The Pearl that Broke Its Shell (40 page)

The men intimidated me. Some of them were my husband’s age, gray haired with beards that nearly touched their chests. Others were younger, their faces shaved and their clothes different from what the men in my village wore. Pants, button-down shirts, jackets.

As we broke for lunch during the first week, Hamida had asked me what I thought so far. I was nervous to tell her, afraid I would sound stupid. And I worried that if they saw me reading and writing, they would realize how basic my knowledge was.

“They come from where?” I asked, astounded by the accents I was hearing.

“What do you mean?” She looked to see where I was pointing.

“I mean, I’ve never seen men dressed like… dressed like that.” I pointed with my head to a man wearing brown pants and a military-style vest over a white shirt.

“That’s what you’ll see in Kabul, Rahima-
jan
,” Hamida said, proudly. “This parliament is where every corner of Afghanistan comes together.”

“Comes together?” Sufia scoffed. “More like this is where Afghanistan comes apart!”

Hamida laughed. A man one row away turned around and shot her a look. He shook his head and leaned over to mutter something to the man seated next to him, sharing his disapproval.

The session was called to order. Rahima tried to look around without anyone noticing. Badriya picked up a pen and held it to the blank paper before her as she watched the speaker. She was playing the part.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the matter of the president’s cabinet members will now be introduced. Seven people have been nominated by the president. It is up to this parliament to approve or reject the nominations.”

“Badriya, are we going to see the president?” I whispered. It was hard to believe I might come face-to-face with our nation’s most powerful man.

“No, you fool! This is the parliament. He does his work and we do ours! Why should he come here?”

“We’ll talk about the candidates one by one. I’ll call on you to ask whatever questions you may have. We need to decide if these individuals are suited for the job. And if they’ll help take our country in the right direction. First up is Ashrafullah Fawzali, nominated for position of minister of justice.”

The speaker went on to talk about Fawzali’s background, his home province and his role in training the police force.

A woman parliamentarian sat in the seat beside me. I heard her huff, frustrated. I watched her from the corner of my eye, slouched back in her chair and shaking her head. As the candidates’ virtues and experience were extolled by a man who had taken the floor, she became more and more displeased, fidgeting in her seat and tapping her pen.

The next candidate was introduced, someone equally distressing to her. She raised her hand to speak but the director looked past her. She waved her hand more dramatically.

“Excuse me, but I would like to say something about this candidate,” she said, leaning forward and speaking into her microphone. “Excuse me!”

“
Khanum,
the time for the discussion of this candidate is up. We’re getting close to ending today’s session. Thank you all, please return for tomorrow’s voting. The parliament is dismissed.”

“Of course it is! God forbid we actually talk about these candidates!” the woman hissed.

“Who is she?” I asked Badriya.

“The one next to you? Oh, that’s Zamarud Barakati. She’s trouble. Make sure you stay away from her,” Badriya leaned forward to tell me. “She’s one of those you don’t want to get mixed up with.”

“Why? What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s a troublemaker. You see what she did today? Always interrupting things. That woman’s lucky they haven’t condemned her to
sangsaar
.”

Stoning. I shuddered and thought of Bibi Shekiba.

As far as I had seen, Zamarud hadn’t done anything that several other parliamentarians hadn’t done. Just like the men, she had raised her hand and asked to speak. But I could see many people didn’t appreciate hearing from her. Several men had rolled their eyes or waved their hand in annoyance to hear her ask for the floor’s attention.

“She pushes her ideas too much. People don’t want to listen to her all the time.” We were walking out the security checkpoint by this time. Our driver saw us coming and went to turn the car on. Our guard was already with him. Zamarud walked angrily past us, her own security guards struggling to keep up.

She reminded me of Khala Shaima, the only woman I’d known who would speak up to men outside her own family. I wondered what Khala Shaima would have thought of Zamarud. Picturing the two of them in the same room made me smile. They could have the entire parliament up in arms.

