Our interventions were delicate because we could not break from the Pachtunwali, the code of honor of the Pashtun tribes. Its golden rules: hospitality, courage, and honor. Its consequences: punishment of the guilty, retaliation, and revenge in case of offense, i.e., violence.

  I remember a young woman in a village near Khost. She walked two hours under the blazing sun to come to the building that houses the Council of the Province. When she raised the veil of her burqa, her eyes were feverish, her hair stuck to her forehead, and she was out of breath and haggard, like a goat taken from a trap. She had difficulty speaking; she wanted to say so much but could say nothing at all. I could tell she was sick and needed a doctor; she did not need to tell me why she had not seen one earlier. She wanted to protect her husband—protect herself from being punished by her husband—by hiding her identity. He had banned her from getting medical treatment. This case, we gave to the department in Khost; justice was made by the police, and, in the end, the woman was taken care of. Her husband finally came around to understand that he should be committed to protecting his wife and children. I visited their village some time later. The family gave me a warm welcome, and everything seemed pleasant. The young woman was doing much better, and she was on her way to healing well. Her husband had stopped the fighting.

  Democracy and its assemblies began to change the lives of the Afghan people, especially the Afghan women. Women were able to embrace their rights. I do not know if the brutality, the cruelty, and the savagery of men have declined, but there are now places and people to hear these women who are victims of violence and torture. Today, the perpetrators of abuse now understand that they can go to jail for their acts. However, we are progressing slowly. The traditions are deeply rooted in the Pashtun tribes, and we must take them into account with our interventions. The aim is to avoid the worst: the best will come later.

  One day, I received a call from the Ministry of the Women of Khost. “Come—there is a woman in my office who belongs to the Tanai tribe. She said that people in her family wanted to remove her daughters and marry them off forcefully. She fled, and she is sitting in front of me. She said that if nothing is done, she will flee to Kabul, where she could be with only her daughters. Come quickly.” When I arrived at Suadiqua’s small office, the same office in which I was convinced to bring the women of my district together to form a shura a few years ago, the woman was standing upright—not prostrated. She was a widow. The face of my mother immediately came to me—the orphan who had quickly married someone that she did not know, my father, who was fifteen years older than her.

  A woman without protection—that is what this woman was, and her four daughters were suffering the same fate. They were waiting in the adjoining room. The eldest was fifteen years old, looking toward a promising—yet terrible—future. Her sister, who must have been around ten years old, sobbed, and the two younger sisters, seven and four years old, played silently; even the smallest sensed that something serious was happening.

  I gently asked the widow: “Who is the man who is supposed to protect you?”

  “My uncle,” she said in one breath.

  I spoke on the phone with the uncle in question.

  “It is your responsibility; you must take care of your niece and her daughters. They will spend the night with you: no one should come near them, and, tomorrow, we will settle this.”

  The uncle reluctantly accepted. Men have a lot of rights and sometimes duties here. When he arrived two hours later, he retrieved the ladies, taking them without a word to the back of a pickup truck, like animals. There is no other comparison.

  The following morning, I called the father of the widow to summon him to the council office. I also called her deceased husband’s father—he was the one who wanted to marry off the girls. We also asked that a mullah come to give religious insight on the matter, which was primarily motivated by financial issues. After the death of his son, the widow’s father-in-law wanted to take the home, but the widow’s father wanted his daughter to stay there. Otherwise, where would she go with her daughters? His home! And that was out of the question, for that would make too many mouths to feed! The dealings were made between the two men. The father-in-law finally accepted that the widow remain in the home of his deceased son, on the condition that she gave him her daughters in compensation. The “selling” of the girls for marriage would have brought a comfortable compensation. The thought of this sordid sale had made the widow upset, and she had fled with her four daughters up to Khost. She went to the Ministry of Women, where she clung to her life. Yet the solution that we proposed and that was accepted by everyone will, no doubt, amaze you: the father wanted to take back his daughter, the widow, with him and give her a second marriage, but she needed to sell her daughters to the father-in-law to pay for the wedding and the dowry.

  What difference did this make to the widow? In the first case, she would have been alone, without her daughters; in the second, she would still have lost her daughters, but she would have gained the protection of a new home. The widow agreed, and the girls cried. Such is the condition of women—choosing between two evils—but at least now there was a choice. As for the council, we knew that we had avoided the worst: this woman and her four daughters sitting beneath their burqas, begging on a street corner in Kabul, abused, and looked upon as dogs.

  Another time, a man came to see us. He asked us for protection because of a dispute with one of his neighbors. The man had come to a conclusion: he wanted a second wife and had promised to exchange his ten-year-old daughter for that of his neighbor, who was in her twenties. The neighbor planned on marrying the ten-year-old girl to his forty-year-old son. But alas, the father of the little girl decided against the trade after marrying the neighbor’s daughter. He realized that his daughter was too young to marry a man thirty years older than her. He refused to give her away and therefore had gone back on his word; this was unacceptable to the neighbor—and also forbidden, depending on the local custom. We had to find a solution that not only did not offend the traditions but also protected the child. It was agreed that the father would give his daughter away but that her forty-year-old husband would have to wait until she reached puberty before sharing his bed with her. There were six years left before this occurred, but she would go to her new home, where she would be the maid of her in-laws before becoming their daughter. I went to the village to meet with the girl and to explain the decision to her. Against all expectations, she was satisfied with this because she preferred leaving the house of her father, where her father’s new wife, the sister of her future husband, hated her.

