The Favored Daughter (17 page)

Mirshakay was returned to us safely, and the green shoots of spring were already pushing through the snow when Hamid's uncle came again. This time Hamid was with him. Mirshakay was surprised, and possibly a little horrified, when they produced the 20,000 dollars in hard cash and documents showing proof of a house purchase. But he still wasn't prepared to give Hamid my hand in marriage. Even now he couldn't bring himself to say a final and direct yes.

Although the family was far from rich, they did own land in Badakhshan. So they had been able to sell some of that to get the money. It wasn't like they had nothing, but of course my brother, who owned four houses in Kabul and a house in Lahore in Pakistan, didn't see it that way.

Once again the negotiations were strictly a male affair and we women sat in a different room. That was a strange feeling for me, sitting quietly and straining my ears to hear as my future was being argued upon like a business transaction. It reminded me of my childhood in some ways, trying to sneak up to my father's guest rooms and listen to the discussions inside. As I listened I felt a strange mixture of pride, curiosity, and powerlessness.

When I heard they had the money, I let out an involuntary squeak. My life had been pretty much dust in Puli Khumri. No university, and I was unable to walk or go anywhere. I had no idea how marriage was going to be, but I figured it had to be less boring than where I was now.

But then the enormity of the situation suddenly hit me. Engagements in Afghanistan are binding and only in exceptional circumstances can they be broken. An engagement itself is as strong as the marriage contract. I started to think about all the warnings my brother had given me. His voice kept repeating my in head, “Fawzia jan, do not marry this poor man. You can have any man you want. You will not be able to survive on his monthly salary. Marry a rich man, a powerful man.”

The warnings rang round and round in my head and I must admit I started to have second thoughts. But it's hard to imagine your life as a newlywed when your country is in ruins. I had no idea what was going to happen, how long the Taliban would be here, whether the fighting would ever end, where we would live, whether I would be able to study again or ever be able to work. All the plans newlyweds make together were denied us in those days. Staying alive and safe took precedence over dreams.

My elder sister saw that I'd turned a bit white. She looked at me sternly and said: “Fawzia, you must decide. Now. Right now. If you don't want this to go ahead this is your last chance to say so. Do you understand that?”

In a last attempt to tempt me away from marrying Hamid, Mirshakay had a few days earlier promised me I could go to Pakistan and stay with his second wife, who was living in his house in Lahore. I could stay with her and go to a Pakistani university. It was a great idea. The chance to study medicine again in a country not blighted by war was a good one.

But although I barely knew Hamid, what little I had seen of him convinced me we could make it work. I knew he was an unusual Afghan man, one that would treat me like an equal and genuinely support my desire to work. He wasn't rich and the future was uncertain in so many ways, but he still felt like the right choice for me. Because he was
my
choice.

As is so often the case in my family history, it took a woman for there to be decisive action. My sister told me to make a decision. I nodded a silent yes. Then she knocked and entered the men's room and asked to speak to my brother. Outside the room she bravely and sternly told him to stop challenging these poor people. They had the money as promised. It was time for him to make decision. Yes or no.

He pursed his lips and rolled his eyes dramatically, let out a large sigh, and then agreed with her, although still reluctantly. My sister prepared a bowl of sweets and put some flowers and a handkerchief with a small red flower on it inside the bowl. I still have that handkerchief. The items in the bowl were a sign of our acceptance. The bowl was ceremoniously sent into the room where Hamid was sitting. I wish I could have seen the joy on his face when he saw it and realized his dreams were coming true at last. The sharing of sweets is the traditional Afghan way of formalizing an engagement. The sweets are shared and the groom's family puts money in the bowl to pay for the wedding.

Hamid took a sweet, unwrapped it carefully, and ate it, then put another 5,000 dollars inside the bowl. He'd been prepared for this cost, too. At this stage the bride's family often also puts money into the bowl to share the cost of the wedding, but my brother was still a little disgruntled with himself for giving in. So he added nothing. Even now he was pointedly refusing to make it easy for them.

The next day they came back again for lunch. I was in the kitchen from early morning. As I washed rice and peeled cucumbers I smiled as I realized how much love I was pouring into the cooking. The simple pleasure of preparing food for those they love is something all women feel at some time. It must be something so ancient within us, so much a part of our biology and nature. I was reminded of my mother cooking for my father and how she always wanted things to be just perfect for him. Here I was, doing the same. As I chopped the vegetables I made sure to cut them just so, into lovely little straight pieces that would be a delight for him to eat.

I was still not allowed to see my husband-to-be. The only glimpse I got of him was as he and his family left. I hid behind a curtain at the window and sneaked a glance. I think he knew I was going to be watching him, because he stopped and paused, pretending to scratch his head. I think he thought about sneaking a glance back at me, too, but he obviously decided it was too risky in case my brother saw.

As Hamid walked to his car I felt a surge of excitement. It had been almost six years since Hamid's first proposal. He'd never given up on his quest to marry me. I was 21 years old and I was going to be a bride
.

