The Favored Daughter (22 page)

I dressed and hurried to the Talib's house, slipping and skidding along the icy streets that had turned into treacherous skating rinks. My burqa provided an extra layer of warmth, but it also left me struggling to make out the frozen contours of the road and limited my agility, so that each time my feet took off in a direction of their own choosing I would throw one arm out in front of me for balance and to break my fall, while the other went low around my waist, to protect my unborn child should I hit the ground.

Something had changed at the house when I arrived. The smell was still there, but I could see somebody had made an effort to sweep the floor, and the children's faces were smeared where a dirty cloth had been rubbed over them in an attempt to clean them. The man was different too. He smiled widely at me, showing blackened teeth.

“I want you to teach my children English,” he said. It was a request, not an order. But not a request I had any choice to refuse.

“Of course,” I said. “Perhaps they could come to my house. There is room for them to play and I can teach them better there.”

This seemed to please him, which was good because I really didn't want to spend any longer in that home than was absolutely necessary. I needed to keep him happy, but part of me was also encouraged on a deeper level. If I could teach children such as these even a little something of life beyond these grubby walls then perhaps there was hope for my country after all.

I left the house feeling optimistic. The man had spoken little of my beloved prisoners, but the talk of English lessons and the changes I saw in the house were all the encouragement I needed to know that he was going to help us.

Later that night a fist banged on my apartment door. I cracked it open, cautiously. Hairy knuckles shoved it back hard into my forehead and I reeled backward. Two dark eyes beneath heavy brows and a black turban stared hard at me. But I wasn't afraid. In fact I barely noticed the Talib's face, because standing next to the Talib were Hamid and Mirshakay. He shoved them both hard through the doorway, like a spoiled child who had been forced to share his toys. He muttered some impotent threats as I closed the door on his face and launched myself into Hamid's arms. My sister-in-law squealed her way across the living room and flung herself against her own husband. The former communist general-turned-Taliban with the filthy children had in fact been as good as his word.

We wasted no time. A taxi was arranged—it would pick us up the following morning. We had to get to Pakistan. The men were free, but it was not enough to rely on the whims or good graces of the Taliban. They were just as likely to change their mind in a heartbeat and re-arrest them. That was a risk we couldn't take.

The next morning we squeezed into the waiting vehicle. Hamid, myself, my brother and his wife and their baby. Hamid sat on one side of the back seat, I was crushed next to him in my burqa, next to me was my brother, tucked in the middle where we hoped no one would recognize him, and his wife next to the other window. A family friend, yet another retired general, had kindly offered to help us. He was an ethnic Pashtu. He rode in the front passenger seat. If we ran into problems we hoped his stature as a general could help us, and failing that, his ethnicity would also lend some weight at both the Taliban checkpoints and once we got closer to the border. To travel with us was an act of pure generosity. It still amazes me when I think of all the friends and neighbors over the years who risked themselves helping us. It's one of the reasons my door is never closed to those who need my help today. My Islamic faith teaches that each good turn done to us must be repaid by doing another good turn.

The taxi driver chatted nervously, trying to assure us his taxi was sturdy and reliable. I wasn't convinced but Mirshakay had been insistent that we all go to Pakistan with him this time. And I agreed. After all the tensions of the previous weeks I felt I needed to get out of the country, even if it was just for a week. It was also a good opportunity for Hamid to get some medical attention. This second time in prison had left him even weaker. It was almost as if I could see his health deteriorating before my eyes. I was still suffering morning sickness and for most of the journey I carried a bowl beneath my burqa to vomit into.

It was a terrible journey. We were squashed and uncomfortable, and all of us were on edge, expecting at any moment to be stopped and detained at a Taliban checkpoint. The general was unflappable, keeping up a steady banter with the gunmen each time we encountered them. Being Pashtu—the same ethnic group as most of the Talibs—meant they were more relaxed when they heard their mother tongue being spoken in a familiar accent. His natural authority demanded respect, and even the bravado of the young Talibs wilted in the glare of the general's old soldier demeanor.

