Dear Shuhra and Shaharzad,
So many times, I and other members of our family survived because of the kindness of other people. People who risked their own lives to help us, offer us shelter or hide us from danger. And we weren't alone. All over our country, ordinary men and women opened their doors to people who needed them. Neighbours turned a blind eye as little girls scurried under cover of darkness to secret girls' schools in underground basements. These schools were run by wonderful, brave Afghan women, who despite the dangers to themselves knew they couldn't let the Taliban destroy the education of a generation of girls.
We had so many war widows in those days, thousands upon thousands of women who had lost husbands and fathers and who were now the main breadwinners in their family and responsible for ensuring their children were fed. But the Taliban denied all women the right to work. So these women, who had already lost so much, were forced to beg and rely on the kindness of strangers. Many didn't survive and many of the widows' children died of disease or starvation. Some did survive, however, because people who saw them begging on the streets did not walk by. Even though they didn't have much themselves, they still gave what little they could. This is what it means to be a true Muslim. To give alms to the poor is one of the main tenets of Islam and the Holy Koran instructs us to do it not only at times of great celebration, such as the start of the Eid festival, but also every other day of our lives.
I know sometimes you get frustrated by the constant queues of people outside the door of our house. These are people who want to talk to me or need my help. Every morning from daybreak, a small queue forms outside our house. Sometimes, before we have even had breakfast, a dozen people are waiting. I know you get upset because these strangers never make appointments and they demand so much of my time, when you too need your mother's time and attention. Especially in the morning, when I am trying to help you pack your school bags and enjoy our few moments together before parliament business takes me away. But girls, as frustrating as it can be, please try to understand that I cannot turn these people away.
This is a lesson I want you to learn. Never turn anyone away from your door because you never know when you might need to throw yourself at the mercy of another.
With love
,
Your mother
· · ELEVEN · ·
Everything Turns White
{
1997
}
SINCE THEIR INITIAL victory in capturing Kabul, the Taliban had been steadily gaining ground in the north of the country. The Mujahideen were still determined to try to stop them, but 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-controlled area, a village would suddenly fly the white flag of the Taliban.
Anywhere they had supporters or an ethnic connection among the locals, the flag would appear. In what had previously been government strongholdsâMazar, Baghlan, Kunduzâthese white flags kept appearing. As the Taliban gained 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 colour of their flag. But in many northern provinces, the common colour for a burka is white. Only in Kabul and in the south was it blue. Most of the women in the north who wore burkas owned them only in white, but the Taliban still beat them for it. They were beaten for not wearing a burka and then they were beaten for wearing a burka in the wrong colour. It was insanity.
By now, the Taliban were moving swiftly across the country. They took full control of Baghlan and Kunduz. Takhar and Badakhshan were the only two provinces in which 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 or trial. It seemed they simply made up the rules as they went along. The north, which generally had a more open-minded culture than the south, was in a state of collective shock.
But then some Northern Alliance commanders (the original Mujahideen) started to make deals with the Taliban in order to protect themselves. It was never a meeting of minds because the Taliban were much more fundamentalist in their thinking and their ideas than the Mujahideen ever were. And besides, the Taliban's power sources were based overseas. They didn't really need internal alliances. Even some of the former Communists tried to ally themselves with the Taliban. However, the Taliban usually just used people, then betrayed or assassinated them. As the Taliban saw it, either you were one of them or you weren't.
By this point, our once close-knit family was spread out in little units all over the country. Most of my elder sisters still lived in Badakhshan, having married local village men. I missed them very much. Mirshakay had never been quite the same since Muqim's death and he decided he had had enough of Afghanistan once and for all. His plan was to go to Pakistan to pick up his second wife and from there travel 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.
Mirshakay took off his uniform and put on civilian clothes, as we women hastily threw what we could into bags. Then, we took a taxi towards Kabul. We reached our old base of Puli Khumri, and because it was late we decided to spend the night there with some of Mirshakay's friends. In the morning, this family decided to return to Kabul with us.
All the women except me wore a burka. I still had the black Arab-style full niqab, which covered my face in the same way as a burka did. The women rose early, preparing boiled eggs and potatoes for the journey. The distance wasn't far, but we had no idea how long it would take us because of the fighting.
We set off just before dawn. As the sun rose, we heard the sounds of fighting. We were driving through the front line. The main roads were unsafe because of heavy artillery, so we stuck to the back roads. As dawn broke, we saw a bridge ahead of us connecting two villages on either side of a fast-flowing river, just as the sound of the fighting seemed to get closer. We were almost at the bridge when a mortar hit it and it blew up, exploding into tiny shards of metal and wood.
