Born Under a Million Shadows (37 page)

af
slang for afghani, the currency of Afghanistan

bakhsheesh
a gratuity, tip, or bribe

bolani
flat-bread stuffed with spinach or potato

bukhari
a steel or aluminium stove

buzkashi
a team sport where the players on horseback attempt to place a goat carcass into a goal

chador
a headscarf worn by women

ISAF
the NATO-led International Security Assistance Force

ISI
Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence

kafan
sheets of clean, white cloth that wrap a body before burial

kafir
an unbeliever

kuchi
a nomad

madrassa
a school for teaching Islamic theology and religious law

mantu
steamed dumplings filled with minced meat and topped with white yogurt

pakol
a round-topped hat worn by Afghan men, typically made of wool

patu
a woolen shawl

Ramazan
the Muslim holy month of fasting more commonly known as Ramadan but pronounced “Ramazan” in Afghanistan

Acknowledgments

I have so many people to thank whose lives and stories inspired me in a million different ways to reveal a side of Afghanistan that is all too often ignored. In spite of the hardships—and there are many—this is a land filled with laughter and light, compassion and spirit. It is a land that has inspired many before me and will inspire many who will come after. And it is a land that I have fallen deeply in love with.

AFGHAN

First and foremost, I want to thank the family and friends of Haji Abdul Qadir, who showered me with warmth, affection, and good humor from the moment I first set foot on Afghan soil in 2001. Special thanks also go out to my “brothers” Fida and Israr, Haji Daud, Zalmai, Bilal, Tiger, Mustafa Khan, Ahmad, Daoud, Nadar, Pir Hederi, Fareydoon, Pir Bakhsh, Ibrar, Haji Almas, Massoud and family, Monir, Qasi Naeem, Safi, Gulbaz, Bashir, Zaman, Assad, Sayeed, Anwar, Sharab, Sayed Ikram, Koochi, Najib, Mohammad Sharif, and the Mohseni family.

My love and gratitude also go to three very special children who brought a rare magic into my life: Fawad, Ali Reza, and Shabnam. Although the story I’ve written bears no resemblance to their own, these children with their infectious smiles and huge hearts were a tremendous source of inspiration, surprise, and delight.
Born Under a Million Shadows
is my small tribute to them.

NON-AFGHAN

I have been blessed with some truly wonderful, committed, brave, and beautiful friends whose support, advice, and encouragement helped me turn a dream into a reality. Special thanks go to Frauke, Matthew, Alastair, Jerome, Jeremy, Rahilla, Chris, Tom, Rachel, Tim S., Jo, Nick, Richard, Meghann, Kristian, Marco, Mark, James, Paddy, Tim A., and Dominic.

Elsewhere, I am grateful for the fantastic support given to me by my agent, Charlie Campbell, and his costars at Ed Victor Ltd.; my editor, Helen Atsma, and the team at Henry Holt and Company; and the unwavering love and friendship of Janey and Lucy. Also, all my love and thanks go to my mother, Jean, my father, Mike, and my sister, Louise, who followed this book chapter by chapter.

And finally, I must thank Lorenz—who switched on the light and made me start writing. I love you.

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About Andrea Busfield

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About
Born Under a Million Shadows

…
and more

Jerome Starkey

Andrea Busfield
is a British journalist who first traveled to Afghanistan to cover the fall of the Taliban in 2001. She is now a full-time writer living in Bad Ischl, Austria.
Born Under a Million Shadows
is her first novel.

U
ntil recently, I lived in Kabul. To the outside world, Afghanistan’s capital was a city creeping into lawlessness. The Taliban had burst back onto the scene with a series of headline-grabbing suicide attacks. According to reports, Kabul’s expatriate community was living in fear, barricaded behind bomb-proof barriers, inside fortified compounds. But the reality was very different. Kabul was fun.

After shaking off the shackles of the fundamentalist regime following 9/11, the capital pulsed with life and possibility. Young men no longer hid handsome faces under fist-length beards. Afghan women were able to walk the city freely, to get an education, and to work for the first time in years. Shopping malls mushroomed, restaurants grew in sophistication, bars opened for business, and Western NGO workers and security personnel descended on the city in their thousands. Afghanistan promised opportunity, tax-free wages, and excitement—and Kabul offered postwar thrills with few of the risks of Baghdad.