But what I saw in that first day was just the beginning. The parliament was a fiery mix of personalities and politics. There were so many women there, but only a few of them spoke during the sessions. And there was only one Zamarud.

As the discussion of the cabinet nominations went on, Zamarud became more and more agitated. She was given opportunity to speak and took the floor like a storm, questioning the intentions and honesty of the candidates. She implied that the candidates had been chosen for reasons other than their qualifications, since one was the president’s brother-in-law while another was the president’s childhood friend. And there was no diversity, she said critically. They were all from one sect of the Afghan population. Afghanistan needed to represent all of its many colors, Zamarud insisted, or it would fall apart. Again.

On the fifth day of sessions, we took our seats. I missed my son more today and saw his round cheeks and almond eyes when I closed my eyes. I wondered if he was walking at this moment, one hand tightly gripping Jameela’s. I wanted to hear his voice, the tiny sound of “
maada
”; he was still unable to roll his tongue to produce the proper “
madar
.”

Zamarud’s voice brought me back.

“It’s imperative that we think of the future of this country. We Afghans have become complacent, letting almost anyone take on these positions of power and influence. Let’s think about it carefully and then decide.”

“
Khanum,
I believe it would be wise for you to consider before you speak. There are many people here and you’re not thinking—”

“I’m not thinking? I’m thinking about it a great deal! It’s you and the rest of you that need to start thinking. I’m going to speak my mind right now.”

Badriya looked over at me. Waves of anger were rippling through the room. The men were leaning over and complaining to their neighbors. Hamida and Sufia looked over at Zamarud nervously.

“From what I have seen, the nominations that have been presented thus far have been of men who worked alongside the most sinister characters in our country’s recent history. The money in their pockets comes from drugs, from alliances with warlords and mercenaries. They have the blood of their fellow Afghans on their hands.

“And there are candidates who are family members, getting special treatment from those in the highest position.”

It was obvious she was talking about the president’s brother-in-law, who traveled between Kabul and other cities like Dubai, Paris, London and Islamabad, importing and exporting goods. He had built a successful trade business and a life of luxury for his family. But everyone knew his business didn’t account for all of his income.

“We must watch who we place in these official positions. They should be there for the right reasons, for the development and protection of our beloved Afghanistan. We have suffered enough in the hands of others in the last decades. Our people deserve to have right-minded individuals in power. I wonder, as do so many others, how it is that some of our nominees have been able to amass a fortune when our people go hungry. How is it that they are able to live lavishly when they are engaged in simple businesses? We all know the answer. We know that there are sources of money that are not talked of, that are not openly discussed. Bribes. Nepotism. Drugs. These practices will bring our country down.”

The room began to talk. Zamarud continued, louder.

“I will not stand for this. I will not approve the election of such people, brothers and cousins taking under the table what rightfully belongs to our country. Are we to sit here quietly and let them suck the blood of the Afghan people? Getting fat off of government money?”

“That’s enough!” one man called out. Others echoed after him.

“Shut her up.”

Zamarud went on, unfazed by their comments. She raised her voice over the protests.

“Every person in this room, every man and every woman, who would dare to approve these nominations will share the responsibility for keeping those lips greasy with the money that should go to the Afghan people, to the Afghan country. And for what? For a chance of fattening your own pockets! You know who you are. You come here and pretend to represent your provinces when really you represent nothing but your own pockets!”

“Who does this woman think she is?”

“I will not listen to this harlot babble on!”

The yelling became angrier. Hamida and Sufia, not far from Zamarud, had gone over and pulled her back to her seat. Sufia was talking to her, saying something in her ear, while Hamida put a hand over the microphone. We were close enough that we could still hear her.

“I will not be silenced! I have had enough of their nonsense! Which of you will speak up if I do not? Call me what you like but you know I speak the truth and it is you all that are damned for what you’re doing! It’s a sin! It’s a sin!”

