Letters to My Daughters (16 page)

I prayed and prayed for Massoud to come back. Each night I went to sleep begging him, willing him, to push back the front line into the city centre. I wanted to wake up and find the Taliban and their twisted ideas gone.

Eventually, we got a letter from my brother saying he had been hiding in his driver's house in Parwan province, just to the north of Kabul—a beautiful area with a river and lush valleys full of trees. In the summer, people have picnics there. Traditional Afghan picnics are a lovely affair—boiled eggs, juice and plump mulberries picked fresh from the trees.

My brother wanted his wife and children to go to him. I decided to travel with them. Even now, despite the dangers, I still could not bring myself to put on a burka, so I wore the black
niqab
instead, making sure my face was fully covered. I also wore a pair of glasses to disguise myself further: even with my face covered, I feared someone would recognize me as the sister of the police officer.

Although Parwan is right next to Kabul and the direct route is only an hour's drive, it was too close to the Mujahideen and Taliban front line to drive directly. We didn't want to risk being hit by a rocket, so we drove south first, from Sarobi to Tagab and then to Nijrab in Kapisa province, which is almost a day's travel on a bumpy road. This was totally the opposite direction of where we needed to go, but the direct route was too dangerous. So we had to loop back, then around, then backwards, then forwards, then backwards again to get to Parwan. Other people fleeing had discovered new tracks over fields, puzzling, circuitous tracks, some leading to nowhere, others to another loop. It was an awful journey. For the twelve hours we drove, I was terrified we'd hit a landmine, be robbed or come under gunfire. We didn't dare risk stopping for a break or for water.

Once again, I felt like I was driving away from my dreams. Every time I tried to start life anew, I was thwarted. This was no life, constantly moving, constantly escaping, living on nerves and everdwindling reserves of hope.

I was also driving away from Hamid. I hadn't been able to contact him to tell him I was leaving. And I hadn't seen him since the last day I was at university when he'd walked over to say hello to me. I recalled watching the back of his head as he retreated to the car, loving the way the wind caught his silky hair as it ruffled into little curls. I had spoken hardly more than a few sentences to him, but I truly felt that I was beginning to love him. Now that I was leaving with my family, I had no idea when I might see him again.

And now that the war was officially over, the world also began to move on. The Cold War had ended, and the mighty Soviet Empire was collapsing. The Afghan fight against the Russians was no longer of relevance to the West. It was no longer broadcast internationally on the nightly news. Our civil war was over, and as far as the world understood it the Taliban were now our government. We were yesterday's story. Other tragedies now occupied the front pages.

But our tragedy was not over. In many ways, it was just beginning. And for the next few years, the world forgot us. They were our bleakest years of need.

Dear Shuhra and Shaharzad,

If we Afghans lived in darkness during those years of war, then the days that were about to follow would truly plunge us into the blackest depths of hell. A living hell created by men who called themselves men of God and men of Islam. But these men represented nothing of the Islamic religion according to which I, and millions of other Afghans, live our daily lives. Ours is a peaceful, tolerant and loving faith that accords all human beings rights and equal value.

I want you to understand, as women, that true Islam accords you political and social rights. It offers you dignity, the freedom to be educated, to pursue your dreams and to live your life. It also asks that you behave decently, modestly and with kindness to all. I believe it is a true guide to living correctly in this earthly world, and I am proud to call myself a Muslim. I have brought you up to become good, strong Muslim women.

These men called themselves the Taliban. Their form of Islam was so alien to us it could have come from another planet. Many of their ideas about Islam came from different cultures, mostly from Arab lands. They rode in trucks and carried guns, promising the Afghan people they would keep the streets safe, restore order and promote strong justice and local harmony. In the beginning, many people believed them, but that hope quickly turned to fear and loathing, especially for the women and girls of Afghanistan.

You were lucky not to be young women in those days. Very lucky indeed.

