The Favored Daughter (15 page)

But on their first weekend in power the Taliban banned all weddings in public places. Hundreds of couples had to frantically cancel their day. Those couples not only lost their day, the day little girls all over the world dream about, but their families, already struggling because of the bad economy caused by war, lost their money.

The Taliban ordered people to have private ceremonies at home with no guests, no music, and no fun. It's interesting to think about some of the couples who married that weekend. Their wedding anniversaries are a kind of memorial day for Taliban rule. It wasn't the wedding day they expected, but it's something they will certainly remember until the end of their lives.

Of course many people tried to defy the ban. Proud fathers refused to allow these creatures to destroy such an important family day and attempted to go ahead as planned. Some hotel owners ignored the new rule and carried on trading as usual. But the Taliban, in black turbans, were driving around town in pickup trucks. They carried guns and whips with them, and when they heard music coming from a wedding party, they raided the location. They burst in shouting and yelling, smashing speakers, ripping tape from video cameras, and tearing photographic film. And they beat people. They beat the grooms in front of their brides and grandfathers in front of their frightened guests. They beat them senseless. I kept hearing these stories, but I still could not believe it was true. I think I was in denial.

The next day my sister went to the market to get some vegetables. This sister wore a burqa routinely so that wasn't such a problem for her. But she came back from the market in a flood of tears. She said she'd seen them beating all women who weren't in burqas and were only wearing head scarves. I listened in shock. She was describing them beating women who dressed like me.

She sobbed as she told me how she watched a man and wife laden with shopping bags push their bicycle along the street. The woman wasn't even in modern jeans or a skirt. She wore a culturally traditional shalwar kameez and had covered her hair with a large scarf. The couple was chatting when the Taliban came from behind and attacked the woman. Three of them set upon her, beating her with wire cable and thumping her around the head so viciously that they knocked her to the ground. When they started to beat the man he denied that she was his wife. To save himself he denounced his own wife.

It was horrifying, the idea that an Afghan man could denounce his wife so easily. In traditional Afghan culture men will fight to the death to protect their wives and families, but the Taliban brought with them such fear, such evil, that they twisted some of the men of our nation. Some men who had previously been good men and kind husbands became swayed into believing this warped ideology, either because of their own fear or because they were taken in by the excitement of a mob psychology.

For the next week I didn't go anywhere. TV had been banned. The state radio station had been taken over for Taliban propaganda purposes. Woman presenters, even the old ugly ones with no makeup, had been banned. A popular young male news presenter who used the wrong word in a report about the death of a Taliban commander was beaten on the soles of his feet and left in a container for three days with no food or water. He had mistakenly used the word “joyous” instead of “tragic” to describe the death. It's an understandable slip when you consider men with whips were standing behind him as he broadcast live. Who wouldn't be nervous?

I couldn't even listen to the propaganda they called news. I wanted real news. I wanted to feel connected to the outside world. Not having contact made me feel like I was in prison. But the local grapevine news, delivered from neighbor to neighbor, was unavoidable, and each story was more horrible than before.

The fighting outside Kabul continued. The Shomali Plains, the area between Massoud's stronghold of Panjshir and the city, became the new front line. Most people were still expecting Massoud's troops to come back. We couldn't believe this Taliban reality was going to be permanent.

The only place where I could meet other girls and talk was on the communal balcony of the apartment block when I was cleaning the house. Watching from the balcony, I could see other young girls in the other apartments. Young, beautiful girls were being deprived of their basic rights, of breathing the fresh air and feeling the sun. As soon as these girls heard the sound of Taliban voices they fled, running as fast as they could back inside.

I needed to connect with my mother. I was missing her so badly but was thankful she didn't have to witness this latest abomination on her country. I wanted to visit her grave but I still couldn't bring myself to put on a burqa. I didn't even own one. So I borrowed a black Arab-style hijab from my sister. It was like a large cape that also covered the whole face, so I thought I'd be safe wearing that. The streets were deserted, and fear made the air so thick you could almost cut it with a blade.

Few men dared to come outside and even fewer women; those who did were dressed in blue shuttlecock burqas, the new uniform of Afghan women. (A shuttlecock burqa is an old-fashioned, tent-like burqa, with a crocheted screen that covers the eyes. The Taliban brought this style back, and it replaced the “younger” burqas, which have a veil on the eyes, and fit closer to the woman's figure.)

They scurried along silently, doing their shopping as quickly as possible so they could get home to safety. No one talked to anyone. Shopkeepers handed over bags wordlessly, and women took them without looking up. Occasionally a Taliban pickup truck would drive by, the men inside sneering menacingly, looking for new victims to beat, as loudspeakers on top of the trucks blasted out religious teachings. I thought that by now I knew fear in all its forms and shapes, but this one was a new form again—cold, clammy, and tinged with an icy fury. My fury. After that I didn't leave the house again for almost two months.

We hadn't heard from my brother Mirshakay since the Taliban had first taken control. Like him, many other former mujahideen and government workers had fled, taking their families with them. The Shomali plains and the Panjshir valley—the province northeast of Kabul—were still under the control of Ahmed Shah Massoud. But his men weren't the only ones fleeing. Others—former communists, university professors, doctors—were also fleeing. Grabbing what they could—a few clothes, jewelry, food supplies—they loaded up their cars and left town. People left behind everything they had worked for. People who had only weeks earlier congratulated themselves on their houses surviving the civil war intact were now locking the gates of those houses behind them and walking out without a second glance.

