The Underground Girls of Kabul Read online

  She shrugs when I ask how it can be sustainable without a salary. It’s not. Money will need to come from somewhere. Soon.

  Ironically, among those who seem not to have fully noticed her setbacks are the threat mongers. They want to make sure she does not return to politics. The anonymous calls keep coming, with the message that she needs to stop insisting she should be in parliament. She should behave like a normal woman before God, the callers propose, by staying home. That is, however, not Azita’s idea of what God wants for women, and it’s not what she wants for herself, either. But the confidence she built while she was in power is harder to challenge now, and only moderately helped by her gold-plated appearance: “Now I take taxis and people do not even greet me anymore,” she admits as we sit on pillows, having tea on her bedroom floor. “I feel worthless. I moralize myself up, and then I get down. I get negative ideas in my head that I can’t get rid of. I can’t focus.”

  She begins to rise from the floor, to go and change into the all-black clothing for a meeting at the Ministry of Defense. But the four cell phones on the floor between us come alive at the same time. My text message is in all caps:

  “ALERT: 1215H EXPLOSION NEAR MOD. AVOID THE AREA.”

  As soon as a major blast goes off anywhere in Kabul, text messages ripple through the cellular networks, as anyone with a phone tries to ensure the safety of their friends, relatives, and colleagues. With one phone in each hand, Azita and I both perform the same routine, confirming back to each sender that we are nowhere near the Ministry of Defense, which is now under attack. More detailed messages filter in and we take turns filling each other in: A suicide bomber entered the ministry by disguising himself as an Afghan army officer in uniform. Once inside, he shot his way up toward his third-floor target—the minister’s office. He then blew himself up in such a way as to maim and kill as many as possible around him. The minister himself appears to have survived, but the total number of fatalities is yet unknown.

  After a few minutes of texting, we put our phones down. Azita’s second meeting of the day is canceled. She does not mention her close call. It is one of many that have come before. We both know it means neither of us will be going anywhere before roadblocks are cleared. It also means we have more time for tea.

  Azita looks down, quietly picking at a piece of cake. It is the bloodiest year yet of the war: American troop losses will reach new highs, and the war will claim the most civilians since counting of them began. In the capital, suicide blasts, kidnappings for ransom, and targeted killings are a regular occurrence.

  “This is Kabul now,” she says.

  AROUND THIS TIME, the military and diplomatic corps in Kabul still officially upheld a rather optimistic view of developments in Afghanistan. But in private, by 2011, many had already lost much of their initial enthusiasm for whether the war could be “won,” or how Afghanistan would reach some semblance of peace.

  President Obama’s two-year “surge” of thirty thousand additional troops meant to quash the insurgency, quickly followed by the announcement of a withdrawal by 2014, had ultimately not prevented various Islamic militants, warlords, criminal networks, and Taliban-affiliated groups from boldly expanding in several provinces. Expensive American efforts to train and equip Afghan government troops to defend their own country still did not prevent the Taliban from successfully widening their territory by aligning with locals and criminal networks, fueled by the ever-expanding opium trade.

  And inside the armor-clad and tank-protected enclave of the capital, suicide bombers found new ways to infiltrate and induce terror, at times blasting themselves in pairs, followed by fighters who could hold out for hours, occupying buildings and shutting down entire areas of the city. Rockets were regularly launched at government buildings and even reached as far as the well-protected U.S. Embassy.

  Those who could afford protection responded by erecting ever higher walls around themselves.

  The pace at which the remaining low-key, elegant 1950s Kabul villas were turning into indistinguishable cement-gray fortresses seemed to increase exponentially for every month with the waning interest of the Western world. One row of sandbags for blast protection became two; those who once employed two guards hired four; and a thick steel door was the new standard. More small huts with security guards for body searches popped up outside houses and hotels, and every tree seemed to be ensnarled in razor wire, preventing both humans and stray cats from getting onto the high walls.

  But officially ending America’s longest war, with a price tag of upward of $700 billion and counting to American taxpayers, and with its many changing narratives—from “rooting out” terrorism to just fighting the Taliban in general—had become a political necessity back in the United States.

  Fear of what would come next was all over Kabul. Those speaking for the foreign military dropped the word “victory” in favor of the more ambiguous “exit,” with the silent understanding that battles would most likely continue to rage in some form, ranging from a complete descent into civil war or a full-fledged, lawless narco state, to warlords dividing up provinces through regional battles. The United States and its allies, however, could no longer afford to be much involved.

  What Sherard Cowper-Coles, British ambassador to Afghanistan from 2007 to 2009, writes in his memoir echoes Russian accounts of their journey into the harsh and mountainous country that refused to be conquered or controlled:

  This time it was the United States leading the war in Afghanistan without a clear idea either of what it was getting into or of how it was getting out. Without realizing it, we have become involved in a multi-player, multi-dimensional, multi-decade civil conflict, the origins of which go back many years. It is an unresolved struggle over the nature of Afghan policy, between Islam and secularism, tradition and modernism, town and country, Sunni and Shia, farmer and nomad, Pashtun and Tajik, Uzbek and Hazara.