With love,
Your mother

· · TEN · ·
Retreat to the North

{
1996
}

IN PARWAN, WE stayed with my brother's driver. The man and his family were not rich but they let us stay in an annex adjoining their house. They refused to allow us to cook, preparing all our food for us. My brother and his family and I were treated like honoured guests, not an unwelcome burden.

Things continued to get worse in Kabul, and my sister and her husband (who was also at risk from the Taliban because he was a police officer) came to join us. It was decided that this pair would move on again to Puli Khumri farther north and find a house, and then we would all go and join them. Although Parwan was still safe for now, it was not far enough from Kabul to remain so for much longer. Importantly for me, no one in the north forced you to wear a burka. For me, that was enough reason to go.

My sister and her husband had been in Puli Khumri, about 250 kilometres away, for almost a week but had not yet managed to arrange a house for us when the Taliban started gaining ground outside of Parwan, edging closer to where we were staying. I was fast asleep when Mirshakay shook me awake, screaming that we needed to get into the car now. The Mujahideen had closed the Salang Pass. The second-highest road pass in the world, the pass had been built by the Soviets by blasting a five-kilometre-long tunnel right through the centre of the mountain, an incredible feat of engineering. It was a one-lane pass, accessible only in the drier months. It is also the gateway to northern Afghanistan.

The Mujahideen were worried that thousands of people would now try to flee north, thereby bringing more insecurity and possibly the Taliban with them. So in a brutal but strategic military move, they ordered the pass closed. A move that trapped everyone on one side or the other. And which meant we would be unable to join the others in Puli Khumri.

My brother had managed to get an approval letter from one of the Northern Alliance commanders that allowed us to take two cars through: one for us and one for our security escort. One of the women in our party had neither a
niqab
nor a burka, so I gave her my
niqab
. All I had to wear on my head was a bright red scarf. By now, the fighting was coming so close that if the Taliban reached us and caught us, I would be badly beaten.

The escort car was also red, a Hilux pickup. The irony made me laugh; I wondered how much more visible we, and I in particular, could possibly make ourselves. We drove out of the house into the main street. Everywhere, people were trying to escape. A large coach drove towards us. It was crammed with terrified-looking people, three or four hanging out of each window and more lying on the roof. They looked like bees swarming a hive.

As we left the village for the main road, we joined a convoy of cars. Thousands of people were trying to escape the encroaching Taliban. Their cars were full of clothes, kitchen equipment, blankets and animals. Everything they owned. People were hanging off the sides of cars, anywhere they could.

I saw a man hanging from the door of a taxi. He was Uzbek in appearance, with a round face and almond-shaped eyes. He looked like a Mujahideen fighter. Blood was running down his leg, and he jumped down, obviously unable to hold onto the side of the taxi any longer. He walked over to our car holding a gun; he waved it and ordered us to stop, but the driver ignored him. Then he aimed at the tire and shot. As the tire burst, the car swerved and almost hit the man. I was sitting at the front of the car terrified that he would come and drag me out, but our driver held his nerve and managed to keep going. The man moved on to the cars behind, shooting desperately. I dared not look back to see if he had killed some poor family.

People had no idea where they were heading. They just wanted to get out. It was the beginning of winter, and as we rode up into the mountains towards the Salang Pass the cold began to bite. The altitude made it hard to breathe, and the chill even inside our car bit into toes and fingers. The pass was already closed, and those families without letters of permission had to either stay on the freezing mountain or drive back home and straight into the Taliban front line. Even with the letter, it took several hours to get through. The commanders didn't want to alarm their fighters on the other side of the pass with the sight of refugees fleeing, which would tell them they had lost ground in the battle, so they let only a few cars pass to make it look as normal as possible.

In the queue of cars, my sister-in-law saw her cousin, a young girl who had recently married. She and her husband had their six-week-old baby in the car. They looked terrified; they had no letter of permission. In the freezing cold, the baby would surely die. So we agreed to leave our security car behind and allow their car to take its place. Everything we owned was in the security vehicle: bags, money, jewellery. We were promised it would be allowed through later.

