The Favored Daughter (33 page)

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.

King 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 had lived in exile in Europe, but he made this one last historic trip back home.

The national anthem was played and we all stood up. 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 favorite songs and sums up how I feel about my country. The lyrics go like this:

As I looked around at my fellow new MPs, I felt I could see all of Afghanistan in their different faces. There were men in big turbans and long coats, intellectuals in smart suits and ties, young people, old people, women, 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 in order 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.

After the music and pomp of the opening ceremony was over, it was time to settle down to business. I was determined not to be dismissed as “just a woman,” so from day one I spoke up about issues and quickly gained a reputation for being both outspoken and capable. I also made it clear I would work professionally and cooperate with everyone. There were many men in the parliament who were opposed to the women MPs and did their best to intimidate us. They also tried to belittle any male MPs who showed us support. One male MP was shouted down in a debate on education after he backed the view of a woman. Other male MPs started to heckle him and derided as a “feminist.”

I've gotten used to those things now. The atmosphere in the Afghan parliament is loud and often almost verging on violence. A tug of the beard is an ancient way to tell someone they have offended you. Some days an awful lot of tugging goes on. I decided that showing hostility or shouting back in these situations would achieve nothing. Instead I tried to create an atmosphere of mutual respect. I listened politely to opposing views and tried to find common ground wherever I could. Democracy is about fighting your corner but it is also about learning to accept that sometimes you just have to agree to disagree.

But at the same time I made a vow to myself to never lose sight of my principles and values. If you always go along with the popular flow then you are lost and lose sight of what you believe in. What I believe in is promoting human rights, striving for gender equality, and alleviating poverty.

Sadly some of the female MPs found the process too much. To this day I still haven't heard some of them utter a single word.

All the new MPs had to put our hands on the Holy Quran and swear allegiance to the country. We promised to be honest to Afghanistan and be honest to the people of Afghanistan. When I put my hand on the Quran to swear I felt the wave of responsibility wash over me.

Given the rampant levels of corruption in my country today it seems not all of my colleagues took their vow of honesty seriously.

The next day, the debate began for the election of leadership positions, such as speaker, deputy speakers and secretaries, which are highly important senior political positions in the house. I had already made some good friends among other MPs, such as Sabrina Saqib, who had the proud honor of being the youngest member of parliament. I told her I wanted to run for the position of deputy speaker. My feeling was that I risked nothing by doing so and that even if I lost, the very act of running would ensure that the new female voices were being heard at the most senior level in the legislature.

Sabrina was supportive and agreed that it would be good for all the women if I stood, but she warned me that I was unlikely to win and would face a great deal of opposition from some of the men. She also feared I wasn't well known enough yet and did not have other big-name MPs supporting me.

I then talked to my family, who also urged caution. Nadir, the brother who held the local political role of district manager in Badakhshan's Koof district, was totally against it. He said to me: “Fawzia jan, it was more than enough for a woman to become an MP. You should not be more ambitious. If you stand for speaker, you will lose. That would not look good for the political reputation of our family. Politics is not just about you, Fawzia. It is about the political dynasty of our whole family.”

Those words stung, but I understood what he was trying to say. Traditionally politics in Afghanistan is seen as just winning a battle or gaining power, not as a genuine means by which ordinary people can use their voice to demonstrate their will. In the past, if a member of one of Afghanistan's political families lost in an election, it damaged the reputation of the whole family. But that was a risk I was prepared to take. This was a much bigger battle for me. It was a battle to serve the people of my country.

Finally, I talked to Shuhra and Shaharzad. Here, I got the best reaction of all. Shuhra was only six years old and Shaharzad seven. Shuhra, in an early sign of her genuine political leanings, had a great campaign idea. She said, “I will gather one hundred children from my school and give them flags, then we will come to the parliament to ask the MPs to vote for you.” I gave her a big kiss of thanks. I was surprised how sophisticated her idea was for a child of six and extremely proud that she was already learning to think big.

Shaharzad is a gentle and thoughtful child who reminds me so much of her father. She took my hand and gave me a long, earnest look as she said, “Mother, one of the women should have a senior position in this parliament. And it is better it is you who has it, because I know you are the best. I know it means you will be away from us even more and working very hard, but that's okay with us.” I almost cried. It is exactly what Hamid would have said. I decided to run.

The corridors in the parliament building resonated with talk of only one thing: Who was going to run for the positions? My candidacy seemed like a big joke to many MPs, especially the ones who had made plenty of money through war profiteering and involvement in criminal activities. This only strengthened my resolve to win the post of deputy speaker. The wealthier MPs started to court favor by throwing lavish evening parties at their homes and in some of Kabul's smartest restaurants and hotels, inviting those who might vote for them. I didn't have any spare cash for that kind of thing, and it had been noted that I was the only candidate who hadn't organized an event. The night before the voting, my sister helped organize a small dinner party for me at a very inexpensive, low-key restaurant. It was by no means a smart place, but it was all I could afford. Around twenty MPs turned up.

