Letters to My Daughters (8 page)

The army soldiers appeared to be only defending their positions and weren't offering much resistance. Large numbers of Afghan soldiers had already deserted. Many were unwilling to fight their countrymen, and the soldiers knew exactly what the Mujahideen were capable of doing to any Russian soldiers they had caught during earlier battles: torturing and killing them. The torture became more gruesomely creative as time went on. Sometimes they burned people alive. Other times they would ask a prisoner his age and then nail that number of nails into his skull. Still other times they would cut a prisoner's head off and pour boiling oil into the corpse. When the hot oil encountered the nerve endings, the decapitated body moved around for a few seconds as if it were dancing. This form of torture was aptly called the “dead man's dance.”

The Afghan army knew that it was the new enemy and couldn't expect any more mercy than the Russians had. Many soldiers simply slipped off their uniforms and returned to normal civilian life.

After two days of fighting, the Mujahideen were declared the new government. Peace talks for the surrender and handover of power had already started at a conference in Geneva two years earlier, in 1989. So when the government in Kabul collapsed, few were surprised. Suddenly Faizabad was full of Mujahideen fighters who had come down from their mountain positions. I remember watching them, thinking how interesting and grizzled their faces looked. These were men who had been living in mountain camps, subsisting on scarce rations and fighting almost daily battles for several years. In my mind, soldiers wore smart uniforms, so it was very strange to see these casually dressed men in jeans and sneakers.

I wondered how some of them could ever readapt to civilian and civilized life. And I was not alone in that thought. The government offices were suddenly full of these men, and they terrified the locals; many schools shut their doors because parents refused to send their daughters, fearing they might be raped by these ex-fighters who now stalked the city streets.

But overall, most people in Afghanistan were happy that the Russians were gone and still hoped that the Mujahideen would settle their disputes and form a decent government.

These political changes marked a very depressing period in my life. I was just a teenager; if I wanted to travel around the city, I had to wear a burka for the first time in my life. The Mujahideen were not religious fundamentalists and did not impose the wearing of the burka, but wearing it was more a question of safety. With so many male ex-fighters around, men who might not have seen a woman for years, it just was not a good idea for a young girl to show off her beauty in public.

In the old days, wearing a burka was a sign of nobility, but it also had a practical use. It was designed to protect a woman from the harsh elements, the burning sun, dusty sand and fierce winds.

I know that many people in the West today see the burka as a sign of female oppression and religious fundamentalism. But I don't see it that way.

I want the right to wear what I think is best, but within the confines of Islam. Covering the hair with a head scarf and wearing a long loose tunic that covers one's arms, chest and bottom is enough to satisfy the Islamic rule of being modest before God. Anyone who says a woman must cover her entire face to be truly Islamic is wrong. A burka is definitely not an Islamic requirement but is usually worn because of cultural or societal reasons.

I am also aware that in some western countries, wearing a face-covering burka has become a political issue, with certain politicians and leaders wanting to ban it by law. While I believe that all governments have a right to determine the laws and culture of their own countries, I also believe in freedom of choice, and I think western governments should let Muslim women wear what they want.

One day my mother, sister and I got dressed up in our nicest clothes for a party at my aunt's house. I was wearing makeup and was very pleased with how I looked, and, unusually for me, I even felt rather beautiful. Before the arrival of the Mujahideen, I would have just put a head scarf on to cover my hair before stepping outside. But now my mother insisted that I wear a burka that she had borrowed for me from a neighbour. I was furious. I had never worn a burka in my life, and here I was in my nicest clothes, with my hair and makeup done for a party, and she wanted me to cover myself in a heavy blue sack.

I refused, and we got into a terrible argument. My mother pleaded, cajoled and threatened me, insisting that it was for my own protection. She argued that the soldiers could not be trusted if they saw me uncovered and that I should hide myself to avoid unwanted trouble. I was crying, which only made me angrier because it ruined my makeup. In a moment of teenage rebellion, I decided that if I had to wear a burka, I wouldn't go to my aunt's at all. I sat on the floor with my arms folded, refusing to budge. Eventually, my mother talked me round. I did want to go to the party, and since I had spent so long getting ready it would be a shame not to. And so I begrudgingly pulled the burka over my head and reluctantly took my first steps onto the streets of Faizabad and this strange new world.

Peering through the tiny blue mesh eye slot, I felt as though everything was closing in on me. The mountains seemed to be perched on my shoulders, as if the world had somehow grown both much larger and much smaller at the same time. My breathing was loud and hot inside the hood, and I felt claustrophobic, like I was being buried alive—smothered beneath the heavy nylon cloth. In that moment, I felt something less than human. My confidence evaporated. I became tiny and insignificant and helpless, as if the simple act of donning the burka had shut all the doors in my life I had worked so hard to open. School, pretty clothes, makeup, parties—all of these things meant nothing to me now.

I'd grown up seeing my mother wear the burka, but I felt as though it was merely something that belonged to her generation, a cultural tradition that was slowly dying out. I had never felt any need nor had I been asked by my family to conform to it. I saw myself as part of a new generation of Afghan women, and the traditions of the burka did not represent my ambitions for myself or for my country. Unlike my mother, I had an education, and I was eager to expand upon it. I had opportunities and freedoms. One of them was the freedom to choose whether or not to wear a burka—and I chose not to.

