My Guantanamo Diary (14 page)

I cranked down the window and snapped pictures of mud houses, children playing cricket, and unpaved village streets. I also got a good shot of a sign that read, “No foreigners allowed.” Another sign in red lettering read in English, “Attention, Entry of Foreigners Is Prohibited beyond This Point.” It seemed like something the current occupant of the Oval Office might want to put up along U.S. borders.

I was careful to avoid photographing women, even though the few I saw were covered head to toe in burkas.

As our car passed through a crowded market, Munir politely asked me to veil the lower part of my face. As I pulled my shawl over my nose and lips, it occurred to me that Munir adhered fairly strictly to Pashtun tribal law. Since I was passing him off as a cousin or brother, he in turn was expecting me to try to behave appropriately. In Pashtun culture, honor is often more important than one’s life. A woman’s chastity is often directly tied to the honor of her father, husband, brother, or other male family members, and her behavior reflects immediately upon the honor of the men in her life. Even though Munir wasn’t my cousin, I veiled myself whenever we drove through a crowded market.

About ten minutes before we reached the fabled Khyber Pass that would take us into Afghanistan, we hit a roadblock— right in the middle of the tribal areas. Our car could not move, and there was commotion in the street around us. A big crowd had formed right in the middle of the road. Suddenly, I was in the thick of it—and very scared. I felt vulnerable. I
grabbed my pashmina and veiled my face tightly, avoiding eye contact with anyone in the street. We weren’t moving, and the driver leaned out of the window to see what was going on. The front seat passenger seemed indifferent and merely rolled his window down to have another cigarette.

“What’s going on up there?” our driver shouted out to the locals who had gathered around.

“Some people were shot up the road,” a guy on the street replied. “Some idiot shot five people because they didn’t put electricity in his house.”

I turned to Munir.

“This is insane,” I said.

He smiled. “These are the tribal areas.”

I had a hard time believing that someone would get killed over electricity, but then I remembered Taj Mohammad, who’d beaten up his cousin over water and ended up at Gitmo.

“So, what’s the justice system over here?” I asked Munir.

“Tribal justice. They hold a
jirga
—a gathering of elders—to decide what to do.”

“Is it effective?”

“Fairly, yes.”

“This is crazy,” I said, still shocked by the crowd that had formed and the casual discussion of the gunman turning on five people.

“People don’t think. They’re very hotheaded here,” Munir said.

Finally, the bodies were removed, and the crowds thinned out enough for traffic to start moving again. I started snapping pictures, which drew a few curious glances.

“Do you think someone might shoot at the car if they see me taking pictures?” I asked Munir.

“No, you can photograph as much as you like. No one will ever say a word to you,” he said. “They have great respect for women and will go to lengths to protect them here. Women are sacred to the Pashtun.”

Sacred’s not exactly the right word, since the Pashtun are also known to kill women who dishonor their families. According to the codes of Pashtunwali, custom often compels a father, husband, brother, or son to kill a female relative who has shamed her family by having an affair, premarital or extramarital, or is even rumored to have had one. In extreme cases, even rape victims have been killed. It happens mostly in very rural areas, but it’s barbarism all the same.

We drove on into the Hindu Kush mountains, and in typical Afghan fashion, no one said anything about the men who’d been shot on the road behind us. No one gave death another thought. It reminded me of the time when Carolyn Welshhans, an attorney in the Washington, D.C., office of Dechert, told one of her clients that she was sorry to hear that his father had died, even though it had happened years before. His response spoke volumes about the impact that war had had on his generation.

“For Afghans, death is a part of life,” he said. “We are used to it.”

And so, the driver pushed a tape into the cassette deck and rewound to a particular song. I hadn’t heard the sound of a tape whirring in ages and wondered whether anyone there knew what an iPod was.

As we crossed the Khyber Pass, the driver reduced his speed, and my imagination took off, unfolding pages of history. This is the same gateway that Alexander the Great marched his armies across in 330 BC. The Persians, Mongols, and Tartars plowed through this mountain passage too. Centuries later, the Pashtuns demonstrated their freedom-or-death style of fighting to the British army here. Ancient merchants and traders also traveled through the Khyber Pass in huge camel caravans.

I pulled out my camera and clicked away, photographing both sides of the gateway where ancient villages lie and local Pashtun tribesmen shop in the vegetable markets, toting AK- 47s over their shoulders. As we moved through the mountain passage, the driver slapped the steering wheel in rhythm to the sultry sounds coming through the car speakers of an Afghan woman singing about her beloved. He glanced into the rearview mirror occasionally and saw me snapping away with my digital Elph. I snapped photos of fruit markets, children, animals, and shopkeepers.

I kept elbowing Munir to get a better look at the awesome Hindu Kush mountains. I had a similar sense of awe the first time I saw Vatican Square and the Great Wall of China, but this mix of beauty and history had greater personal impact. Munir had traveled this way a thousand times before and was amused by me.

“I didn’t think an American would feel so tied to her roots,” he said as I gawked out the window.

When we reached Torkham, Munir asked me whether I wanted to go to the passport office to get my passport
stamped. I didn’t know I’d have a choice; I’d assumed that there would be multiple checkpoints, border guards, and at least one customs and immigration search. But there was nothing. You can simply drive into Afghanistan without a visa.

I decided to get the stamp in case I was questioned about my point of entry on my return to the United States. And besides, I wanted the stamp in my passport. At the border, someone piled my bags into a wooden cart and pushed them all the way to the passport office.