“You may pass, Uncle.”

My heart heaved a sigh of relief each time I heard those words, but when we crossed the border at Torkham my spirits soared. The car erupted into laughter as we entered Pakistan. You could feel the freedom. The fearful oppression of the Taliban had been lifted. And with it, a huge weight was taken from each of us.

By 4 o'clock that afternoon we were in the southern Pakistani city of Peshawar. From Peshawar we boarded an overnight bus to Lahore, the ancient city of kings. There was my brother's house and a warm welcome from his first wife and her parents, who had been living there. That night we ate chappali kebab, a wonderful local dish of ground beef mixed with pomegranates and red chili, washed down with Coca-Cola. It tasted as divine as any meal I had ever eaten. It was the first meal I'd eaten in months that wasn't tainted by the poisonous coating of Taliban rule.

It was wonderful to be in Lahore. For the first time since our wedding Hamid and I were able to go out to cafes and relax and enjoy ourselves as a perfectly normal young married couple. Lahore is a truly beautiful place of centuries-old tiled mosques and winding bazaars. Hamid and I walked around for hours, sightseeing and simply enjoying walking next to each other and breathing the same air.

The city was so functional and clean after the turmoil of Kabul. Where much of my city's great buildings had been destroyed in the civil war, in Lahore I marveled at the historic architecture. Between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries Lahore was ruled by the Mughals—an Islamic Indian dynasty of emperors who controlled much of the Asian subcontinent. The Mughals were famous builders, for example, the Taj Mahal was built by the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan. And in Lahore they created many of the city's most notable landmarks, including the spectacular Lahore Fort and the Shalimar Gardens, both of which are now UNESCO World Heritage sites. I was three months pregnant by that stage and still not feeling very well. Hamid was also fragile from his two terms of brutal treatment by the Taliban. But for a few short days we drew emotional and physical strength from the tranquility of Lahore. Tranquil is an odd word to use to describe a bustling Pakistani city of almost five million people, but tranquil is how it felt after all we had been through.

After a week in Lahore we got word that our Afghan president Rabbani was in Peshawar. He had been deposed by the Taliban, but as far as we, and the rest of the world, were concerned, he was still Afghanistan's legitimate leader. Rabbani's ambassador still represented Afghanistan in the United Nation's General Assembly. Only Saudi Arabia and Pakistan had recognized the Taliban as the official government. My brother had once worked for Rabbani at the interior ministry and knew him well. On arrival in Peshawar he made contact, and he and Hamid were invited to Peshawar to meet with the president. They went readily, wanting to pay their respects and to hear our president's plans for regaining control of our country.

Burhanuddin Rabbani, like my family, was from Badakhshan. He and my father had been friends and occasional rivals, and we respected him deeply. He had been a key voice against the rise of communism in Afghanistan during the 1950s and 1960s, and during the Soviet occupation he organized military and political resistance from Pakistan.

When President Najibullah fell from power after the communists were defeated, Rabbani was elected to replace him. Most recently, Rabbani was tasked by current Afghan president Karzai to lead peace talks with the Taliban. But in September 2011 he was killed by a suicide bomber with explosives hidden in a turban. The mujahideen government of the time was very factional and divided. These divides then pitted Rabbani and Ahmed Shah Massoud's forces against those of Generals Dostum and Hekmatyar, and launched the civil war.

There were a lot of people at Rabbani's compound, and both my brother and Hamid returned from their meeting very excited. They were convinced Rabbani was the key to a stable Afghanistan—although with the Taliban firmly in control it was hard even for Rabbani himself to envisage how that might happen. I was pleased by their sense of optimism. It was infectious, and from the safety and calm of Lahore I found myself entertaining thoughts that perhaps all was not lost for Afghanistan.