The night of the dinner was freezing, and the restaurant was so cold inside that you could see your breath when you exhaled. I asked the restaurant manager to try to sort out some heating. He brought out a very cheap, old oil heater called a
bukhari,
which leaked noxious fumes. The food was awful, cold and congealed. After a while, guests could barely even see each other because the
bukhari
was giving off so much smoke. I was extremely tense, but I tried my best to cover it up and be a good hostess. But when we got home, I shook my head and sighed, telling my sister that I'd blown it. After such a disastrous social function, no one was going to vote for me. Being able to entertain people and be a gracious host is an important part of our culture, and if you fail at it people judge you harshly.

The children were already asleep. I climbed into bed next to them, but I couldn't sleep. The voting was the next day, and all the candidates were supposed to give a short speech before it began. In the middle of the night, I got up to write mine. I sat there until the early hours staring at a blank piece of paper, not knowing where to start or what to say. Usually I love writing speeches and it comes straight from my heart, but with this one I was at a loss of what say. I started to write, promising this and that, only to tear it up because it just didn't sound right. All the candidates had been told to prepare only very short speeches. But I wanted to write something that defined me and my values, and it was almost impossible to express that in just a few sentences. Dawn started to creep across the clouds and into my bedroom. By now, I was on my third or fourth attempt; I looked at it again. It still didn't work. I tore up the piece of paper and resolved to just ad lib. I was sure that once I was standing there in front of my fellow MPs, I'd know what I needed to say.

The next morning, all the candidates and their supporters were running along the corridors of parliament making last-ditch attempts to win supporters. There were ten other candidates for the position of deputy speaker. All of them were well known except for me. Some of them were powerful people. Around 10 a.m., I had a visit from a staff member of one of my opponents, asking me to withdraw my candidacy and offering to pay me a substantial amount of money if I did so. I was horrified but sadly not shocked. How could these people try to win such an important vote by paying to win? And how dare they think I would be bribed?

The plenary voting session started. I sat quietly in a corner just gathering my thoughts and watching the situation unfold. If nothing else, it was certainly an exciting scene to witness and be a part of.

Then, I was called to give my introductory speech. I walked up to the podium, aware of some male MPs watching me with mocking or angry eyes. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my good friend Sabrina give me a supportive smile, which helped control my nerves. This was the first time I had given any kind of speech in front of the other MPs, and I struggled to keep my body from shaking. Then suddenly I remembered that I had won over eight thousand votes. I had every right to be there.

As I looked around, my sense of confidence and self-esteem grew. I took a deep breath and started by introducing myself. Then I told them that I wanted to run for this position to demonstrate that women in Afghanistan are able to do big things and hold senior posts; that my mission would be to put my country's interests before my personal interests; that I saw an Afghanistan that had been severely damaged in every way and needed new voices and new energy to rebuild it. I told them that although I was only thirty, I was not a novice and already had a huge amount of professional experience. I went on to say how much I loved Afghanistan and our culture, and how my entire commitment was to change this country for the better. I was talking quickly, as I usually do when speaking from the heart, and I was so focused that at first I almost didn't hear the clapping. Then it became louder. By the time I finished, several MPs—men, women, traditionalists, the powerful—were clapping loudly.

Many MPs came up to me, congratulating me on the sincerity of the speech. An old friend of my father's, a Pashtun man from Kunduz province, came and kissed me gently on the forehead and whispered that I had done my father justice. The reaction was so positive that for the first time I started to think I might actually win. I could barely breathe when the counting started.

I won with a large majority.

It was the first time in Afghan history that a woman, a “poor girl,” had been elected to such a senior political position. I couldn't take it all in. My face was as radiant as a blooming flower and for a moment I thought I was flying through the air.

Suddenly, I was surrounded by journalists firing questions at me. What were my priorities on women? How would I bring change? How would a woman cope with the scrutiny of such a senior parliamentary position? This was my first real press conference experience and it was fairly intimidating, but I tried to answer honestly and clearly. I am not an MP who dislikes journalists. I think in our country many journalists do a fantastic job of sharing information with the public and challenging those in power, so I have always tried to treat the media with the respect it deserves. Over the next few days, I was almost besieged by media attention. No one had expected a woman to achieve what I had, and I became a national novelty. But I was determined to make each interview show that I was more than just a point of curiosity; I was a serious politician who was more than capable of doing the job I held.

Karzai then announced his cabinet of ministers. The only female minister was Masooda Jalal, a former medical doctor. She had been the only woman to run against Hamid Karzai in the presidential race. She had lost, gaining only a small number of votes, but Karzai appointed her minister of women's affairs. To this day, a woman hasn't held any other mainstream ministerial post, something I find very disappointing. If a woman can be the women's minister, why can't she be the minister for business? Or communications? Or indeed any of the other senior posts, provided she has the relevant experience, of course. Karzai did make one other high-profile appointment. A highly-respected woman by the name of Habiba Sorabi was given the post of governor of central Bamiyan province in March 2005. She has since become a very well-known and popular figure in Afghan politics.