I Am a Bacha Posh, page 9
I thought briefly about the girls’ school.
I paused, and the translator took over. Looking at the faces of the Americans, I felt that it was not very clear to them. “Or, a clinic for women. But they are not going to come to the district office. It is a place for men only—they will never accept going there.”
The same dazed look. I did not know if this was because of the translator or the content. Sometimes the Americans had difficulty understanding Pashtun women, who refuse to be in a predominantly male place, even when the males are not there. Men have instilled this behavior in them.
“This training can encourage women; that is very good, but look at the problems that are there if you want to help them. Because men already have everything that they need. They can move, work, they have fields, they do what they want. But women, what can they do?”
The translation seemed to be very vague again. We left with the promise of another meeting. I saw their frustration: no doubt that they wanted to help establish peace in this country. They needed to repatriate their dogs. These women all impressed me, in the beginning. The first time that I saw them, with their military camouflage and their guns, I said to myself that if we, too, had the right to put women in the ranks of the Afghan army, it would be a great step forward.
And then one day, they took me with them to Bagram. In a helicopter, I was given the rundown: 17,000 military personnel were in the coalition, of which a large majority were American. There were several airstrips, including a 3,500-meter strip to accommodate a Boeing. There had been an attack from insurgents the previous year, in 2010, and here I was, going into the heart of NATO forces in Afghanistan. Nobody told me about the infamous prison in Bagram, but I had heard the stories. The detainees had been beaten to death by American guards; there was talk of torture and of hundreds of innocent detainees. A few years earlier, in 2008, bibles had been burned. They were found in the prison—bibles that had been translated into Dari and Pashto, sent by an American church. The military chaplain of the American prison was put in charge of converting the detainees. We did not like Americans any more.
They wanted to impress me, my friends in the PRT. It did not bother me, these rows of monstrous aircrafts: the transport aircraft Lockheed C-5 Galaxy, the helicopters with strange names; Chinook, Apache, Black Hawk . . . that was all that I remember. It made me laugh; I was in a good mood. And then I saw them: Afghan women in military attire. I could not believe my eyes! My country had managed to make female soldiers! I do not know how they came to be here. Had they also been bacha posh in their childhood, to dare such a dream, for having the courage and the strength to achieve?
There was then a conference to discuss the place of women in Afghan society: how can we give more of a role to women in the economy? How can we reduce illiteracy and violence against women? A woman named Dawn Liberi, an American, took the floor on behalf of the troops of the coalition: “In a few years, the women of Afghanistan have come a very long way. In 2000, women could not vote, and they were not represented in the government. The violence against women was daily, and accepted by all. Ten years later, Afghan women occupy important positions in different areas: not only in the army, but also in business, education, within the government, and in almost all sectors of human activity.”
I thought this was optimistic. This was not precisely what I was noticing every day in the Council of the Province.
There was applause, and then an Afghan woman took the stage, and, from that moment on, she became my new heroine, my other Badgai. She was wearing the green Afghan army uniform, and her chest was adorned with many medals. The American welcomed her by shaking her hand: “And now I give the floor to General Khatol Mohammadzai, the first female parachutist and general of the Afghan army.”
I could not believe my ears. I no longer had any desire to laugh; I was looking at her wide-eyed.
Her mouth was animated under the general’s hat. An assured voice vibrated through the air, and I was shaking. She smiled. “The first time that I jumped out of a plane, I screamed with all my strength; I thought that the parachute would never open. There was no one to help me, and then the canvas deployed; it pulled forcefully at my shoulders, and I thought I was never going to touch land again. I was lighter than the men, and they were already on the ground, while I was still in the sky. But when I hit the ground, I felt so good that I knew this was what I was supposed to do. I had not told my family, but my mother found out, and she screamed and yelled at me, asking me why I had chosen a profession for men!”
This happened in the 1980s, when the Afghans still believed that women should be like all the other women. Then she talked about the Taliban era, when she could no longer go out and no longer had the right to work with the army, so she sold blankets that she sewed in her home. She had resumed her work with the army under President Karzai and had progressed very well. He appointed her colonel and then general. And she was there, before us.
“These female soldiers (she meant the other Afghan military), those that I saw earlier, can give courage to other women. You say that I am brave, but other Afghan girls are, too; they must be convinced that they are equal to men and that they can do the same things, in all areas.
“To become general, for a woman, particularly in Afghanistan, is not easy. But I worked hard to show the other Afghan women that one of them could also do so. As a paratrooper, because you jump into emptiness, you must be as strong as a storm, you must be like an earthquake, you have with you the energy and determination that could move the world, the universe. That is the image that we must give to ourselves, the paratroopers in the sky—we cannot lie or weaken. And I have accomplished this.”
And then, with a big sparkling smile, she concluded:
“I have children. At home, I make them dinner. Inside those walls, I am a woman. Outside, I am a man.”
I was crying.