We were all so excited by the prospect of Rabbani regaining his rightful role of president that Hamid and I decided, almost on the spot, that we should return to Kabul immediately. Apart from our newfound sense of optimism, Hamid's widowed sister was alone in Kabul with her children and Hamid and I wanted to be there to support her. My brother decided it was too risky to return and that he would stay in his house in Peshawar. Leaving my brother and his wives was awful because I had no idea when or if I might see them again. But I was a married woman now and my rightful place was with my husband.

Winter was closing in, and the snow was getting heavier. As we retraced our journey back to Kabul the landscape through the high mountains of the Khyber Pass had become white and crisp. Perhaps the jagged rocks were like the Taliban, and the fresh snow was a new beginning for Afghanistan—covering their hard, unforgiving ways. I certainly hoped so.

Hamid and I crossed back into Afghanistan without incident and were soon back in our apartment in Kabul. A week away had refreshed me enough to enjoy being in my homeland again. Even under Taliban rule, I never lost my patriotism. This was my Kabul, my Afghanistan.

It was the beginning of Ramadan, and like all observant Muslims we fasted between sunrise and sunset. We were up before dawn for sahaar, the substantial breakfast eaten while still dark to sustain us through the day's fasting until after sunset. Typically, we would eat early and then go back to sleep for a little while before morning prayers.

Hamid and I had just returned to bed when there was a knocking at the door. Hamid went to answer it—we thought it was a neighbor coming to ask a favor or something similar. I heard voices, then Hamid's footsteps on the floor as he came back to the bedroom. His face was ashen gray and he looked like he was going to be sick. He asked me for his coat. The Taliban were at our door. They had a car waiting for him outside. Hamid had no choice but to go with them. I wanted to rush to the door with him, to beg the Talibs to leave him alone, to leave us alone. We had come back to Kabul in the hope we might have an ordinary peaceful existence. And now here they were taking him away again.

Hamid was his usual dignified self. He gently ordered me to stay in the bedroom. I was dressed in my nightgown and not properly attired to be pleading with strange men, even on the doorstep of my own home at 5 o'clock in the morning. It wasn't clear what they wanted with Hamid. There were no charges. They just told him his presence was required and he was to go with them. I heard the door bang closed. I lay back on the pillows sobbing, clutching the unborn child in my belly, and once again wondering what would become of us.

I knew of a man from my own province of Badakhshan who now worked with the Taliban. I found his address in an old notebook. He had a job in Puli Charkhi Prison. Built in the 1970s, it was notorious for the brutal torture of inmates during the Soviet occupation. I didn't know where the Taliban had taken Hamid, but we were running out of people who might help us. You can really only ask someone to intervene once on your behalf or it becomes too dangerous for them, so it was impossible to go back to any of the people who had helped us previously.

I didn't know this man very well, but I hoped the fact that we were from the same region and that he knew who my father might make him more sensitive to my pleas. Donning my burqa, I slipped into the cold morning air and went in search of him.

Puli Charkhi is about six miles outside of Kabul. I walked out of the city suburbs as they faded away into small villages and then nothing but a few mud houses here and then only dusty desert tracks. It is not a place a woman should be walking alone, and especially not in those days. The tracks appear to lead to nowhere, then suddenly the prison rises out of the earth, razor wire and the guards' bayonets glinting in the sunlight. The walls have a medieval feel, imposing stone watchtowers and rough, mud-plastered walls. It is a terrifying place known as the Alcatraz of Afghanistan because escape is impossible. I entered the guard house and explained the situation, asking for an audience with the man from Badakhshan. A guard went away to ask. He returned with a one word answer. “No.”

“What kind of Badakhshani was he?” I asked back. Didn't he have any
gharor
(pride) that he would not even allow a wife to ask about her missing husband?

I hoped the accusation might sting the man into action. I was a newly married Muslim woman, and as such it is considered culturally inappropriate that I should be left alone without any support. The guards looked ashamed and promised to take the message back to their boss. He still refused to see me. I could see why. I had chastised him in front of his men and he probably felt humiliated. I was told to go home and follow up my enquiries by coming back a few days later.

I walked all the way home again on an empty thirsty belly with a kicking baby, and still with no idea about where they had taken my husband.