
A week after our wedding, we had another ceremony called takht-jami. The bride and groom sit under decorations, flowers and ribbons, and visitors come and congratulate them and give them gifts. In childhood, my sisters and mother would 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 the time of the Taliban was not so ostentatious. Friends and family came, bringing what they could. A tablecloth, some new dishes, fifty dollars.
We said goodbye to our last guests, and Hamid 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 Mirshakay was back in Kabul and had an arrest warrant for him. They had been searching for my brother for the past three days; 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 were the Taliban 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, the colour 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. They barked at us to stay where we were and then went into my bedroom. They started tearing the bedsheets off the bed, where so recently Hamid and I had begun our married life together.
It was such an invasion of privacy and 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, just turned the house upside down, tearing at the nice furniture with their dirty, unwashed hands.
Then they started 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 come back to the house and bounded happily through the front door, carrying a gift of chocolates for me, and walked right into them. If he had only paused to buy some fruit, chat to a neighbour or even bend 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. “We’ve been married only seven days, he knows nothing. This is my husband’s house, we are newlyweds, we are innocent people, leave us alone,” I begged them.
They simply asked me again, “Where is Mirshakay?” Then 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 neighbours had gathered to watch the scene. Nobody said anything. I grabbed my burka and followed my husband. Hamid knew me better than to tell me to stay at home and wait.
They put Hamid in a red Taliban pick up 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 with you?” I snapped at him. “What? Just let me in. I have to follow that
car.” He shook his head. “You need a muharram with you, 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 towards the new town. I was desperate not to lose sight of it. I hailed another taxi. This time, I spoke before the driver had a 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 . . .” This kind man, this complete stranger, outlined to me all the key details of his life in case I, just a random passenger, should have to pretend he was my brother. It was so absurd. But the driver’s actions were another reminder 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 centre 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. I thought if I paid him well, he might just help another woman in the same circumstances.
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 other Taliban had arrested me and ordered me to come into the building but that I couldn’t go with the men in their vehicle. 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, I think from shock. One moment, he was dashing home with chocolates for his new wife, the next he had been arrested. I ran over and grabbed his hand. I looked directly at the Talibs through my burka 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 will have no more muharram. How will I live? How will 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 could remain unmoved by the pleas of a mere woman. They ignored me and 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 bound, others were standing, all crammed into a stinking central courtyard.
One of the Talibs took Hamid’s hand, while I continued to hold the other. We had just started our new life, 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 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 he pushed me hard, so hard that I fell over into a puddle of stinking water. I was still wearing my high heels and a fancy dress. Less than an hour ago we had been receiving guests. Hamid turned his head to try to 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. 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, back to my brother’s house. His wife was there and she told me he was hiding in different relatives’ houses. For the past three days, he had 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 damaged during the civil war. I couldn’t do anything for Hamid now, but I could still try to help my brother.
When I got there, I entered the house brusquely. 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 were both teachers. The husband was a professor in the economics faculty at Kabul University, and the wife one of the brave Afghan women who, under the ban on female teachers, took great personal risks secretly running a school from home. She and her husband had no children.
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 about Hamid’s arrest 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 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 burka to walk such a long distance. I was never very good at walking in them anyway, but when I was wearing heels and had 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 towards the outer suburbs. We didn’t have anywhere to go as such, but we had limited choice in any case. Anywhere too public or central would have checkpoints; in the outer suburbs, there would be buildings we could hide behind, and not so many people. So we headed out. As we walked, we chatted. My brother asked me about Hamid and 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 had been 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 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, as was Hamid’s family, and we both missed the region. So that had been our plan. We would move back to the countryside, where I was to 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 four hours of aimless walking, we hailed a taxi. I had 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 4th Makrorian, near where Hamid and I lived. On the way we passed a checkpoint. We sat inside the car terrified that 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 before; she was one of Hamid’s relatives who had come to ask for my hand in marriage. He had not warmed to her. He said she wore too much makeup and her nails were too long. In Mirshakay’s view, those were signs of a lazy woman. But now he had to throw himself upon 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 was caught sheltering a man who was not a blood relative, she would be arrested and taken to the Vice and Virtue Department. 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 burka up and off my head, ran into the bedroom and wailed with sorrow and 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 that. Perhaps you are reading this letter because I’ve died or been murdered and you’ve lost me. We know one day that will happen; we’ve discussed it, and I want you to be prepared for that 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 herself. To lose the sense of who and what she is or to lose sight of her dreams—these are some of the saddest losses a woman can experience. They are not inevitable but are forced on us by those who do not want us to dream or to succeed. I pray you will never lose your dreams.
With love,
Your mother
· · FOURTEEN · ·
The Darkness Pervades
{1997}
I BARELY SLEPT that night. I was half mad with worry and fear, and my brain was racing, desperately trying to think of anyone who might be able to help me and to formulate a plan. As I stood in front of the mirror brushing my teeth in the morning, an idea came to me.