In 2005, I applied for and won the post of print editor on the fortnightly newspaper
Sada-e Azadi
(Th e Voice of Freedom). The publication was a hearts-and-minds exercise financed by the NATO-led International Security Assistance Force (ISAF). The premise was simple: sixteen pages documenting the reconstruction effort in order to bolster support for the government and its military backers. In reality, most Afghans dismissed it for the propaganda it so evidently was and used it to line vegetable boxes and draft y windows. The job was a means to an end—I had been itching to move to Afghanistan ever since I was sent by a British newspaper to cover the War on Terror. From the moment I set foot on Afghan soil, I was hooked; the country was breathtakingly beautiful and its people proud, fierce, and gallant. By the time I moved to Kabul, the place felt like home.

Reprinted by permission of British
Vogue
.

I was well aware of the challenges I might face as a Western woman in an Islamic country precariously balanced between recovery and relapse. I always took care to respect the customs and I also learned the language. Most ordinary Afghans were not even remotely hostile to Westerners. When men stared at me in the street, it was out of curiosity, not malevolence. I was never made to feel unwelcome or vulnerable, which is why I declined the free accommodation offered behind the barbed-wire walls of the ISAF headquarters. I planned to spend at least two years in Afghanistan and sharing a metal container with another expatriate was not the way I planned to do it. So I hired a driver, employed a cook, and moved to a house on Lane 2, off Street 15, in Wazir Akbar Khan, a relatively plush suburb that was home to embassies, NGO compounds, and good restaurants.

I was well aware of the challenges I might face as a Western woman in an Islamic country precariously balanced between recovery and relapse.

By the time I moved in, spring had arrived and I was as happy as I’d ever been. I had a much-longed-for puppy, Blister; a two-story home opposite a Thai restaurant; a man to cook and “guard” the place; a decent job; and a mobile phone that buzzed with gossip and invitations. Kabul gave me a life I could never have dreamed of. Which is not to say that it didn’t have its difficulties.

In Kabul, electricity was a rare visitor that appeared for five hours a night every forty-eight hours—or every seventy-two hours when the rivers ran dry and the hydroelectricity dams shuddered to a halt. As a consequence, the capital hummed with the constant buzz of generators, which invariably broke down or ran out of fuel when you needed them most.

Being 5,900 feet above sea level, the winters were exceptionally harsh, hitting −20°C outside and −15°C inside. Pipes would freeze, water had to be drawn from a well, toilets were flushed manually using a bucket, and heating was a source of frustration and danger. One night, my diesel fire exploded, startling my dog and me, as well as the guards from the compound next door. They came running to help, suspecting some fiendish Taliban plot, only to find me in my pajamas, my face smeared with black soot, watching my crippled
bukhari
(stove) burn out.

Once the snow thawed and the sun came out, everyone followed it. In the center of town, Chicken Street would wriggle with Westerners bartering over Persian carpets, scarves,
pakoul
hats, and antique guns dating back to the Afghan-Anglo wars.

In the center of town, Chicken Street would wriggle with Westerners bartering over Persian carpets, scarves,
pakoul
hats, and antique guns dating back to the Afghan-Anglo wars.

On nonwork days, I would meet up with my best friends—Frauke, thirty-nine, a Dutch woman working for an NGO promoting textile and cashmere projects, and Rachel, thirty-five, a BBC producer. We would do lunch at Le Bistro before trawling the shops for new scarves, tunics, cosmetics, and toiletries, all the while followed by a small posse of children offering their services as bodyguards or bag carriers. But it was when the sun set and the call to prayer died on the breeze that the city turned magical. Shops decked with fairy lights and brightly colored bulbs gave evenings a festive
air; smoking charcoal from kebab stalls waft ed along pathways; and, from Wazir Akbar Khan to Shahr-e Naw to Qala-e Fatullah, Land Cruisers clogged the streets, ferrying people to dinner invitations, restaurants, and bars.