We had no choice but to get out and walk. My sister-in-law had recently had a baby and carried the newborn with her. She had not expected that we would need to walk, and she had, perhaps not very sensibly, chosen to wear high heels for the journey. We had to walk for most of the day. It wasn't a straight, direct path. We had to climb 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 main road 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 that we had to stop and take cover in bushes. Occasionally, a taxi would take us part of the wayânot official taxis but ordinary people charging money to drive people. They risked their lives because they needed the cash.
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 Plain crossing Jabul Saraj. We were getting closer to the outskirts of Kabul. Normally, the road would be busy, but no taxis dared drive here now. We joined crowds of people who were also walking. I laughed at the irony: these were the same people we had seen fleeing Kabul the day the Taliban took the city. Now, the once-quieter towns were the scenes 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.
By now, my sister-in-law had 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 her. For some reason, I've always been good at walking in high heels, even in the middle of a battlefield. I like to joke that it is 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 tucking into them when suddenly my tree started to shake. Then I heard a long whirring sound. 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.
It all happened so quickly. One second I was sitting under the tree and the next second I realized it was not there. Not for the first time in my life, I had narrowly escaped death.
As we walked on, we passed bodies of women and children who hadn't been so lucky when the rockets hit. My brother saw the dead bodies and screamed at us to keep moving. After two more hours walking, we came to what had once been a popular picnic stop by the Sayad River. It was an idyllic place with a fast-flowing stream and trickling waterfalls.
We were exhausted. The high heels were beginning to hurt my feet. A family saw us and came out of their house; they beckoned us inside and offered us tea, bread and mulberries. They even gave me a pair of sandals to wear. I will never forget these little kindnesses from strangers.
Once refreshed, we thanked the family and moved on again. We needed to cross the river now, and the only way over was a handmade and very shaky-looking footbridge made of planks crudely held together with wire and string. There were big gaps in some of the planks, and the whole thing looked like it could collapse at any moment. One of my brother's bodyguards was holding all our passports and documents in his pocket. He stood at the edge of the bridge and began to help us across one by one.
He grabbed my hand and urged me to step onto the first plank. It was evening by now, and the wind was so strong it was hard to even stand properly. Holding the man's hand, I managed to get over, as did my sister-in-law still holding the baby. But as she stepped off, she lost one of the sandals I had given her. She started to cry again. Very loudly. Finally, the bodyguard started to cross the bridge himself. But there was no one to hold his hand as he did so. I watched him as he got to the middle, then a plank beneath his feet gave a little sway and he fell.
As we looked on in horror, a sickening thought went through my mind: if he drowned, all our passports drowned with him. But the poor man suddenly resurfaced with one hand above the water. He was holding the passports aloft. Somehow, he managed to work his way to shore, and my brother dragged him out. He'd kept the passports totally dry. We all fell about laughing, even the bodyguard. My brother hugged and thanked him.
This bodyguard had always been one of my brother's favourite men. He was very loyal. Sadly, after my brother left the country, he joined the Taliban. With no income, he had no choice. Thousands of Afghan men have joined the Taliban for this reason. They might not share the ideology, but if the Taliban are the only people willing to pay the wages they need to feed their families, they join.
After walking another thirty minutes, we reached a Taliban-controlled area and found another taxi. I collapsed into the back seat and fell asleep. When I next woke up, it was dark and the car was driving through the streets of my beloved Kabul. Mirshakay asked the taxi to take us to the apartment in Makrorian. His in-laws had been staying there and looking after it in our absence. The apartment was warm and familiar. I can't describe the relief I felt taking a shower in hot water and eating a proper meal. Even the simplest dish is so much tastier when you have spent the day dodging rockets and bullets in a pair of high-heeled shoes.
Dear Shuhra and Shaharzad,
I love the intimacy we have as mother and daughters.
When I listen to your chatter, it reminds me of how much has changed between my generation and yours. You talk about the wildlife documentaries you've seen on TV and show me Bollywood dances that you've learned from your favourite Indian films. You talk to me about computers and things you've found on the Internet. You have access to the wider world in ways I never did.
I love it when you tell me stories of your friends, even the sad ones. Like the friend of Shuhra's who lives with her father and stepmother. The stepmother treats the little girl badly and Shuhra feels so sad for her friend, she cries.
I love that you have me to share your stories with. I could never talk to anyone about my life because no one was interested. My brothers had no interest in hearing about me and my dreams and the silly little things that had happened to me during the day. Maybe the only time they heard about my school was when I brought my result sheet saying that I had gotten the first or the second position in the class. Then they would show some pride in their clever sister.
Whenever my friends in school talked about their birthday presents or invited me to their parties, I would suffer. I always wished that I could celebrate my birthday as well and then tell my friends about it; sometimes I wanted to lie to my classmates and pretend I'd had a big party with music and dancing. But then I was scared that my classmates would ask me to invite them and I couldn't because it would never happen. Celebrating girls' birthdays was not something that happened in our family.