Letters to My Daughters (35 page)

That same voice and my desire to save those in trouble still guide me through my political life today.

Perhaps the ways in which I failed your father are an even greater motivation. For every injustice I can help solve in my job as an MP, perhaps it makes up a little for what I could not ultimately do: save his life.

With love,
Your mother

· · NINETEEN · ·
A Movement for Change

{
2005
}

ON ELECTION DAY, the mood was jubilant. My sisters had been mobilizing female voters, arranging free transport to take them to and from the polling stations. We did that not simply because we wanted them to vote for me; we wanted to ensure that the women with valid voting cards actually got a chance to use them, no matter what candidate they voted for. My sisters were dressed in their burkas so women voters on the buses didn't know who they were. That allowed them to take a rough poll of how the women intended to vote. After the buses had been dropped off at the polling stations, my sisters ran into my office excitedly and told me virtually all of the women on the transport had said they were voting for me.

I knew I was going to win by then, but I was still tense. This is Afghanistan and anything can happen. I was also worried I might be assassinated at any moment. There had already been several threats and incidents such as bombs under my car. But in some ways, I was more worried about what would happen after I won and about how I would cope with the expectations and the pressure.

The polling stations opened at 6 A.M. One of my sisters had hired a car and driver and intended to visit as many polling stations as possible to check there was no cheating or fraud, a problem that blights almost every Afghan election. She rang me from the first polling station. She was shouting, actually screaming, “Fawzia, something is wrong here. The election staff are supporting a candidate—they are not neutral. They are telling people who they should vote for!”

I called some of my contacts in the electoral commission and asked them to send monitors. A western member of staff went to check the situation and called me back to say everything was fine. But of course no one would commit fraud openly in front of a foreigner.

Then I got a call from another district to say the same thing was happening there. One of the candidates was the brother of a local police commander, and all the policemen in that area had been ordered to go and vote for him. My campaign office kicked into action. They started to call all the journalists we knew—the BBC, the local Afghan radio stations, anyone we could think of. We had to get the message out that we knew they were cheating because that was the only way to stop it.

My half brother Nadir had wanted to stand for election himself and had been very opposed to my candidacy, more because he didn't think it was a job for a woman than because he was angry at not having won the family selection. If another brother had decided to stand, Nadir would have been happier about it. Earlier in the campaign, he had allegedly been furious every time he saw my face on posters, even ripping some down. But on this day, his family loyalty took precedence over his resentment. He spent the day driving to some of the most remote polling stations to monitor them. When the roads were too bad to drive, he got out and trekked the mountains on foot. He had not wanted me to stand, but now that I was running he most certainly was not going to allow his little sister to lose because of fraud. I was very grateful to him for that.

At the end of the day, all the ballot boxes were collected and brought to Faizabad. They were locked overnight, and counting started the following day. My volunteer campaign team was so scared that election staff might tamper with the boxes that two of them decided to spend the night outside the election offices. They had no blankets but stayed there in the cold the whole night. I was so touched by the dedication these young volunteers were showing me; I knew they were really doing it to help their country and the democratic process. When youth do that, it is extremely moving to see.

The counting process took two very long weeks in total, but all early indications were that I would win the seat despite the fraud.

I felt the tension lift and was finally able to get some rest. That evening, I was enjoying a dinner with friends when my brother Mirshakay rang me from Denmark. He was crying and sobbing hysterically. His eldest son, Najib, had drowned that afternoon.

My brother had two wives. His second wife was with him in Denmark, but his first wife had opted to stay in Afghanistan. Najib was the son of the first wife and the only child she and my brother had together. He was a lovely, kind young man and been part of my campaign team. The morning after the election, he had gone with friends on a picnic and decided to swim. The current had taken him by surprise and swept him away. I struggled to believe what I was hearing. Why did every happy event in my family have to end with a tragedy or a death?

Towards the middle of the first week of the counting, we became aware that some of the election commission staff were cheating. They had been seen removing ballot papers with my name on them and not counting them. One of my supporters actually saw it happen with his own eyes. He was furious and began shouting, “Look, she is a woman and she is risking her life to stand. Why don't you count her vote? We are the young generation and we want her to lead us.” The argument escalated so violently that the police were called. Fortunately, the police chief took the allegations seriously and ordered a recount of several boxes while they watched. On the recount, I received three hundred extra votes just from a few boxes. They most certainly had been cheating.

At the end of the count I had won eight thousand votes. The candidate who came next won seven thousand. As a female candidate, I was part of a quota system designed to ensure at least two women from each province entered parliament on reserved seats. I had needed only eighteen hundred votes to fulfill the quota but I was pleased the results proved I would have won anyway, quota or no quota.

I have mixed feeling about these quota systems. I can see why quotas are important in male-dominated countries like Afghanistan where women do need extra support to enter politics. But I also feel uneasy about them because I worry they can prevent people from taking women seriously. I want to win people's votes on merit and on an equal playing field.

By the time confirmation came that I had won, I was aware that politics had changed my life utterly. Privacy was a thing of my past. There was now a constant stream of visitors at my door, asking for my help on everything from employment issues to illness. It was overwhelming.

And without a husband, it was even harder. Most male MPs have a partner to help them manage daily life and deal with guests. Most female MPs are either unmarried or widowed like me; sadly, that is no coincidence—few Afghan men would allow or support their wives to take such a high-profile political role.