 

 

*
Eid al-Fitr: Muslim holiday that marks the end of Ramadan.

ELEVEN

EVERYTHING TURNS WHITE

Since their initial victory in capturing Kabul, the Taliban had been steadily increasing ground in the north of the country. But the mujahideen were still determined to try and stop them. Areas that had been under the full control of the mujahideen government began to lose pockets to the Taliban. In the middle of a government area a village would suddenly fly the white flag of the Taliban.

Anywhere the Taliban had supporters, the flag would appear. In previous government strongholds—Mazaar, Baghlan, Kunduz—these white flags kept appearing.

But as the Taliban grew in power in the north, they decimated the culture. They banned women from wearing white trousers or even white socks. They saw the wearing of white as disrespect for the color of their flag. But in many northern provinces the common color for a burqa was white. (Only in Kabul and in the south was it blue.) Most of the women in the north who wore the burqa only owned them in this white color, but the Taliban beat them for it. They were beaten for not wearing a burqa and then they were beaten for wearing a burqa in the wrong color. It was insanity.

By now the Taliban was moving swiftly across the country. They took full control of Baghlan and Kunduz. Takhar and Badakhshan were the only two provinces where they couldn't get a foothold.

Once they captured a province they immediately closed the schools and arrested people. It was barbaric. They would torture people without any justice, without any trial, they just made up the rules as they went along. The north, which generally had a more open-minded culture than the south, was in collective shock.

But then some Northern Alliance commanders started to make deals with the Taliban, to try to protect themselves. It was never a meeting of minds— the Taliban were much more fundamentalist in their thinking and their ideas than the mujahideen ever were.

And besides, the Taliban had their power sources overseas. They didn't really need internal alliances. Even some of the former communists tried to ally with the Taliban. But the Taliban usually just used someone for what they could offer, then betrayed them or assassinated them. You were either one of them or you weren't.

By now our once close-knit family was spread out in little units all over the country. Most of my elder sisters still lived in Badakhshan; they had married local village men and never left the province. I missed them very much.

Mirshakay, who had never quite been the same since Muqim's death, decided he'd had enough of Afghanistan once and for all, and wanted to leave the country. His plan was to first go to Pakistan to pick up his second wife and from there onto Europe.

Before he could start to carry out his plan, Massoud and Rabbani's men sent word that he was needed in Takhar province to help establish a force there to fight against the Taliban. So we followed him there and began yet another temporary life in yet another rented house. A few weeks later, Massoud himself came from Takhar to Panjshir to organize his troops, so my brother took this opportunity to ask for permission and safe passage to take his family to safety to Pakistan via Kabul. Massoud agreed.

He took off his uniform and put on civilian clothes as we women hastily threw what we could into bags. Then we took a taxi. It was a balmy, warm spring day.

As we drove along a river we gasped as the Taliban blew up the bridge ahead, preventing people from driving across. The bridge exploded into shards of metal and wood, and the unfortunate cars that were on it were tossed into the air before shattering.

We had no choice but to get out and walk. My sister-in-law had a newborn baby. She hadn't expected we'd need to walk, and she had, perhaps not very sensibly, chosen to wear high heels for the journey. We walked for most of the day. It wasn't a straight, direct path. We had to walk up a rocky mountain, through gardens of rose and mulberry trees, then down to a path that ran along the side of a river. The road itself was too dangerous to walk on because of the heavy artillery shelling coming from either side. That would have made us sitting ducks. At times so many rockets were whizzing overhead we had to stop and take cover in bushes. Occasionally a taxi would take us part of the way. Not official taxis, just ordinary people charging money to drive people. They were risking their lives by doing so, but they needed the money.

One car took us right to the front line, where the Taliban and Massoud's men were shooting at each other. This was the road over the Shomali plains, taking us closer to the outskirts of Kabul. Normally the road would be busy, but no taxis dared to drive this part. We joined crowds who were walking. I laughed at the irony that these same people were the people we'd seen fleeing Kabul the day the Taliban took the city. Now, the temporary sanctuary of quieter towns was the scene of fighting, and Kabul was once again the safer option. Hungry wild dogs ran over the plains, snarling at people. As I stepped over some grass I almost trod on a snake. It scared me as much as the rockets.

In our party there was me, my brother and his wife and children, along with a friend of my brother's and his family. My sister-in-law started to cry. She was in her heels and was struggling to carry her heavy baby boy, Irshad.

I was wearing flat sandals so I offered to change my shoes with hers. For some reason I've always been good at walking in high heels, even in the middle of a battle. It's one of my more unusual talents.

As we stopped to change footwear more rockets flew close by, so we took cover again. I sat under a tree and was enjoying the few minutes of rest. We had found some apples and were hungrily biting into them when suddenly my tree started to shake. Then I heard the sound—whiiiiirrrrrrrr. A rocket was just above my head. I froze. It exploded just feet away from me, taking the tree and all the leaves with it.