Dear Zari: Hidden Stories from Women of Afghanistan (21 page)

I asked Salmi if she had heard of any other married men who were also having relationships with men and she replied that at the wedding she had attended women had told her that this sort of thing was common. I explained to Salmi that it was normal human behaviour and that there are gay people everywhere in every culture and society.

I began to wonder if we could use Anesa’s story as the starting point for a studio discussion about homosexuality in Afghanistan. As I’ve said, same-sex relationships are not accepted or even openly acknowledged
in Afghanistan. The only sexual relationship that is recognised is that between a man and a woman within marriage. However, it is a relatively common practice for some older more powerful men to have boys who they use for sexual relations, even though it is illegal. These men use their wealth and power to buy sex from poor boys. Like the
bacha be reesh
described by Anesa, the boys dance for men and are often kept as sex slaves. They are sexually abused and then shunned by society for their homosexual activity while their abusers somehow evade the law and any blame. If, however, you are reported to the police for homosexual behaviour you can expect to be arrested because it is a crime in Afghanistan.

Salmi and I both realised this was a highly sensitive subject and it was going to be difficult to find the right interviewees. However, we felt it was our job as journalists to try to make this programme and so we began researching the topic. We spoke to male and female doctors and found people in the provinces to speak to. Many people told us that they knew examples of gay men, but when we asked them to come on the programme, they refused. No one would go on the record. One doctor in Kabul told me that a few men had come to him and said they had difficulty sleeping with their wives because they loved and wanted to have sex with men. I asked the doctor if he would come on to our programme and talk about this. ‘Zarghuna Jan, I respect you and your programme,’ he told me, ‘but as an Afghan citizen living in this country, I have to bear in mind the sensitivity of the topics I talk about.’

He said he needed to watch what he said for his own security. ‘Homosexuality is a taboo subject in this country, as you know. Some men are gay and do have sex with other men, but it is still an unmentionable topic. No one talks about it. It exists, but people ignore it as it is against our traditions and religion. I’m sorry, but I cannot come on to your programme. Please excuse me!’

Salmi and I listened carefully to the doctor’s words. How could we try and persuade him when we knew that appearing on the programme
might put his life in danger? We decided not to go ahead with the programme and for years Anesa’s story has remained only in my notes. I kept the file so I could write this story and share it with others in a way that will not endanger Anesa, Salmi or me.

In 2005 I went back to Afghanistan after more than ten years’ absence. I had left Kabul as a child and I was now returning as a young woman. I could never have imagined that the city of my childhood could have changed so dramatically. When I left in the mid-1990s Afghanistan was in the middle of a civil war, with different factions fighting one another. Every day we would hear rumours of what was going on, but we have a saying in Dari, ‘What you hear is nothing like what you see.’ This saying perfectly matched how I felt on the day I arrived back in Kabul. This was the city where I had been born and spent my childhood. I had nurtured the hope that one day it would be peaceful enough for my family to return and live there once more.

I remember that the day we left had been especially beautiful. It was winter and the high mountains that surround Kabul were dressed in white snow. When it snows in Kabul you can look forward to a clear blue sky the next day. It casts such a brilliant light on the snow that it hurts your eyes to look at it. Despite the bitter wind that day, the streets were full of people rushing about on their business. All the shops were open and doing brisk trade as people hurried to buy all they needed before the firing started up again. Women and girls mingled in the crowds, dressed in winter coats and trousers with scarves tied round their heads to keep out the cold air.

This time when I landed at Kabul International airport – not far from the area where I grew up – the atmosphere was very different. A crowd of unkempt men with long beards unnerved me as they surged towards the passengers at the airport. Some wanted to earn money by carrying bags, others were waiting for other passengers, but they all stared at me because I was an Afghan woman who had arrived on her own. As I waited in the long queue at passport control, I held my headscarf tightly. It seemed to me as if every man was staring at me.

I walked into to the arrivals hall and spotted a BBC colleague waiting for me. It was such a reassuring sight. I got into the car without speaking, as my eyes searched for the Kabul I had left behind. I recognised the roads but so much had changed. The huge green trees had gone, the roads were choked with traffic, everything was chaotic and dirty. I could see only men and boys on the streets, staring through the car window at me as we passed. Everyone appeared to be angry and shouting at each other.

I couldn’t stop the tears from falling. My colleague asked me if I was all right but I just carried on crying. He and the driver said nothing as I wept and memories of my childhood flooded back. The city of my childhood had lost its colour and freshness; now it was covered with the grey dust of a decade of war.

I also saw how war had changed the people. I had spent ten years living in a country that wasn’t shaken by the sounds of rockets or shooting. Returning to Kabul, I realised that I had changed too – I had softened. Now every unexpected noise sounded like a bomb exploding; when someone’s mobile phone rang I would jump in fear. I was only in Kabul for a week but I thought I would die there.

A colleague had suggested I meet a young woman called Wazma for Afghan Woman’s Hour because she had an extraordinary life story. One of the aims of that trip to Kabul was to meet some Afghan women face to face. Wazma was one of my interviewees. ‘War and fighting turns some hearts to stone,’ she told me.

As a child, war and fighting had certainly turned my heart to stone.
Before I left Kabul I hadn’t been frightened of the sounds of war. Back then I had witnessed some horrific scenes – people dying and being mutilated – now I was spooked by the sound of a ringtone. The young women I was working with probably thought I was a total coward.