It wasn't that I had, or have, a particular problem with burkas. They are traditional and can offer women some degree of protection in our society. Women all over the world must occasionally deal with unwanted attention from men, and for some women wearing a burka can be a way of avoiding that. What I object to is people imposing their decisions about what a woman should wear. I hated it when the Taliban government made the wearing of the burka law. How would women in the West react to a government policy that forced them to wear miniskirts from the onset of puberty? Islamic and cultural ideals of modesty are strong in Afghan society, but they are not so strong that a woman must, by virtue of her gender, be hidden beneath a nylon sack.

When we got to my aunt's house, I was relieved to get the burka off. The experience had left me feeling shocked and scared about what my life and my country were turning into. I couldn't enjoy the party and instead kept to myself, reliving the horrible experience of the walk, suffocating beneath the tiny walls of my portable cell. All the while, I plotted how best to get home—how I would dash back hoping to avoid anybody I knew. I wasn't ready to admit to myself, let alone anybody else, that a burka had become part of my life.

I MISSED Kabul and my school and friends there. But Kabul airport had now been closed by the Mujahideen. Our sense of isolation from the capital started to become very real. I was extremely worried about what was happening there. Although they were now the legitimate government, the Mujahideen were fighting each other; various generals had taken control of different ministries, and although it wasn't yet all-out civil war the news from Kabul was that things were quickly descending into chaos. I was particularly concerned that my school, if it hadn't already been destroyed in the fighting, might be closed and I would never be able to return to my studies.

We listened closely to the radio for any scrap of news. It was hard to know what to believe. The Mujahideen government had been smart enough to seize the radio and television stations. The announcers assured us that all was well and calm, but we knew we were watching and listening to propaganda. My mother and I listened as a radio announcer told us the schools were open and girls were able to attend. But in reality, parents were reluctant to send their daughters to class because they didn't think it was safe.

And I could see the changes on television. The beautiful, intelligent female news presenters suddenly disappeared from the screens. In their places, dowdy old women in scarves stumbled their way through the news.

Afghanistan had had some highly respected women presenting the evening news. They were smart and glamorous and executed their jobs with utter professionalism. They were important role models for me and girls like me. I loved following their changing hairstyles as much as I loved listening to them report the international news. They were living proof that Afghan women could be attractive, educated and successful. But their sudden disappearance from the screens made me very worried.

I went to my mother in tears one day, upset, scared and frustrated by all that was happening. She just listened to me as I poured my heart out. When I finished, she announced that we would find temporary admission to a school in Faizabad.

I missed Kabul and the heady glamour of my friends' houses terribly. But I was pleased to be back at school, even though the school in Faizabad—which had once seemed so large and overwhelming—now seemed tiny and parochial.

I was stuck with the burka, though. I began to get used to the feeling of being enclosed, but I couldn't get used to the heat. There was no bus service in Faizabad, so I would walk to school in the sun, the sweat running down my body. I sweated so badly that my skin developed black spots from the perspiration and lack of air.

Despite my discomfort, I made lots of friends. I was enjoying being back in the classroom and the opportunities that came with it. My teachers invited me to take part in some gardening classes after school, where we could learn about plants, propagation and soil care. This was Badakhshan, where despite the farming culture even today the understanding of biology and farming science is very basic. This class interested me, but my mother wouldn't let me continue with it. Even with my burka, she was scared that her teenage daughter might attract the roaming eye of a Mujahideen fighter. Every minute I was outside the house was another minute that might lead to an unwelcome marriage proposal—and a Mujahideen marriage proposal is not one you turn down without serious consequences. To do so would almost certainly invite them to take what they wanted by force. As far as my mother was concerned, going to school was an essential risk she would allow me to take; learning about plants after school hours was a luxury her beautiful daughter could live without.

The arrival of the Mujahideen had changed many aspects of my world outside the house. But it also changed my home life in unexpected ways. I had been back at school for a month when my half brother Nadir appeared at our door one day. I hadn't seen him for fifteen years, since he had disappeared as a boy to fight the Russians. The man who stood in our living room was now a Mujahideen commander. He and his men were responsible for the supply routes into Koof, ensuring that the fighters there had enough arms and ammunition. It was a very important role for a Mujahideen fighter and not one the generals handed out often.

My mother was glad to see her stepson, of course, but she wasn't shy about venting her displeasure at his job and at his apparent lack of support for the family at a time of crisis. My brother would have been, at least as far as the Mujahideen were concerned, within his rights to beat her or maybe even kill her for such insolence. But he didn't. So great was the respect my mother commanded within our family that he apologized to her. He was a man now, he said, and he knew right from wrong. His priority was no longer fighting. It was now doing what was best for the family.

He wanted to take me to his village, where he could protect me from the other Mujahideen. His rank within the fighters would be enough to guarantee my security there. But he was clear that while I remained with my mother in Faizabad, not even his influence was sufficient to prevent local gunmen from forcibly marrying me should such a scheme occur to them.

This was my mother's greatest fear, and so it was decided that I would go with Nadir to the village where he lived in Yaftal district. The only way to get there was on horseback. Later that day, he arrived at the door with two white horses fitted with a type of bridle decorated with wool tassels, common in Badakhshan. I hadn't ridden a horse since I was a little girl. And, as ever, my burka conspired to make my life difficult. Trying to even sit on a horse while wearing a burka is a challenge, let alone riding an animal through busy traffic. It startled at every blaring horn and strange noise. In the end, my brother had to take the reins and lead the horse through the city, while I did my best just to stay on. Every time the horse kicked or bucked, he would rein it in, just as I thought I was about to fall onto the road.

I had never felt more backward than I did that day. Here I was, dressed in a burka while being led on a horse. I felt like I had regressed to my mother's or grandmother's generation. At that moment, it seemed like neither my country nor my life was ever going to move forward.