  These are the stories we had to deal with regularly. I was trying to make my mark, even if it was small, and I felt that this was only the beginning. Like Badgai, I would bring the word of my people to the leaders of this country. They would be given what was really lacking for them, so they could expand their minds. They needed an education—it always came back to this. The opportunity presented itself more quickly than expected.

  10

  THE HAND OF PRESIDENT KARZAI

  2009

  Dawn came, and I finished my prayer. I was recovering slowly; my overweight condition had not improved, and my back made me weaker. I combed my graying hair, which now fell down my back. I wrapped my new turban. In Khost, I bought a new piece of fabric for the occasion—today I had an appointment with the president of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan, Hamid Karzai. He had been elected for a second term, and he had brought together all the members of the thirty-four provincial councils to Khost. I was very happy but tired: the day before, I had traveled between Khost and Kabul with three other members of the council. I had spent eight hours in the blistering heat in the passenger seat of a car heated by the sun of winter, with the windows closed to keep out the dust, along a terrible road. I was losing hope along the way: Does anyone care about this road? Does anyone care about us, poor Afghans from the mountains? We were in 2009 then, and it had been eight years since NATO troops had been in Afghanistan for peace and development. President Karzai had already escaped several attacks, and the vast majority of the country had not progressed from the Middle Ages. The windshield of the car was full of dust; my back cracked with each pothole. This road would never know the sweetness of bitumen.

  There were three hundred of us gathered in the council chamber, waiting for the president. Our group comprised mostly men, though some women were present. I did not know why I mattered. I wondered if I was the only illiterate person there, or if I was the only one who did not speak Dari, the language of Kabul. The room was huge; Persian rugs covered the ground, sofas were arranged all over. The advisers were, naturally, organized by ethnic group; I was with my Pashtun brothers. They felt at home—their voices were more assured and strong; the president is one of them. And then it happened.

  Silence.

  He gave a sweet and confident smile I had seen before on posters. His white beard was impeccably shaped, its elegance faithful to the reputation of the man. Oddly enough, I did not feel intimidated. In my head, I worried: “What are you doing here, you poor thing! You do not know how to read or write, you come from a village where no one has heard you speak, and you look like a nobody.”

  But I felt that I had something different compared to those content, fat-bellied barons. Maybe it was because I had an honest vote—I had not bought votes, unlike the majority of these other “elected” officials. I saw what happened in the district at the time of the election: the candidates went around in trucks looking for people to take to vote; they paid them a little fee, and then good news would come from the ballot box. I had never done this; I could not afford it! Even our president, who seemed very clean, had been accused of massive fraud. One third of his votes had been nullified, and there was to be a second round—but, as if by magic, his opponent withdrew. No more second round, and look who we have before us today. . . .

  I had discovered politics, and I was fascinated, so I did not miss one bit of his speech. He congratulated us all and talked to us about our responsibility: “You are Afghans, and you represent your community; you must work hard for your people and your country. The people believe in you, you must not deceive them.”

  These were, without doubt, simply words in the air for many, but not for me. I thought about what I would like to bring to the villages: electricity, clean water, an irrigation system for the crops, and schools for girls. I had a letter written about this that I wanted to give to the president.

  His speech was finished, and he had begun to shake hands with each council member. Three hundred hands. A handshake, a smile, and a few words for each person. He was my height; he approached me and stopped. He looked at me. “Should I call you my sister or my brother?” This was not what I expected; I had forgotten that I was not a man like the others or a woman like the others.

  “You’re the president of Afghanistan—whichever you choose, you will be right.”

  He laughed and said to me: “Okay, my brother!”

  He had seen me!

  I was so happy; I had wanted him to call me this. I’d chosen to wear these men’s clothes forty years ago, and the big day had arrived.

  I watched him as he shook hands with these powerful men, hands perfectly manicured, fingers swelling beneath gold rings laced with precious stones. What were they doing to get this power, this money? Before this, I never thought about becoming involved in politics. But now that I had become a member of the provincial council, yes, I dreamed sometimes. I wanted to go further. I did not want to be a minister but a representative of the people, elected to parliament. Nevertheless, there was a problem: you cannot be a candidate if you are illiterate. Even though I had fought against the Russians, had been elected by my people, had shaken hands with President Karzai, and had listened to Hillary Clinton and Michelle Obama, I was still from a village without education.

  I had never been involved in any corrupt affairs or illegal trade, but I did not have the right to enter such an election. My story stopped there. But I would continue to fight for my people in the mountains. I was a symbol to them, a hero, and I would not disappoint them.

  Then President Karzai left the conference room, and I made this a new promise to myself.