  With the war’s downward spiral on everyone’s mind in Kabul, finding a viable “exit strategy” was no longer only on the minds of military and foreign policy scholars. Afghans had heard this story before, when six million of them fled the Afghan-Soviet war in the 1980s. After the fall of the Taliban in 2001, many returned from Pakistan and Iran only to find themselves plotting yet another departure a decade later, with those with means hiring smugglers to take them to Europe or Canada.

  However, for the foreigners “to leave with some sense of honor intact” and a semblance of at least a “dirty peace,” in the words of a European diplomat, some kind of agreement would ideally be brokered with the militant opposition; a stark change of tune from refusing to speak to the Taliban a decade earlier. Paving the way for “peace talks” with the Taliban became a favorite new diplomatic term in Kabul, and already in 2011, “soft” issues, such as the rights of women, had been taken off any high-level agenda, according to several diplomats. That any political deal with extremists would sacrifice every shred of women’s rights achieved in the past decade was largely ignored by all but human rights organizations.

  As Setareh reached a spokesperson for the Taliban in Kunar province with a burner phone procured especially for the occasion, he confirmed that once—as he fully expects to happen—the Taliban regains more power in Afghanistan when most American and allied forces withdraw, bacha posh will immediately be banned, as those who attempt to change their gender wrongly “touch on God’s creation.” The spokesperson also informed Setareh that women will be removed from all universities, courts, the parliament, and provincial councils, because “God does not want women in any of those places.”

  ON MOST SPRING Fridays, Babur Gardens in Kabul, which overlook the dust cloud that hovers over the city’s downtown, is a picnic destination for families who decide to risk bringing their children outside for a few hours. Teenage boys balance on the stone terracing and climb onto clusters of low trees in high midday sun. Women stay strictly covered and close to their husbands. Teenage girls are rarely seen. Not much actual picnicking takes place on the
brown lawns, but a lone ice cream man does good business by offering cones from a battered box held by a strap around his neck. In the afternoons, the park becomes almost pretty as the low sun begins to set. A man on the grass plays a flute and the dust whirls have stilled.

  But Azita both looks and feels a bit out of place in her gold- adorned sunglasses and swaths of black fabric, with the pointy heels just visible underneath. She never went to public places like these as a parliamentarian; now, as a regular person and one among many, she is uneasy. She fears someone will recognize her and think she doesn’t belong there—that she should confine her children to the family’s own private garden, as a richer, more proper woman might do. It’s not entirely appropriate for her to be in a crowd like this, within sight of so many other men, though she is in the company of her own husband. More than anything, Azita is hoping she will not run into a friend or a colleague from parliament. It would be best if no one recognized her at all. They may start to ask questions about her family and want an introduction to her husband and his first wife. It would embarrass her, that she—the former parliamentarian—has a polygynous family where she is the second wife.

  Azita sits down in a stone alcove while her four girls make a bid for the nearest tree. Mehran, in pants and a shirt, yells in triumph as she hangs upside down from a branch. Twins Beheshta and Benafsha smirk and turn to each other, saying something to the effect of “Enjoy it while you can” to their youngest sister. No one cares that Mehran’s untucked shirt falls over her head, exposing her belly as she waves to onlookers.

  Now seven, she is still served first in the family, and she still demands to be listened to at all times. Those who surround her encourage her to be smart and strong and loud. The twins don’t even attempt to climb the tree; they wouldn’t want to get dirty. Middle sister Mehrangis announces that she would actually like to try it, only to be rebuffed by her older sisters. She is too clumsy and chubby, they tell her. She would likely fall and injure herself.

  Between the money troubles and the political struggle, Mehran’s gender is the least of Azita’s concerns right now.

  But how does Mehran make a difference as a boy anymore, when Azita is no longer a parliamentarian and the children rarely go out anyway? “Why would I make my daughter into a son if this society was working?” she snaps back at my question. “Nothing has changed, and nothing will change. It’s only going in the wrong direction here.”

  I still don’t understand. There used to be a specific purpose to Mehran being a boy?

  Azita closes her eyes briefly, in a rare plea for questions to stop. The family’s life has changed in many ways since the year before, but now is not a good time to talk about it.

  A fifth girl, her dark hair in a ponytail, cautiously watches Mehran in the tree, placing herself a few steps behind the twins. She is their half sister, who moved into their new apartment in Kabul along with her mother a few months ago. At thirteen, she is the oldest child in the family, but next to the twins, who always present as a team and always seem to have something to say, she can rarely find the words. She has been taught not to be loud or move about very much—it’s not what girls do.

  Her mother carefully sits down on the stone alcove next to Azita. In a white cotton head scarf, she is absolutely still, looking down at her hands. Her bulky jacket and full-length pale blue skirt are typical of how village women dress, and offer a stark contrast to Azita’s all-black and gold-ornamented sunglasses.

  “Would you like us to pose for a picture together?” Azita asks me.

