The Underground Girls of Kabul

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.

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
.

R
OYA
Kabul, 2009

T
HE 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.

T
HE 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.