  But what if I were like them, if I had money? It was impossible for me to imagine, because I never would. I was not involved in business like the other politicians were. But if an angel gave me enough money, then I would make sure there was clean water in all of the villages in the district. I would plant trees, I’d give farmers seeds and fertilizer, and above all, I would assemble a project to improve agriculture: a great irrigation plan. The cost would be about three hundred thousand dollars. It would have to be a very generous angel!

  And then I would take care of my own affairs to make sure I would be secure in my old age. Because there is no one to look after me.

  With these thoughts in mind, I went back on the road to Khost, on that damned road of stones and dust. I had a job to do. With the Americans.

  11

  WITH THE AMERICAN TROOPS

  2011

  I’d been laughing more than usual. They made me laugh, the Americans. They were everywhere in the district. In their tanks, or on foot, weapon at hand, sweating under their bulletproof jackets, they were afraid. The Taliban, ah! The wicked Taliban. They were willing to give anything to eradicate them. But they had spent ten years trying, and the Taliban were still there, and there were even more than before.

  The Americans sweat even more under their bulletproof vests, and they yell at us Afghans, who did not ask for any of this. While we were pleased to welcome them in 2001, we had been praying every day for them to leave.

  I was on the road to a village in the district, sitting in the rear of a big Japanese car. My driver was at the wheel, and my bodyguard was sitting to my left, right hand raised on a Kalashnikov. I had become someone important, which made me a target, it seemed. My nephew—my younger brother’s son—was asleep, with his head on my shoulder. When I was first elected to the Council of the Province, I participated in the amakrasi, so I became the enemy of the Taliban. But rest assured, no one needed to worry about me. I knew everyone in the village—do not show yourself, or I will get you!

  The Taliban . . . I saw them wearing shorts, those Taliban! They did not scare me. On principle—and because I like this, I love this, this has not changed—I still had a weapon on me, a Mahkarof Russian pistol. I always had it on hand, especially when I was sleeping. Even during my meetings with the Americans, I had it, because they did not search me anymore!

  One morning, I met with a patrol of the Provincial Reconstruction Team (PRT), which I had organized. (That was why they had sent me this big Japanese car—and it was comfortable, I must say. I demanded that my chauffeur drive it. I trusted him.) Negotiating with the PRT was tough.

  “I am like you,” I told them. “I served in the jihad, and since then I have never been separated from my weapon.” I won, as always. They did not have a choice; they needed us. They want to “win hearts and minds.” Well, there was work to be done.

  I crossed the tenth shielded coalition gate; I tasted metal and dust after every one. They had ruined everything. They had everything in their hands; we were ready to help them. No Afghan could tell the difference between a Russian at the time of the war and an American in the present: it is the old story of the wolf and the dog. For the Afghans, they were similar. They did not have the same appearance, did not use the same methods, but they were doing the same thing. The Russians were more like wolves; they showed their fangs right away. But Afghans hate dogs above all things. They are unclean animals.

  A cultural detail that the Americans would not have noticed: when they arrived in the village at night looking for “terrorists,” they were screaming like crazy people escaped from an asylum trying to scare everybody, exciting their herd of dogs like Satan bound in hell, and then they let them loose on the houses. Their jaws hanging open, wet with demonic drool, they spread terror, these dogs; it was not enough to escape from their teeth and their deadly claws; they always brought hardship with them. Filthy dogs. Unclean animals.

  We arrived. There were about twenty of them. They were sweating. It must be heavy, a bulletproof vest. They took me to a floor inside a small building. I had an appointment with a female delegation of the PRT. About ten American soldiers were wearing camo and veils on their heads. I laughed. They were wearing veils, and I was not; I still wore my turban. They knew me well now: I was Ukmina, the Afghan who dressed as a man. In the beginning, they were surprised. The translator had introduced me soberly: “This is Ukmina, member of the Council of the Province of Khost.” I saw that they had questions, but, professionally, they did not ask me anything.

  On our third meeting, one of them dared ask, “Why do you dress like that? We have never seen a woman like you here!”

  I responded, “Because I am the bravest woman; the others would not do this—they do not have the courage. I have it for them!”

  They quickly realized the advantage that they could get from my presence. They made me go into the villages in the district to meet other women and present their project of reconstruction—they used me in their business seduction. But again, they were completely off the mark! They wanted to give out chickens to the women. This does not spark any enthusiasm at all, but I understood: how do you rebuild a country, such as Afghanistan, by distributing chickens, when we should have roads, water, and electricity! The money was there, but it disappeared in the vast network of corruption that had materialized as the dollars rushed in. What a mess!

  We were sitting on sofas around a table. They spoke to me about forming a committee for the women of the district so that they could learn to care for their animals. We spoke for two hours about finding a secure location to host the animals, the women, and the American trainers, but no village chief offered them anything. The translator was mired in the dialog, which rambled on. I had the distinct impression that he had not mastered English and that they did not really understand him. Or he was simply unwilling to comply. In any case, we were not progressing, as usual. I gave my advice: “The chickens, goats, and sheep need to be vaccinated. I know all about this, because I took care of the animals when I was young. We are going to speak about this to women. I can offer you a safe place in my district, Tanai.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10