I ran inside and joined a line of waiting men. A bearded, middle-aged man immediately waved me to the front of the line. The men in front stepped aside to let me pass. Without a word, the counter clerk looked over my visa, stamped my passport, smiled, and handed it back.

“
Manana
—Thank you,” he said. I nodded and was on my way.

I saw such preferential treatment for women over and over during my stay in Afghanistan. Anywhere there was a line for service, women or women accompanied by men were immediately brought to the front and assisted first. On buses, men in the forward seats immediately vacated them for female passengers. Once, at a security checkpoint outside Bagram, a guard flagged down Munir’s car. As we slowed to a stop, he saw me in the front seat, made an apologetic gesture toward Munir, and immediately waved us through. On a later Ariana Airlines flight to Dubai, women boarded first, and when I got up to go to the lavatory, the flight attendant motioned for all the waiting men to be seated so that I could go first.

“They try as much as possible to help women and not to burden them,” Munir explained to me.

But I had a feeling that it was also because in Afghan society, women aren’t supposed to gather in places with unrelated men. So, the men help them get in and out as quickly as possible. Still, I also sensed that the men around me, friends or strangers, were trying to protect me in simple ways. Afghanistan is unquestionably a male-dominated society. Men are viewed as almost godly by the women who depend on them for everything. Women, in turn, are perceived as fragile creatures who must be protected.

When I came out of the passport office, Munir and I crossed the Torkham border on foot into Afghanistan. I noticed gradual changes. The guards’ uniforms went from the camouflage print worn in Pakistan to forest green. The faces varied too. There were freckles, olive skin, dark skin, and blond, red, and black hair. Some had piercing blue eyes; others had brown, green, or hazel. The languages spoken were Farsi, Pashto, and Dari.

I saw many women with unveiled faces; others wore sky blue or white embroidered burkas. Vendors on the border sold bananas, sugarcane, and nuts. Small children ran up to travelers trying to sell Chiclets chewing gum.

The history of this land was peculiarly etched on all the faces around me. They emanated a rugged, wary pride and seemed somehow hardened by all that their country has endured. Even the younger faces looked older than they were.

Munir glanced over and read my mind.

“We are in Afghanistan now,” he said, nodding at the first red, green, and black flag. I remembered Farah, an Afghan
American friend who lives in San Francisco. “You are going to be on the soil that I miss the most in the world,” she wrote me once. “When you’re there you’ll know what I mean, and when you leave, you’ll miss it the way I do.”

Finally, I understood.

It’s not that I felt differently about the United States. I love America, and I’m proud to be American. I feel incredibly indebted to my country for everything I have. I feel at home and most in my element in America, and I would defend it if it were truly threatened. Sometimes, I even get teary when “The Star Spangled Banner” is sung. I’m especially grateful for having the freedom and the right to speak out against U.S. policies; it’s part of what makes America great.

Yet, stepping into Afghanistan, I felt a tremendous connection, a genuine homecoming.

We found a cab and climbed in. The windshield had a big crack across it, and like the first car, this one too needed a good wash. An older Afghan man wearing Western garb and spectacles got into the front seat. I learned later that he was a physician from Germany visiting family in Kabul. Another guy got in the back next to Munir.

As we drove toward Kabul, the air grew gradually colder.

“You’re going to freeze in Kabul,” Munir said when I told him that I hadn’t brought a coat.

I was struck by Afghanistan’s incredible beauty. All I’d ever seen on the news were barren, dry landscapes. But now I saw that there were flowing rivers, turquoise lakes, flowers, trees, and, in the distance, staggering snow-covered mountains that made Aspen seem like a collection of bunny hills. If not for the political unrest and economic instability, Afghanistan would be an amazing tourist destination.

When we drove through downtown Jalalabad, Munir pointed to the U.S. military base. It instantly evoked images of secret prisons, renditions, and torture. But at the same time, I felt grateful that the United States had rid Afghanistan of the terrible Taliban.

Moments later, the driver jerked our car over onto the right shoulder and stopped. All the other cars in our lane did the same. Passing by at full speed was a convoy of U.S. vehicles. I instinctively pulled out my camera and took a few quick shots. I got one photo of a soldier looking at me. Munir was mortified.

My biggest threat, he told me, was not from Afghans but from American soldiers. He explained that we had pulled off the road so that the soldiers wouldn’t open fire on motorists whom they feared might be suicide bombers. I would soon realize that the U.S. military is a hard-to-ignore presence in Afghanistan. The country is speckled with U.S. soldiers, military bases, convoys, and jails. There are constant references to Bagram and Guantánamo Bay. I asked Munir what Afghans think of the U.S. presence.

“We are grateful that the Taliban are gone and happy for the reconstruction, but this is Afghanistan,” he said. “A foreign military cannot overstay its welcome. Eventually, they will have to leave.”

With each mile, the air grew colder. When we passed through Sarobi, the mountains were white with snow. Beautiful lakes filled the valleys, and locals sold fresh fish and pomegranates on the side of the road. I lowered the window and let the cold air whip against my face.

During this drive, I rarely saw a woman. And when I did, she swam in the head-to-toe fabric of a burka. I wondered
who those women were, what their faces looked like, what their names were, whether they were young girls or grandmothers. I also wondered whether their husbands kept them happy or life had dealt them a crueler hand. They were invisible, ghostlike creatures passing through without personality or expression. But under that wall of fabric, they were girls with names, stories, feelings, and dreams.