Progress was being made in some parts of Kabul. Building and renovation work were under way, and some houses had electricity from the city power supply. The security situation was also relatively calm at the time. The BBC guesthouse that I was staying in stood at the foot of some mountains. On my way back from work I loved looking up at all the houses perched on the hillside; it was a comforting sight at night to see the lights in people’s homes. These houses now had electricity and would shine over the city below like glistening stars. This was the scene that made me fall in love with Kabul again. I was too frightened to return to the neighbourhood I’d grown up in and visit my school. I just couldn’t face it. Instead, I would stare up the mountain, counting the lights and imagining the lives of people who lived there.

Wazma had once lived up in the mountain. When I interviewed her, I discovered that life up there was the same as in the valley but just a bit harder. She no longer lived there and now she missed it. Her observation that war and fighting turns some hearts to stone made a big impression on me, and during the interview with her I discovered how she came to believe this.

In the early hours of the morning the sound of the
Azan
– the mullah’s call to prayer – echoed throughout the Deh Afghanan area of Kabul. His singing in Arabic was relayed through a tinny loudspeaker. It was still dark but people were starting to get up. There was a stiff breeze in the air. The lights of the houses on the hillside appeared like tiny stars to those in the valley below. One of those stars belonged to the small house of Wazma and her family.

The
Azan
could be heard from the top of the mountain. It woke Wazma up. She stretched, yawned, and sat up on her mattress. By her side lay her husband, Waheed. She turned to see her baby daughter still
fast asleep, oblivious to the sound of the
Azan
. The sight gave Wazma a strong maternal feeling. She leaned over and gently stroked her baby’s hair. Wazma got up quietly. The room was small. It provided just enough space for them all to lie down in. You had to squeeze through a narrow door to enter it. It was sparsely furnished but Wazma counted herself fortunate. She had a loving husband and a beautiful daughter. She plugged in the old Russian water boiler and put it in the bucket she had filled from the communal well the night before. She then sat beside it on a large stone which was used as a chair. The mullah was coming to the last sentences of the
Azan
.

Allah u Akbar
.

God is great.

La Ilaha Ilala
.

There is no God but Allah.

Mohammad Al Rasool Allah
.

Mohammad is his prophet.

Wazma waited for the water to warm; the weak electric current wasn’t helping. She dipped her hand into the water to make sure it was neither too hot nor too cold. Satisfied it was the right temperature, she stood up and went over to her husband and whispered, ‘Darling, wake up. It’s time for prayer.’

Waheed woke up and smiled at his wife. He asked Wazma if the water was ready for him to wash. She brushed his hair with her fingers and replied that it was. Waheed left to wash, in readiness for his early-morning prayer.

When she had finished her prayer, Wazma began her daily routine of making fresh green tea. She boiled the water in an old pot, then she put a teaspoon of green tea and added a pinch of crushed cardamom into the little white china teapot with the small purple flowers on it. She poured the boiled water into the teapot and left it for a few minutes so that the green leaves could infuse in the water. Then she filled two china
cups and placed them on a tin tray. She sat and waited for her husband to finish praying. He bowed to the ground, which signalled the end of his prayer and came and sat next to Wazma.

It was getting lighter outside. Wazma and Waheed sipped their tea and talked quietly so as not to wake the baby.

‘You know, Wazma, I really hope one day to be able to buy a house further down the mountain so you don’t have to do all this tiring work, carrying water up and down every day. I will work hard so our family can live more comfortably.’

Wazma smiled at her husband. ‘Waheed, I’m happy to live anywhere with you. I don’t need a big house and things are not important to me. When I’ve finished studying I’ll earn money from my teaching salary and then we’ll both be earning money. Then maybe we can afford a house further down the mountain, if that’s what you want. For me, your love, my baby and being healthy are the most important things. Inshallah, everything will be fine. I have faith in God that it will.’

Waheed leaned forward and kissed her on her forehead. He had one last sip of his tea and left for the local government office where he worked as a clerk.

Wazma began to tidy the room. She had to be quick so she wasn’t late for school. She put on her green uniform and looked at herself in the mirror on the wall next to the door. Her reflection didn’t look so clear in the dusty scratched mirror but she knew this wasn’t the reality; she realised she was much prettier than her image in the glass. She dabbed some moisturising cream on her face and traced kohl around her eyes. Wazma looked over at the baby who had just woken up and started to cry. She picked her up and held her in her arms. Wazma explained to her daughter that she was going to school soon. ‘You’ll be spending time with Granny until I come back, and when I return I’ll bring you some sweets.’

Farah was only thirteen months old and far too young to understand what her mother was saying, but she smiled, contented to hear her mother’s voice and to be in her arms. Wazma washed her daughter’s
face, kissed her and held her tightly. It was as if Wazma didn’t want to leave her baby; she had a strange feeling it was the last time she would be doing this. She continued wiping her daughter’s face and kissed her on her cheeks again. She fed the baby with a bottle of milk and dressed her in a red spotty dress she had made for her. Farah was playing with the gold chain that hung from her mother’s neck. It was the only present given to her by her husband. She held the baby in her arms, picked up the bottle and her handbag and headed for the door.

It was now eight o’clock in the morning. Wazma went to the next house where Waheed’s family lived. She gave Farah to her mother-in-law and handed over the bottle of milk with instructions that it should be given again at ten o’clock. Wazma said goodbye, kissed her daughter and left.

Hurrying down the mountain track, Wazma pondered on what to make her family for dinner. The path was dusty and steep. It took her fifteen minutes to reach the bottom and the busy roads of Deh Afghanan. On her way to the bus stop she had to pass the fruit and vegetable market.