But not all of them made it to safety. We heard stories of cars being attacked and looted. The few possessions the passengers had were taken from them, gold necklaces ripped from women's necks, earrings torn from their one ordinary Thursday lobes. Some of the looters were Taliban, others were criminals taking advantage of the chaos.

As they edged out of town and closer to the front line—the other side of which would mean relative safety—many people were killed, their cars hit by rockets or stray gunfire.

I prayed and prayed for Massoud to come back. Each night I went to sleep begging him, willing him, to push back the front line into the city center. I wanted to wake up and find the Taliban and their ideas gone.

Eventually we got a letter from my brother to say he had been hiding in the house of his driver in Parwan province, just to the north of Kabul. It's a beautiful place with a river and lush valleys full of trees. In the summer people go picnic there. Traditional Afghan picnics are a lovely affair—boiled eggs, juice, and plump mulberries picked freshly from the trees.

My brother wanted his wife and children to go to him. I decided to travel with them. Even now, despite the dangers, I still could not bring myself to put on a burqa, so I wore the black hijab instead, making sure my face was fully covered. I also wore a pair of glasses to disguise myself further. Even with my face covered I feared someone would recognize me as the sister of a police officer. Although Parwan is just next door to Kabul and the direct route is only an hour's drive, it was too close to the mujahideen and Taliban front line to drive directly. We didn't want to risk being hit by a rocket so we drove south first which was the opposite direction of where we needed to go. From Sarobi to Tagab and then to Nijrab in Kapisa province—almost a day's travel on a bumpy road. We had to loop back, then around, then backward again, then forward, then backward. Other people fleeing had created new tracks over fields, puzzling circuitous tracks, some leading to nowhere, others to another loop. It was an awful journey. For the 12 hours we drove I was terrified we'd hit a land mine, be looted, or come under gunfire. We didn't dare risk stopping for a break or for water.

Once again, I felt like I was driving away from my dreams. Every time I tried to start life it was thwarted. This was no life, constantly moving, constantly escaping, living on nerves, and ever-dwindling reserves of hope.

I was also driving away from Hamid. I hadn't been able to contact him to tell him I was leaving. And I hadn't seen him since the last time I was at the university, when he'd walked over to say hello to me. I recalled watching the back of his head as he retreated to the car, loving the way the wind caught his silky hair as it ruffled into little curls. I had spoken hardly more than a few sentences to him but I truly felt that I was beginning to love him. But I knew that by leaving with my family I had no idea when I might see him again.

And now that the war was officially over, the world also began to move on. The cold war had ended and the mighty Soviet empire was collapsing. No longer was the Afghan fight against the Russians of relevance to the West. No more was it broadcast nightly on international television news. Our civil war was over and as far as the world understood it, the Taliban was our government now. We were yesterday's story. And other tragedies took the front pages.

But our tragedy was not over. And the world forgot us for those next few years, our bleakest years of need.

 

TEN

RETREAT TO THE NORTH

In Parwan we stayed with my brother's driver. The man and his family were not rich, but they let us stay in an annex adjoining their house. They refused to allow us to cook, preparing all our food for us. My brother, his family, and myself were all treated like honored guests, not unwelcome burdens.

Things continued to get worse in Kabul and my sister and her husband (who was a policeman and at risk from the Taliban) came to join us. It was decided they would move on again to Puli Khumri in the north, and we would all join soon after. Although Parwan was still safe for now, it was not far enough from Kabul to remain so much longer.

And importantly for me, no one in the north forced you to wear a burqa. For me that was reason enough to go.

My sister and her husband had been in Puli Khumri, almost 200 miles away, almost one week when the Taliban started gaining ground outside of Parwan, edging closer. I was fast asleep when Mirshakay shook me awake and screamed that we needed to get into the car. The Northern Alliance had closed the Salang pass, the second-highest road pass in the world. In a feat of incredible engineering the Russians had blasted a three-mile-long tunnel right through the center of the mountain. It was a one-lane pass, only accessible in the drier months. It is also the gateway to Northern Afghanistan. The remaining Northern Alliance was worried thousands of people would now try to flee, and in doing so bring more insecurity and possibly the Taliban with them. So in a brutal but strategic military move they ordered the pass, the escape route from south to north, closed—a move that trapped everyone on either one side or the other. And that meant we would be unable to join the others in Puli Khumri.

My brother had managed to get an approval letter from one of the mujahideen commanders that would allow us two cars to go through the pass. One for us and one for our security escort. One of the women in our party didn't have either a hijab or a burqa, so I gave her my hijab. All I had left to wear was a bright red scarf. We were trying to escape Taliban control, and by now we could hear the bombs, the fighting was coming so close. If they reached us and caught us I would be badly beaten.

The escort car was also red, a Hilux pickup. I laughed at the irony of it and wondered how much more visible we could possibly make ourselves. We drove out of the house into the main street, and people were everywhere trying to escape. A large bus drove toward us. It was full of terrified-looking people; they were crammed inside, three or four hanging out of each window, some lying on the roof. They looked like bees swarming a hive.