Open Skies

by Niloofar Rahmani

  My mother made a hearty breakfast that morning, and we all ate together. It was still dark outside, but at seven, with the daybreak, we all headed to the ministry. Although it was cold and rainy, which added to my nervousness, I was also filled with excitement and joy. So much had changed since the Americans came the year before, and now a dream that I’d had for as long as I could remember was actually coming true. An avalanche of emotions rushed through me, but I was determined to do well.

  When we arrived at the ministry, I was shocked at how many girls were there. Since returning to Afghanistan, I’d never seen so many women and girls together at the same time in the same place. There must have been over a hundred of us, all ages, shapes, and sizes, all at the ministry to take the exam with hopes of attending school. I found the scene inspiring.

  While my mother and other siblings waited outside, my father took Afsoon and me into the building to get in line for the test. I started talking with the girls around me, asking who they were, where they came from, and what they thought about school. I learned that a lot of girls came from families similar to ours who had fled to Pakistan or Iran during the Soviet-Afghan War or the subsequent civil war and rise of the Taliban. Most families had returned only in the last few years, some within the last few months. Other girls and their families had lived their entire lives under the Taliban.

  As we talked more, I realized how fortunate I was to have parents like my Baba Jan and Mother Jan. They had nurtured, taught, and encouraged us our entire lives. They raised us to be equals, living with the belief that society should be free and just.

  Many of the girls I talked to did not have the same level of support and encouragement from their families. Their fathers and brothers may not have been on the streets with the Taliban gangs, but they believed in the puritanical elements of Taliban ideology. These girls were forced to be subservient to men. It had been drummed into them that their place was in the home, caring for children; if they went outside they risked bringing shame down upon the family. Many of the girls had been beaten by their fathers and brothers for not showing sufficient modesty or for speaking out. Other girls had to sneak out of their homes without their fathers and brothers knowing to take the test, and they prayed it would be over before the men got home. Seeing the fear in these girls’ faces and hearing their stories broke my heart.

  The time for the test came, and my sister and I were sent into two different rooms. We wished each other luck and hugged our father, who told us to relax. We were ready for this, and we’d do well.

  I sat at my desk in the classroom and was given a test paper with one hundred questions on it. They covered everything: math, science, history, biology, Dari, Pashto, comprehension, and other subjects. Initially I felt a sense of unease, but as soon as I started, my confidence swelled. I knew these subjects and I knew the answers. After all the hours of study and practice, I was taking my very first school exam.

  Two hours later, I set my pencil down and turned in my paper. We were told our scores would be posted outside the ministry in three days. Of course, I was impatient to know if I’d passed, but there was nothing I could do but wait.

  Once my sister and I exited the ministry and were outside with our family, my father took us to eat at a restaurant near Cinema Pamir downtown. I had a beef kebab followed by a scoop of shir yakh, which is similar to American vanilla ice cream, except it’s also flavored with saffron and cardamom and often topped with ground pistachios. It’s simply delicious.

  Our day wasn’t over. On our way home, my father stopped in a corner store and bought two kites. Flying kites is usually just for boys—it’s considered improper for girls to fly kites—but my father promised I could fly one.

  The next day, we divided into two teams, and I was paired with my father. We were going to have kite fights from the roof of our house. The goal was to get your kite in the air and then dive and swoop with enough speed and force to cut the string of your opponent’s kite. It’s like a kite dogfight.

  I don’t remember who won that day, us or my brother’s team, but I do remember feeling elated when my kite sailed into the air and I pulled the string so the kite soared high into the sky. It felt liberating to be up there, even if I was on the roof simply holding the spool.

  At eleven, I realized what was most significant for me in life. Things were changing in Afghanistan. The Taliban was gone, foreign investment was pouring in, schools for girls were being built, and there was the promise of progress. After so many years in darkness, fighting to stay alive, we were happy, and I felt I had an opportunity to do great things.

  12

  School

  The day finally arrived when our test scores and associated placement would be announced. I barely slept the night before, staring at the ceiling in my room with the lights off and the covers pulled up to my chin, wondering how I did.

  I knew I was smart, and I was confident I’d known the answers to most of the questions on the exam, but this was the first real test I’d taken. It had been created by actual teachers who knew the curriculum, and they would use the results to determine what grade level I should be in. Simply knowing these things made my mind race.

  When it was time to get out of bed, I was almost as nervous as the day of the actual test. Afsoon felt the same way. For two little girls who had been educated by their mother, who were now awaiting their evaluations by the Ministry of Education, this was a lot of stress.

  As the sun was coming up, my sister and I went with our father to the ministry building, where our exam results would be posted. It was twenty miles from our house. We walked the first four miles, took a bus for the next fifteen, and were back on foot for the last mile. My father kept telling me to slow down, but it was like my feet were running on their own power, compelled to walk faster and faster and skip and jump.