Two men went to confront her directly. Fingers were pointed, just inches from her face. I felt my body tense with their aggression. I wanted to pull Zamarud back but I sat frozen, my eyes wide. I prayed for her to stop talking.

The room was on its feet. Arms were waving. A group of men had gathered in a corner of the auditorium, pointing in Zamarud’s direction and shaking their heads. Two other women had joined Hamida and Sufia in trying to restrain a belligerent Zamarud. Others were on their feet, watching the fray with interest or enjoyment.

I was nervous for her, as was every other woman in the room. I’d never seen a woman speak so boldly, so directly, and in a room full of men! Everything I’d ever seen in my life told me Zamarud wouldn’t make it out the door.

“This is bad,” Badriya muttered, keeping her head low. We had not stirred from our seats. “We can have no part in this, understand me? Just stay where you are. We’re going to leave just as soon as things calm down.”

I nodded. The last thing we wanted was for Abdul Khaliq to get word we’d been involved in a shouting match between the parliament’s most outspoken woman member and the group gathered by the door. They were men like my husband, older and with fearful constituencies back home. They were warlords.

Hamida walked over to us when things calmed.

“Unbelievable,” she said. “These people are wild!”

Badriya nodded politely, not wanting to weigh in with an opinion.

“I mean, she’s a bit bold, I’ll give them that. Actually, she’s a bulldozer. But she’s right. Especially about Qayoumi. He has friends in the Ministry of Defense and they fed him every contract that came through their office. As if he needs any more money. Have you seen his car? His house?”

“No, I haven’t,” I said, intrigued. Badriya was so silent around these women that I almost forgot she was there. It was completely unlike her but she tensed, fearful that Abdul Khaliq would hear about any idle chatter.

“Let me tell you, his house is one of the nicest houses in Kabul. He tore down an old, run-down home in Shahr-e-Naw and then built himself a two-story mansion! And you know how expensive that area is! No Afghan can buy anything there. All those properties go for at least half a million U.S. dollars. At least!”

Half a million U.S. dollars?
My mind reeled at the staggering amount.

“Half a million… ?”

“Yes, that’s right! He’ll do anything to get what he wants. Anything. He was a Taliban ally not too long ago and they pillaged one town, robbed the people of everything they had. Setting fires, lining up the men and killing them. By the time they finished with that town, whoever they left alive had only the clothes on their back. Sinful!”

“And they want to vote him in?” If this was common knowledge, why weren’t people more upset about him?

“Yes, they do. That’s how it is. For God’s sake, warlords make up at least a third of the parliament right now. Those people who led the rocket attacks, the bloodshed—they’re all sitting in this assembly room. Now they want to fix what they broke. It’s almost comical,” she said, shaking her head. “If I thought of it too much, I’d go crazy. Like Zamarud!”

Had I been anyone else, I might have been more surprised. But I was a wife of Abdul Khaliq, a man who inspired fear in every corner of our province. And I was sure I didn’t know a quarter of what he had done in the years of war. Actually, I still didn’t know what he did when he set out with his guards and his automatic weapons. Someone could nominate him for a post as well.

“What can you do? Our politics are full of people like that. But I can tell you, I won’t be approving the nomination of that corrupt butcher. Sufia’s talked to the other women. They’re going to be rejecting him as well.”

“If so many people are going to vote against his nomination, he won’t stand a chance, right?” I watched Badriya, her lips pulled down in a frown. I was asking too many questions.

“He stands a very good chance, actually. Warlords make agreements, alliances, to serve their own purposes.”

I wondered if Hamida knew who Abdul Khaliq was. I wasn’t sure how far his name had reached. Where we came from, he held a lot of power and he was trying to grow that. Badriya’s involvement in the parliament was a step in that direction.

“Hamida-
jan,
we’re going to get a cup of tea from the cafeteria, if you don’t mind,” Badriya said. The conversation had touched a nerve. Her voice was stiff. “Can I bring you anything?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you. Let me go see what Sufia is up to. The session will probably resume in another thirty minutes.”