  She moves closer and puts her arm around the other woman, who immediately turns her head away. Where she is from, women are not supposed to have their picture taken. It’s awkward, but Azita insists: They are in the capital now—it’s different here and they must all adjust. Azita flashes her professional smile, while the woman next to her reluctantly lifts her head just enough to show her eyes under the head scarf.

  Their mutual husband is in a good mood, sending Mehran off with ice cream money after only a minimum of begging. He says he feels good. He is a normal husband now, out with his two wives and their children. Actually, it’s both a relief and a disappointment that Azita no longer has her seat in parliament. But mostly a relief: It was a long and excruciating campaign, and he was always ambivalent about the prospect of living another five years as the husband of a politician. It also embarrassed him a great deal that they first announced victory and then had to pull back. He certainly doesn’t mind the new, bigger apartment, and he knows Azita wants to get back into parliament, but in his view, life is still better this way. He has fewer responsibilities now than when she was in power. Back then, he had to work with her and greet guests or escort constituents who had come traveling. It was exhausting, and sometimes he had to lie down in the afternoons. Most important, for the five years Azita was in parliament, he could not shake the guilt of living in Kabul while his first wife was still in the village.

  That situation has been rectified now, to everyone’s benefit, he says. He is pleased with his decision: Before, he was too busy, shuttling between them in different provinces. Now the women can share responsibility for the household, making it easier on everyone. And with an uncertain outlook for the country beyond 2014, it is probably for the best that Azita is not in parliament anymore. Her being a politician always posed additional risks for the children. For now, he has agreed to stay in Kabul for a few more months, but he is looking forward to a quieter life in Badghis soon. It will be better for the children, too, not having a mother who is constantly questioned and recognized. As a stay-at-home wife and mother, Azita will be more of a role model to them as they look forward to their own future marriages.

  AFGHAN FRIED CHICKEN has only one Kabul branch, and the chipped sign advertises its menu as “Clean, Healthy and Tasty.” Azita’s daughters have all been there before, on a few special occasions. The four of them almost fall over one another as they jubilantly skip-step into the restaurant, followed by their older half sister, who walks behind them.

  The older girls are too tall and too big to fit comfortably inside the main attraction—a plastic play area with a yellow slide and a house to hide in—but they all squeeze in there anyway. Mehran goes on the mechanical rodeo horse three times in a row, with coins from her father’s pocket. For her sisters, straddling the toy animal is not an option. Two other families are in the restaurant this evening. They might disapprove, or be offended.

  Azita quickly orders for the table. She gets the fried chicken for herself, and the chicken burger special with fries for the children, her husband, and his first wife. This is an expensive restaurant for Kabul—fast food is a Western-style luxury. But Azita has decided to splurge, since the children so rarely leave the house these days. She first took them here to celebrate their move to Kabul and her new position. Her husband sits at one end of the long table, and the wives on the other, with the children’s empty seats between them. There is no conversation.

  When a burger on a paper plate lands in front of her, the village wife silently looks at it for several seconds, hands still in her lap. Then she removes the bun on top and looks at the piece of fried meat inside. She puts the bun back. As the children are called back to the table, she does not move again until Beheshta has poured ketchup all over her burger. Only after Beheshta’s first bite into her burger does her stepmother pick up hers and mimic the move. She chews a small bite carefully and puts the burger down again.

  Azita’s husband exclaims his confusion out loud. Why is there no bread on the side? There should be bread with every meal, regardless of any burger buns. The restaurant must have made a mistake. He calls on the waiter and complains.

  Azita looks down. “It’s not easy for him,” she mumbles. His daughters can all read and write now, on different levels. Their father has made clear his intention not to learn. Why should he, when Azita makes all the decisions anyway, he has joked.

  His first wife hushes the children. She never asked to be br
ought from the village to the capital, nor does she feel particularly at ease here. After living together and then splitting up the household due to too many conflicts, the two wives had developed a courteous but distant relationship. It worked when they occasionally saw each other in Badghis, when Azita was there campaigning or visiting her parents.

  Now it’s different.

  The first wife never commented much on Azita’s children before, but here in Kabul, she has begun to voice her concerns about how frivolous the family has become, adopting strange customs and behaviors. In her view—and she has let it be known—Azita’s daughters have become spoiled and inappropriately spirited. They speak back to their parents, are reluctant to help out at home, and in general seem to take too much for granted, she has explained.

  The first wife, who is also illiterate, has made it clear to Azita that she will not allow her daughter to be influenced by any such Kabul behavior, which in addition to fantasies of higher studies includes dancing in the living room and watching American movies. She has also noted that Mehran seemed to have her father’s ear, more so than the other girls. It has come to bother her quite a bit. There is no reason to extend extra privileges to his youngest, she has told her husband. After all, she is only a girl. But he brushed off her concerns about Mehran’s behavior. After that lack of response, the first wife told Mehran to wear a head scarf to school—a demand Mehran completely ignored. The blatant disobedience triggered her stepmother even more. She began to taunt Mehran, to imprint the truth in her: “You are not a real boy—you know that, right? You will never be a real boy.”

  It works well, as it takes Azita almost a half hour to talk Mehran out of each meltdown that follows.