  When we reached the ministry, a crowd of parents and girls was already there. Everyone was trying to get close to see the test results that had been posted on the exterior of the building. I saw ten pieces of paper, but we were too far back to read any names or scores.

  My father looked at Afsoon and me and told us to wait at the corner. He was going to make his way through the crowd and find our scores. He had a determined smile on his face as he turned and squeezed his way through the crowd. I kept sight of him for a little while, but soon the back of his head disappeared in the throng.

  My sister and I didn’t say much to each other while we waited. We were as close as sisters could be, but at that moment we were both in our own worlds, thinking about the exam. So much of our young lives had been focused around preparing for school and this moment. Now we were about to find out if all our hard work had paid off.

  After a few minutes that felt like forever, our father came back through the crowd to our street corner. I remember seeing his beaming face; he was smiling from ear to ear, and his eyes were full of pride. He embraced both of us and said, “You did it! You both qualified for the sixth grade.”

  I screamed with joy, and so did Afsoon. We jumped up and down in our father’s arms, shouting and laughing and thanking God. This was what we’d both hoped for, what we’d worked for, what we’d dreamed would come true. The sixth grade! We were going to school as sixth graders.

  I had so many questions. When do we start? Where is our school? What does it look like? Will I wear a uniform? How many other girls will be in the class? Books, when do we get our books? And pencils and paper—I need supplies!

  My father didn’t know these answers; he’d only seen our names and our scores on the posting outside the ministry. He told us again to wait patiently. He would go inside the ministry to get all the information.

  More time passed before he finally came out of the building with the details about when school would start, where to go, and what we needed. We left, but rather than going straight home, my father took us to Cinema Pamir again. In celebration, he bought my sister a lovely pair of new shoes and a stylish new jacket for me. These were
wonderful and generous gifts, and I thought to myself how far we’d come.

  I’d heard the stories about my parents fleeing Kabul during the aftermath of the Soviet-Afghan War, and I remembered how destitute we were in the refugee camps. We had nothing to our name, at times not even enough food to eat. But now we were shopping in a bustling Kabul market, celebrating our chance to go to school.

  When we arrived home, I ran to my mother and embraced her, telling her the news. Like our father, she was overjoyed, and she began to cry. I knew none of this would have been possible without her tireless efforts. She’d taught us every day for years, never once complaining.

  I owe everything to my parents, and even back then I knew it. I will never forget what they did for us.

  * * *

  My first day of school was on a Monday. I got up extra early that morning since, again, I couldn’t sleep the night before. It took me over an hour to get dressed. We had to wear a school uniform—black pants, black dress, and a white scarf—and I wanted to make sure everything was perfect.

  Looking at myself in the mirror, part of me still thought this was all a dream and not truly real. I feared I would wake up, the Taliban would be back, and I would be less than human again.

  But this was truly real.

  Both my sister and I were ready to go at 8:00 AM, although school didn’t start till ten. My father had already gone to work at the shop, so my mother was the one to walk Afsoon and me to school. It took twenty-five minutes, and I remember looking up into the sky as soon as we set off, taking in a beautiful and sunny morning. Everything around us looked fresh and alive; it was joyous, and my legs were as anxious as they had been that day we went to the ministry for the exam results.

  As we got closer to the school grounds, we started seeing other girls in uniform accompanied by family members. Some were skipping, jumping, and bubbling with excitement like I was, while others walked more modestly beside their mothers or grandmothers. Other girls appeared quite timid, as if they were scared to go.

  What I found most amazing was the number of women all in one place at the same time, with not a single man anywhere in sight. Honestly, I never thought I’d see anything like this.

  Growing up under the Taliban had conditioned me to think that women should not be in public, they should never be in large groups, and they should always be covered and submissive. Seeing so many girls together was uplifting; it was inspiring and powerful.

  We made our way across the school grounds, then hugged our dear mother and said goodbye; she left to return home, as she was not allowed inside the building. My sister took my hand to go inside. I recall holding her hand tight, not wanting to let her go.

  Inside the main building it was rather chaotic since the school was still under construction and there were multiple unfinished classrooms. No one knew where to go, so we all gravitated to the courtyard. There was a sea of smiling faces, and I wanted to make friends.

  Most of the girls were like me, amazed that there were so many of us, that we didn’t have coverings over our faces, and that there were no men. Some of the girls talked about how their families were happy that they were going to school, but there were also quite a few girls who were not so lucky.

  Some girls couldn’t tell their fathers and brothers they were here or that they’d taken an entrance exam or that they had even the slightest desire to get an education. They had to hide their uniforms, lie, and leave their homes in different clothes so their male relatives wouldn’t suspect anything.

  The scars from life under the Taliban remained. Many people still believed if women were outside the home they would dishonor the family and that women should always be covered from head to foot. Even women who were married or girls who were engaged should not leave the house. They should be prisoners for their own safety and the honor of the family.