My country had changed. The Taliban did not scare me. When the international troops left, I did not think that there would be chaos as predicted. I had confidence in my country. For the first time in decades, we would be only among ourselves, without invaders or peace fighters. The Taliban would join the government, and then? They would no longer impose their grotesque rules, beatings, or stonings.
This vision was no longer impossible. The unique Afghan army general left the room before I could approach her. I would have liked to speak to her. I realized that it was time: I needed to make a second pilgrimage, to go to where the heroine of my childhood lived, the heroine of my whole life: Badgai.
12
BADGAI, THE SACRIFICE OF THE LIFE OF A WOMAN
Badgai. I had not stopped thinking about her for more than thirty years.
After attending a wedding near the village where she lived, I decided to travel the distance that separated us. It took me a day to travel across the mountain.
One of my distant cousins was getting married. I had only seen them once before, but in Afghanistan, these ceremonies are used to bring together large families. I would even say that a wedding is considered successful only if there are more than three hundred guests. A thousand would be perfect. There is a kind of competition between the two families: which will offer the greatest hospitality? At this wedding, there were between three hundred and four hundred, so everyone’s honor was safe.
I bought some new cloth for my turban and an embroidered waistcoat. My place was on the side with the men; no one doubted this. Because I had gone to Mecca, I had earned respect. They called me uncle, and I heard that some had nicknamed me Ukmina the Warrior, but, without doubt, the children insulted me behind my back and called me bakri, the old girl. I had noticed that I scared them. They saw that something was wrong, but they did not know what.
In Kabul, I passed by unnoticed, but, in some villages, they watched me and laughed, and sometimes they threw stones at me. I couldn’t blame them. I thought about a certain old woman dressed in men’s clothing who knew my mother in the market. She had frightened me.
I sat down on the carpet beside some people I knew. We talked about the good old times, the jihad, laughing. I was comfortable there; I had the same life as them, I was one of them.
“As salam alaikum, Hukomkahn! How are you?”
“Wa alaikum salam, Samiullah!”
Samiullah! Tears came to my eyes. My friend from the jihad! I had not seen him in years. “I live in Pakistan now; I just came for the wedding. I am the happy owner of a fabric store in Peshawar! And, Hukomkhan, you have become such a handsome, healthy man.”
He touched my round belly and broke out laughing. I also laughed; I must admit—I do have good appetite! We talked about life in the mountains during the war against the Russians. Samiullah had shared the guard shifts with me.
“Do you remember the first time that the Russians sent paratroopers? We did not know what it was! We thought they were big butterflies! When we figured it out, we told the Mujahideen, and they fired at them; when they touched the ground, they were all dead!”
We laughed a lot. You can say that I have a place among these Pashtuns, men who have been through so many conflicts.
The wartime nostalgia was interrupted with music and dance; my neighbor began a typical Pashtun attan to the sound of drums, a series of hops from one foot to the other, and then spinning, accompanied by clapping. Samiullah led me; I did a few steps, and then I retired, exhausted! I did not regret coming; I was enjoying myself.
The groom entered, and we greeted him. He looked very elegant in his white shalwar kameez. He joined his bride in the section reserved for women; he was the only one who could enter there—the only one besides me! I accompanied him, because I wanted to take advantage of this privilege: I walk through walls, I am an angel, I come and go across the borders drawn between men and women! There I was on the other side; my cousin welcomed me with a discreet smile: the day of her wedding she should not smile, because it is also a time of sadness, because she will leave her family at the end of the ceremony to join that of her husband. She is beautiful: on top of her hair, which is tied in a bun, is a delicately placed pink hijab, matching her silk dress, which is decorated in shiny pearls.
“Ukmina, my cousin, you at last, you do not go by unnoticed—we recognized you immediately! Are you not jealous when you see these jewels and all these dresses? You do not want to try, just once, to dress like a woman? I am sure that you would look very impressive.”
My cousin was teasing me. When I looked at the cloth, the veils, the jewels, I was disgusted. I found this very beautiful on all of these women, but I would rather die than wear them myself. I was wearing two rings, one on each hand. I’d gotten them in Mecca; they were silver with quartz gems, a semi-precious stone reserved for men. A watch on my left wrist was masculine and silver. That was all.
The religious leaders came into the room. They would celebrate the nikah, the union. One of them looked at me, and then he diverted his gaze. I was an angel.
The mother of the groom placed a spoonful of henna in the palm of my cousin’s hand and covered it with fabric. Then the mother of the bride, my aunt, put the henna on the little finger of her son-in-law and also covered it in a piece of fabric. They were married. I cried like a little girl.
The meal was served, and I found myself again next to Samiullah.
“Let me ask you a question, Hukomkahn. Is this now the women’s side?”
He broke out laughing.
“More seriously: Do you do not think that you are missing something—don’t you want to put on one of their beautiful dresses?”