Once safely through the Salang Pass, we needed to take a road that went not over the mountain but around it, our car precariously clinging to the edge. Normally, I am terrified of such heights and flimsy roads but that day I was just relieved that the Taliban had not caught us.

My sister-in-law had managed to arrange a place for us to stay. It had only a few rooms but some sixty people already occupied it. They were my brother's men, former policemen who now had nowhere else to go. That is why we have so many illegal armed groups in Afghanistan. When the system collapsed, they had no option but to join up with whoever had been their officer or leader and form a militia. However, my brother didn't want us to be surrounded by so many men so he asked them to return home to their families.

At midnight, we were told the security vehicle containing all our things had been allowed to pass and was here. I grabbed the bags as they were carried inside. I think I already knew that our jewellery was gone. The people who were supposed to be guaranteeing our safety had taken the lot. These men belonged to another local commander who had done my brother a favour by sending us the escort, so there was little we could do. My sister-in-law went through her luggage again and again, sobbing and almost manically searching through all the pockets for her missing jewellery. I thought she was hysterical. But then she pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose loudly. I burst out laughing and then she followed suit. What else could we do but laugh? That handkerchief was pretty much all she had left. But at least we were safe again. For now.

Once again, the traumas of my homeland had forced my life to spiral out of my control. My dreams of being a doctor were shattered. By now the Taliban had banned all women from attending school and university. So even if Kabul had been safe enough for us to return, which it clearly wasn't, there was zero hope of my returning to study. Instead, my days were spent in Puli Khumri, cooking, cleaning or drinking
chai
in the garden. It was the life of boring drudgery my mother and sisters had endured, the one I had battled so hard to escape. I was very depressed. Days rolled into dusk, into sleepless nights and reluctant mornings when I would squeeze my eyes shut to block out the sun and the brightly mocking dawn of another new day.

By then so many male students, teachers and professors had fled the country the universities were almost pointless. Taliban rule had transformed Kabul from a war-torn city into a dead city. I honestly couldn't say which was worse.

People were arrested and beaten for the slightest misdemeanour. The Taliban went from door to door asking people to hand over their weapons. They refused to believe that not everyone in Kabul kept guns and wouldn't take no for an answer. If someone refused to hand their gun over or genuinely didn't have one, he was arrested and put in prison. Some families had to go out and buy weapons just to give them to the Taliban in order to release the person who'd been arrested.

One of the worst places someone could be taken was the Department of Vice and Virtue. The mere mention of this name could petrify the hearts of the bravest people. The pretty white stuccoed villa, situated in an area called Share Naw (New Town), had a garden full of lush grapes and scented roses. Here, people who had been accused of crimes against religion or what were called morality crimes were brought to be judged. Men whose beards were not long enough and women caught without burkas were brought here to be beaten on the soles of their feet with wire cable in the rooms inside, while outside Taliban guards sipped tea and told jokes among the roses. Here, terrified Kabuli women who had been accused of immorality were brought to be judged for their “crimes” by bearded mullahs from the conservative countryside villages of southern Afghanistan. Kabul and those villages had always been culturally and socially worlds apart. Women who just a few months earlier had proudly worn the latest fashions and carried books to university were being judged by unwashed men who couldn't read or write.

The Olympic sports stadium, a large round domed building that had once rung with the sounds of applause at cricket or football feats, became home to a new kind of sport—public executions. Adulterers and thieves were stoned to death or had their hands chopped off in front of cheering crowds. In grisly scenes reminiscent of a Roman coliseum, the prisoners were driven into the centre of the stadium in a pickup truck, dragged out and walked around for the crowd's entertainment. Then they were shot in the head or buried up to their waists and stoned to death. It didn't matter to those judging them or to the brutes casting the first stone that the thief may have stolen a loaf of bread to feed his hungry children or that the adulteress had in fact been raped.