  Hearing these stories, I couldn’t help but feel for these young women. Their hardships under the Taliban made me want to cry. I wanted to believe that eventually their fathers and brothers would be happy for them, proud that they earned an education. But I also knew and feared that it would take a long time for these lingering beliefs to change. There are social and religious behaviors in Afghanistan that are deeply ingrained from the years of oppression; it will take generations to change the thinking.

  One of our new teachers quieted us down and told us to get in a line. No one knew if we were to line up by age or by height or some other method, so it was more of a cluster than an actual line, but soon enough the teachers started calling out names and directing us into groups.

  They called Afsoon first, and I watched her walk across the courtyard looking so mature in her school uniform. I remember praying that we wouldn’t be separated. I wanted to be in the same class with her—she was my sister and I loved her.

  They then called my name and sent me to the same group. I was so happy I rushed toward her and hugged her, telling her over and over again, “I’m here too, I’m here too.” I think I was saying it to convince myself that all of this was really happening.

  There were twenty of us in the sixth-grade class, but our classroom was in one of the buildings still under construction. A teacher collected us and led us under a tent on the other side of the courtyard. It was a huge tent, and it reminded me of the ones in the refugee camp. When we sat down on the ground I giggled and leaned over to whisper to my sister, “We’re under the tent again.” She smiled because she’d thought the same thing, but she also pointed to the classrooms that were being built and said we’d be inside soon enough.

  One of our teachers introduced herself as Sohila; she taught history. She was about five feet, seven inches tall, with wide shoulders, and had a slight resemblance to my mother as she stood at the front of the class, ready to begin the lesson for the day.

  I came to respect Sohila immensely, because she exuded professionalism, strength, and self-confidence. She wasn’t afraid of being who she was, and on occasion she shared with us that her husband still wanted her to wear the burka. She refused. She was free, and no one would tell her what to do ever again. Like my parents, she inspired me.

  * * *

  That first day of school was the first time I’d been away from my mother for an entire day, and it felt a bit weird. For as long as I could remember, I’d been with my mother every day. She’d always been no farther away than a room or a neighbor’s house, and I’d taken her presence for granted. Now I was on my own at school, interacting with other adults and having to make friends with strangers.

  School was a new and sometimes unsettling experience. I wanted to be a good student, and I wasn’t shy about raising my hand to answer the teacher’s questions. Fortunately, I was bright for my age and familiar with a lot of the subjects because of what our parents had taught us. This wasn’t work; I enjoyed it and loved learning.

  I thought of our class as a group of friends who would be together for a long time, and I wanted us to have fun. Sometimes, as a joke, I’d squirt one of the other girls with my water bottle and we’d all giggle and laugh. I’d also help my classmates with their homework, because some of them struggled with math or reading. I’d let them see my notes to help them understand the material.

  I helped a girl named Sonia who was having trouble with a few subjects. Sonia was the first real friend I’d made since the Taliban took my neighbor Samira, and we grew very close. But no one could replace my friendship with Samira. It was that young childhood type of friendship that lacked all the fears, uncertainties, and dramas that plague us as we get older. Our friendship had been innocent and pure, despite having been brought to an end by the murderous Taliban.

  I eventually told Sonia the story of how the Taliban had shot and murdered Samira’s father and taken her away. I never saw Samira again; even now, no one knows what happened to her or if she is still alive. Part of me hopes she isn’t. I can’t imagine the hell she went through as a Taliban slave or what they did to her. But perhaps she escaped from her captors in
the middle of the night and fled to some place in Pakistan or Iran.

  Maybe someday Samira and I will meet again, though as of the writing of this book it hasn’t happened. After nearly twenty years, I still think of her.

  * * *

  Despite how much I loved learning and how free I felt at school, I was confused and uncertain about what it was all for and what my future held. Most of my school friends, even if they enjoyed school, ultimately wanted to get married and have a family. Afghan society expected its women to be good wives and mothers.

  There were a few girls, however, who aspired to be either doctors or teachers, which were acceptable professions for women in Afghanistan. As doctors they could treat other women, and as teachers they could educate young girls like me. Men were barred from doing either one of these things.

  In light of the turmoil and tragedy that Afghanistan had endured over the past twenty years, our country desperately needed women to join these professions. The role and presence of women in society needed to be reconstituted, and it would take smart, brave young girls to do it.

  Neither of these possible careers inspired me. I didn’t want to be a doctor or a teacher, and the thought of staying at home as a submissive wife and obedient caregiver didn’t enter my mind. I yearned for something else, though I didn’t know what it was.

  Without a TV, a phone, access to the Internet, or even a public library, it was hard to learn about what was out there in the world. School handled the mechanics of my learning—math, science, reading comprehension, languages, history—but my education about what life offered beyond the confines of my home and school was lacking.