“Stop mocking yourself—you know very well that I am no different from you. Would you like to put on one of their beautiful dresses?!”
He laughed again and punched me in the side, like the good old times.
I told him that I came to this wedding because it was near the village where Badgai lived. I talked to him about Badgai for hours when we were on guard in the mountains.
My neighbor heard the conversation and asked me how I knew about Badgai. I told him about my childhood and what role she had played in life, even if I had never met her. He said that I reminded him of her, and that he was from her family and knew her when he was young.
I soon found out that everyone claimed to have a kinship with Badgai. A cousin, a second cousin, a great second cousin. No one could say that they were a direct descendant; Badgai never married and did not have children. Only the two sons of her executed brother could make such a lineage!
Samiullah offered to accompany me. The house where Badgai lived was located away from the village, isolated in a mountain hamlet, twenty minutes from the market.
On the path that led me to her, my heart tightened, and I felt as though I was going to meet a long-lost sister, whom I knew existed for a long time, but who, even though I lived far from her, was so close to me.
I came across a small girl, and her resemblance to Badgai was striking—the same black eyes . . . There are a few photos of Badgai, including the one that I had seen in the governor of Khost’s office ten years earlier.
“Hello—do you know where Badgai’s house is located?”
“Up the side, at the top, turn left.”
“Did you know her?”
She looked at me and stared for a moment. She must have thought that I was an old crazy person. And then, being only eight or ten years old, she understood.
“Yes, I knew her very well—she is from my family. Go, she is waiting for you.”
Samiullah shrugged his shoulders; he, too, must have thought that I had lost my mind, but he had too much respect for me to deprive me of my dream. At the top of the hill, we turned to the left, and, ten minutes after we’d passed the market, I saw the modest, rammed-earth building. It was inhabited, but nobody came to meet us. When I knocked on the door, I shuddered from head to toe. I was transported into another time, to the space between an instant and an eternity; I hoped that Badgai was still living.
And then I saw her.
There I was, in front of her—and I want to say, Her—with a capital letter. Because like Him, the Great Allah, she had guided my way. She was not at all a small, old, curled-up woman as the woman at the shura had described her to be. She was beautiful and strong; she looked just like the photo. She smiled at me and invited me to have a seat at her side.
A voice interrupted; it was that of the girl from the path. She directed me to the empty seat in front of me:
“She used to sit here. At the end of her life, she could no longer walk.”
I watched, dazed. It was as though I had been awakened by a concert of horns. The chair was empty—Badgai was not there.
“She died thirty years ago. She was sick but did not want to be treated; she did not want to leave her village and her people—that is what she said. My mother told me this. The entire village mourned, but not only them. The villagers came from the surrounding area to pay their respects, even the very rich people.”
I listened to her, but I did not hear. I approached the chair, and I closed my eyes. I wished that Badgai were still here, in front of me, so she could tell me about her life, about her acts of bravery. I told myself that if she were still alive, she could explain so many things to me, and she would help me, guide me. I was forty years old, but it seemed as though I was only ten. I suddenly felt small between the walls where she had lived. It was as if I realized only then that she had left this world. We would have had so many things to share. I might have asked questions about her trip to Kabul to retrieve the bodies of her brothers, about the kings she had met, about Afghanistan at that time. I would have asked her where and how she learned Dari, the official language of Afghanistan, which I still did not know. I would have talked to her about her choice to wear men’s clothing, about how other people viewed it. Had she ever thought to give it up? But I should not ask about intimate issues, not this—that would not do! Personal questions: I do not like them, so I do not know why I would have bothered with this.
I was no longer ten years old, but forty. The age when all women of Afghanistan have suffered enough and wait for death. But not me. I had neither a husband nor children, and you could not possibly know how good it felt! Mostly, because I do not like children. And when I hear some people complain about their children because they do not obey them, it makes me chuckle. Oh, how at peace I am!
I do not have a husband, but why? I know that celibacy is looked upon poorly in our society, but I am fine. I have no one to tell me what I should do or not do, say or not say. Anyway, I have always hated things dealing with love. This is not my nature. Even today, when I look at the television, or movies, or songs, if there is a kiss, I turn my head! I am forty years old, and I act like a ten-year-old, the age when I decided to sacrifice my life to my mother, to help her, to become a bakri, an old girl. Today my mother is dead, and I do not regret the sacrifice I made. I was born to live this life without love or desire, and I am happy with that. No one has ever said to me “I love you,” and I have never said it to anyone. I do not even know what word I would use in Pashto to say this. Elsewhere, after thirty years of war and destruction, I think my people have lost the meaning and the taste of this word. But did they ever have it? The conservatism and religious shackles already left very little room for expressions of feelings and love. The word is empty—it does not evoke anything. Our Pashtun poets, however, glorify it. I even know some verses of “Ghazal de Mirâ,” which became one of the most popular songs of Afghanistan:
