The Underground Girls of Kabul Read online

  To inquire about booking this author for a speaking engagement, please contact the Penguin Random House Speakers Bureau at [email protected]. A full profile and video footage of this author can be found at www.prhspeakers.com.

  Copyright © 2014 by Jenny Nordberg

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crown Publishers, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  CROWN and the Crown colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

  “But Not an Afghan Woman” by Roya first appeared on awwproject.org, the Afghan Women’s Writing Project (March 7, 2010). Reprinted here by permission of the author.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Nordberg, Jenny.

  The underground girls of Kabul: in search of a hidden resistance in Afghanistan / Jenny Nordberg.—First edition.

  pages cm

  1. Gender Identity—Afghanistan. 2. Sex role—Afghanistan. 3. Male impersonators—Afghanistan. 4. Women—Afghanistan—Social conditions. 5. Girls—Afghanistan—Social conditions. I. Title.

  HQ1075.5.A3N67 2014

  305.309581—dc23 2014000295

  ISBN 978-0-307-95249-3

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-307-95251-6

  Jacket design by Elena Giavaldi

  Jacket photograph by Alison Wright/Corbis

  v3.1_r2

  To every girl

  who figured out that she could run faster,

  and climb higher, in pants

  This story was reported from Afghanistan, Sweden, and the United States between 2009 and 2014. Most of the book’s events take place in 2010 and 2011. I have told the stories of the characters as they have been told to me, attempting to corroborate any details I have not observed in person. Each person has consented to being interviewed for the purposes of the book, and has exercised a choice over whether or not to remain anonymous. In some cases, names or identifying details have been changed or left out to protect the identity of a subject. None of the characters were offered or have received money for their participation. Translators have been paid for their work. Any errors due to translation or my own limitations are my responsibility.

  This is a subjective account.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Note

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  PART ONE BOYS

  Chapter 1 THE REBEL MOTHER

  Chapter 2 THE FOREIGNER

  Chapter 3 THE CHOSEN ONE

  Chapter 4 THE SON MAKER

  Chapter 5 THE POLITICIAN

  Chapter 6 THE UNDERGROUND GIRLS

  Chapter 7 THE NAUGHTY ONE

  PART TWO YOUTH

  Chapter 8 THE TOMBOY

  Chapter 9 THE CANDIDATE

  Chapter 10 THE PASHTUN TEA PARTY

  Chapter 11 THE FUTURE BRIDE

  Chapter 12 THE SISTERHOOD

  PART THREE MEN

  Chapter 13 THE BODYGUARD

  Chapter 14 THE ROMANTIC

  Chapter 15 THE DRIVER

  Chapter 16 THE WARRIOR

  Chapter 17 THE REFUSERS

  Chapter 18 THE GODDESS

  Map ZOROASTRIANISM ACROSS THE GLOBE

  PART FOUR FATHERS

  Chapter 19 THE DEFEATED

  Chapter 20 THE CASTOFF

  Chapter 21 THE WIFE

  Chapter 22 THE FATHER

  Epilogue ONE OF THE BOYS

  Author’s Note

  Notes

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  BUT NOT AN AFGHAN WOMAN

  I would love to be any thing in this world

  But not a woman

  I could be a parrot

  I could be a female sheep

  I could be a deer or

  A sparrow living in a tree

  But not an Afghan woman.

  I could be a Turkish lady

  With a kind brother to take my hand

  I could be Tajik

  or I could be Iranian

  or I could be an Arab

  With a husband to tell me

  I am beautiful

  But I am an Afghan woman.

  When there is need

  I stand beside it

  When there is risk

  I stand in front

  When there is sorrow

  I grab it

  When there are rights

  I stand behind them

  Might is right and

  I am a woman

  Always alone

  Always an example of weakness

  My shoulders are heavy

  with the weight of pains.

  When I want to talk

  My tongue is blamed

  My voice causes pain

  Crazy ears can’t tolerate me

  My hands are useless

  I can’t do anything with

  My foolish legs

  I walk with

  No destination.

  Until what time must I accept to suffer?

  When will nature announce my release?

  Where is Justice’s house?

  Who wrote my destiny?

  Tell him

  Tell him

  Tell him

  I would love to be any thing in nature

  But not a woman

  Not an Afghan woman.

  ROYA

  Kabul, 2009

  PROLOGUE

  THE TRANSITION BEGINS here.

  I remove the black head scarf and tuck it into my backpack.

  My hair stays in a knotted bun on the back of my head. We will be in the air soon enough. I straighten my back and sit up a little taller, allowing my body to fill a larger space. I do not think of war. I think of ice cream in Dubai.

  We crowd the small vinyl-clad chairs in the departure hall of Kabul International Airport. My visa expires in a few hours. A particularly festive group of British expatriates celebrate, for the first time in months, a break from life behind barbed wire and armed guards. Three female aid workers in jeans and slinky tops speak excitedly of a beach resort. A piece of black jersey has fallen off a shoulder, exposing a patch of already tanned skin.

  I stare at the unfamiliar display of flesh. For the past few months, I have hardly seen my own body.

  It is the summer of 2011, and the exodus of foreigners from Kabul has been under way for more than a year. Despite a final push, Afghanistan feels lost to many in both the military and in the foreign aid community. Since President Obama announced that U.S. troops would begin to withdraw from Afghanistan by 2014, the international caravan has been in a rush to move on. Kabul airport is the first stop on the way to freedom for those confined, bored, almost-gone-mad consultants, contractors, and diplomats. The tradespeople of peace and international development look forward to new postings, where any experimentation with “nation building” or “poverty reduction” has not yet gone awry. Already, they reminisce over the early, hopeful days almost a decade ago, when the Taliban had just been defeated and everything seemed possible. When Afghanistan was going to be renovated into a secular, Western-style democracy.

  THE AIRPORT RUNWAY is flooded with afternoon light. My cell phone catches a pocket of reception by one of the windows, and I dial Azita’s number again. With a small click, we connect.

  She is giddy after a meeting with the attorney general and some other public officials. The press attended, too. As a politician, that is when Azita is in her element. I hear her smiling when she describes her outfit: “I made myself fashionable. And diplomatic
. They all took my picture. The BBC, Voice of America, and Tolo TV. I had the turquoise scarf—the one you saw the other day. You know it. And the black jacket.”

  She pauses. “And a lot of makeup. Big makeup.”

  I breathe in deeply. I am the journalist. She is the subject. The rule is to show no emotion.

  Azita hears my silence and immediately begins to reassure me. Things will get better soon. She is sure of it. No need to worry.

  My flight is called. I have to go. We say the usual things: “Only for now. Not good-bye. Yes. See you soon.”

  As I rise up from the floor, where I have pressed myself to the window so as not to lose the connection, I fantasize about turning back. It could be the last scene of a film. That moment when an epiphany makes for a desperate sprint through the airport to set everything right. To get the good ending. So what if I spend another afternoon in Colonel Hotak’s office, being lectured about my expired visa? Some tea, a stamp in my passport, and he will let me go.

  As I go through each step in my head, I know I will never do it. And how would this—my last act—play out? Would I storm into Azita’s house flanked by American troops? Afghanistan’s Human Rights Commission? Or just by myself, with my pocketknife and my negotiation skills, fueled by rage and a conviction that anything can be fixed with just a little more effort?

  As I walk through the gate, the scenarios fade away. They always do. I follow the others and once more, I do what we all do.

  I get on the plane and just leave.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE REBEL MOTHER

  Azita, a few years earlier

  “OUR BROTHER IS really a girl.”

  One of the eager-looking twins nods to reaffirm her words. Then she turns to her sister. She agrees. Yes, it is true. She can confirm it.

  They are two ten-year-old identical girls, each with black hair, squirrel eyes, and a few small freckles. Moments ago, we danced to my iPod set to shuffle as we waited for their mother to finish a phone conversation in the other room. We passed the headphones between us, showing off our best moves. Though I failed to match their elaborate hip rolls, some of my most inspired sing-along was met with approval. It actually sounded pretty good bouncing off the ice-cold cement walls of the apartment in the Soviet-built maze that is home to a chunk of Kabul’s small middle class.

  Now we sit on the gold-embroidered sofa, where the twins have set up a tea service consisting of glass mugs and a pump thermos on a silver-plated tray. The mehman khana is the most opulent room in an Afghan home, meant to show off the wealth and good moral character of its owners. Cassette tapes with Koran verses and peach-colored fabric flowers sit on a corner table where a crack has been soldered with Scotch tape. The twin sisters, their legs neatly folded underneath them on the sofa, are a little offended by my lack of reaction to their big reveal. Twin number two leans forward: “It’s true. He is our little sister.”

  I smile at them, and nod again. “Yes.” Sure.

  A framed picture on a side table shows their brother posing in a V-neck sweater and tie, with his grinning, mustached father. It is the only photo on display in the living room. His oldest daughters speak a shaky but enthusiastic English, picked up from textbooks and satellite television from a dish on the balcony. We just have a language barrier here, perhaps.

  “Okay,” I say, wanting to be friendly. “I understand. Your sister. Now, what is your favorite color, Benafsha?”

  She goes back and forth between red and purple before passing the question to her sister, where it gets equally serious consideration. The twins, both dressed in orange cardigans and green pants, seem to do most things in perfect girly synchronicity. Their bobbing heads are topped with glittery hair scrunchies, and only when one speaks will the other’s scrunchie be still for a few seconds. Those moments are a beginner’s chance to tell them apart: A small birthmark on Beheshta’s cheek is the key. Benafsha means “flower”; Beheshta, “paradise.”

  “I want to be a teacher when I grow up,” Beheshta volunteers for our next topic.

  When it becomes each of the twins’ turns to ask a question, they both want to know the same thing: Am I married?

  My response mystifies them, since—as they point out—I am very old. I am even a few years older than their mother, who at thirty-three is a married mother of four. The twins have another sister, too, in addition to their little brother. Their mother is also in the national parliament, I say to the twins. So there are many things I am not, compared to her. They seem to appreciate that framing.

  Their brother suddenly appears in the doorway.

  Mehran, age six, has a tanned, round face, deep dimples, eyebrows that go up and down as he grimaces, and a wide gap between his front teeth. His hair is as black as that of his sisters, but short and spiky. In a tight red denim shirt and blue pants, chin forward, hands on hips, he swaggers confidently into the room, looking directly at me and pointing a toy gun in my face. Then he pulls the trigger and exclaims his greeting: phow. When I fail to die or shoot back, he takes out a plastic superhero from his back pocket. The wingman has blond hair, shiny white teeth, two gun belts slung across his bulging chest, and is armed with a machine gun. Mehran says something in Dari to the figurine and then listens intently to him. They seem to agree: The assault has been a success.

  Benafsha comes alive at my side, seeing the chance to finally prove her point. She waves her arms to call her brother’s attention: “Tell her, Mehran. Tell her you are our sister.”

  The corners of Mehran’s mouth turn downward. He sticks his tongue out in a grimace before bolting, almost crashing into his mother as she walks into the room.

  Azita’s eyes are lined with black kohl, and she wears a little bit of blush. Or perhaps it is the effect of having had a cell phone pressed to her ear. She is ready now, she exclaims in my direction. To tell me what I came to ask about—what it is like, almost a decade into America’s longest war and one of the largest foreign aid efforts of a generation, to be an Afghan woman here.

  WHEN WE FIRST meet, on this day, I am researching a television piece on Afghan women and Azita has been a member of the country’s fairly new parliament for four years. Elected to the Wolesi Jirga, one of the legislative branches installed a few years after the 2001 defeat of the Taliban, she had promised her rural voters in Badghis province that she would direct more of the foreign aid influx to their poor, far-flung corner of Afghanistan.

  The parliament she entered was heavily populated with drug kingpins and warlords and seemed to be in a state of paralysis due to deeply entrenched corruption, but it was at least an attempt at democracy that many Afghans expressed hope for. It followed many forms of failed governance during the last century: absolute monarchy, communism, and an Islamic emirate under the Taliban. Or no government at all in times of civil war.

  As some foreign diplomats and aid workers around Kabul came to know Azita as an educated female parliamentarian who not only spoke Dari, Pashto, Urdu, and Russian, but also English, and who seemed relatively liberal, invitations to events poured in from the outside world. She was flown to several European countries and to Yale University in the United States, where she spoke of life under the Taliban.

  It was not unusual for Azita to invite foreigners to her rented home in Macroyan, either, to show her version of normal life in a Kabul neighborhood. Here, laundry flutters on the balconies of dirt-gray four-story buildings, interrupted by the occasional patch of greenery, and in the early mornings, women gather at the hole-in-the-wall bakeries while men perform stiff gymnastic exercises on the football field. Azita takes pride in being a host and showing herself off as an exception to the way Afghan women are portrayed in the outside world—as secluded inside their homes, with little connection to society, often illiterate and under the spell of demonizing husbands who do not allow them any daylight. And definitely not receiving visits from farangee, or foreigners, as the historical invaders were once dubbed by Afghans. These days, foreigners usually go under amrican
, regardless of their passport.

  Azita enjoys demonstrating her running water, the electricity, the television set in her bedroom; all paid for with money she has made as the breadwinner of the house. She knows that impresses foreigners. Especially female foreigners. With her glowing cheeks, sharp features, and military-grade posture, elegantly draped in black fabric from head to toe, and exuding a warm scent of musk mixed with something sweet, Azita does look different from Afghanistan’s majority of women. At five feet six—perhaps a little taller in her pointy size-eleven sling-back heels—she even towers over some visitors. Those usually arrive in more practical shoes, as if on a trek somewhere.

  ON THE TOPIC of progress for women since 2001, Azita expresses little satisfaction to visiting foreigners, of which I am just the latest: Yes, more women are seen on the streets of Kabul and a few other larger cities than when the Taliban was in power, and more girls are enrolled in school, but just as in earlier eras when reforms were attempted, most progress for women is limited to the capital and a handful of other urban areas. Much of what the Taliban had banned and decreed regarding women is still effectively law in large parts of this mostly illiterate country, enforced by conservative tradition. In many provinces, burkas are still commonplace, and women rarely work or leave the house without their husbands. The majority of marriages are still forced, honor killings are not unusual, and any involvement of the justice system in a rape case usually means that only the victim goes to jail, charged with adultery or with having had premarital sex—unless she, as a commonly imposed solution, is forced to marry her rapist. Women burn themselves to death using cooking fuel to escape domestic abuse here, and daughters are still a viable, informal currency used by fathers to pay off debts and settle disputes.

  Azita is one of few women with a voice, but to many, she remains a provocation, since her life is different from that of most women in Afghanistan and a threat to those who subjugate them. In her words: “If you go to the remote areas of Afghanistan, you will see nothing has changed in women’s lives. They are still like servants. Like animals. We have a long time before the woman is considered a human in this society.”