I had been lucky to have such a rare and supportive husband and I know Hamid would have done anything and everything he could to help me manage this new role. But with him gone, I had to cope with everything all alone. The girls were upset because I wasn't able to put them to bed every night like I had done before. I felt guilty and torn and wondered if I had made the right decision. Like working women all over the world, I wondered if I had selfishly put my own ambitions ahead of my children. But then I thought back to my father. Had it been so different for him? Didn't he also feel guilt at leaving his wives and brood of children for weeks on end because of his job? It was the price we had to pay in order to serve our people, and I was consoled when I reminded myself that part of the reason I wanted to work for change was so that my daughters would have a better country to grow up in.

But then the smears and rumours started against me. And I realized just how hard it is to be a woman in a man's world. My opponents, angry over my victory, started a stream of viciously untrue slander against me, ranging from the suggestion I had a rich businessman boyfriend in Dubai who had funded my campaign to the accusation that I had lied about my achievements on my CV. But the most hurtful of all was that I had divorced Hamid in order to stand for election and had lied about his death. According to this particularly nasty rumour, Hamid was alive and well and living in a mountain village.

I was still grieving so deeply for my husband that this false allegation made me shake with rage. How dare these people propagate such hurtful filth? It was nothing short of disgusting. Unfortunately, I was not alone. Most of the female politicians I know have suffered similarly vicious false rumours. And such rumours are more than just hurtful; they are downright dangerous. In Afghanistan, a woman's reputation and honour can mean her life. And my opponents knew that very well. They did not care if their lies would lead to my death—and that is something I struggle to understand. How can the gossips fail to see the consequences of their actions? I believe that to spread casual gossip or lies about another person without any factual basis is both un-Islamic and a sin. And those who do so will be judged for it.

The weeks after the election were a crazy period of adjustment. On some days, I had five hundred people come to see me. At times, people had to sit in corridors because there was no room. They all wanted to know what my policies were and what I was going to do for them. I had to sit and talk to everyone individually, explaining the same thing over and over again. It was clear I couldn't go on like this, so after a few weeks I managed to get a little more organized and hired staff to manage an appointments system.

In October 2005, the new democratic parliament opened after thirty-three years of conflict. On the day of the opening ceremony, I was beside myself with joy. The streets were closed to traffic because of the risk of suicide bombers trying to disrupt proceedings. But people still came out onto the streets to wave flags and dance the
attan,
the national dance.

A bus came to take all the female MPs together to the parliament, and as we drove past the dancing citizens I felt such joy in my heart. We passed a big poster of President Karzai and Ahmad Shah Massoud, and I started to cry. I really felt that I was part of a new Afghanistan, a country that was finally leaving violence behind and embracing peace. Whatever personal sacrifices I was making now, it would be worth it to achieve this.

For the first time in my life, I had a sense of pride and maturity and a feeling that I could change things. I had both the power and a voice to make a difference. I was so very happy, but I still couldn't stop crying. Since Hamid died, I rarely cry. I've been through so much in my life: my father assassinated, my brother murdered, my mother dying, my husband dying, our house being looted. I've cried so many tears over the years that these days I have no tears left. But on that momentous occasion, I think I cried the whole day long. Only this time, they were tears of happiness.

I had never been inside the parliament building until that day and I was almost overcome with excitement at the thought that this was my new place of work and my office. Under the new postwar system of governance that had been decided for Afghanistan, the National Assembly was created as the national legislature. It is a bicameral body, composed of the lower house called the Wolesi Jirga (House of the People) and the upper house known as the Meshrano Jirga (House of the Elders). I was one of sixty-eight women in the lower house and twenty-three women in the upper house. The lower house is made up of 250 members elected to five-year terms directly by the people, in proportion to the population of each province; a quota requirement of two women from each province was instituted to ensure women got elected. In the upper house, one-third of the members are elected by provincial councils for four years, one-third are elected by district councils of each province for three years and one-third are appointed by the president. Again, there is a quota to ensure female representation. Finally, there is the Stera Mahkama, the Supreme Court, which constitutes Afghanistan's highest chamber in the judicial system. The Stera Mahkama is made up of nine judges appointed by the president to a ten-year term, with the approval of the parliament. Judges must be at least forty years of age, have a degree in law or Islamic jurisprudence and be free of any affiliation to a political party.

As I looked around the room, I realized some of my fellow MPs were former presidents, ministers, governors and powerful Mujahideen commanders—all now sitting in the same room as women like me. Zahir Shah, the former monarch who had promised to bring democracy so many years ago and the man whom my father had served, was also there. He was a very old man now and was living in exile in Europe, but for this historic day he made one last trip home.

The national anthem was played and we all stood up. As I looked around at my fellow newly elected MPs, I felt I could see all of Afghanistan in their faces. There were men in big turbans and long coats, intellectuals in smart suits and ties, young people, old people, women, and people from every different ethnic group. This is what democracy means to me: people with different views, cultural beliefs and experiences coming together under one roof to work alongside one another for a common aim. After so much bloodshed and tears, it was a beautiful thing to see and even more beautiful to be part of it.

More national songs were played, including one called “Daz Ma Zeba Watan” (which can be roughly translated as “This Land Was My Ancestors'”). It's one of my favourite songs and sums up how I feel about my country. The lyrics go like this: