My parents were very proud of us. Given everything they’d endured over the past twenty years and the moments when all seemed hopeless, I can only imagine how they felt watching Afsoon and me in our school uniforms smiling and laughing with the other girls. Perhaps it was a dream for them; everything they’d done hadn’t been a waste.
Once high school ended, life changed for me. Earlier that year, a young man who was an extended relative of ours saw my sister at a wedding. His name was Farid, and he claimed he’d fallen deeply in love with Afsoon. Over the next few months, his parents negotiated with my family for a possible marriage. My father believed Farid was an honest man and came from a respectable family. He would provide a good life for Afsoon, my father thought, so he agreed to the courtship.
Two months after Afsoon and I graduated, she married Farid. It was a small wedding—we were still poor—but it was a happy occasion with delicious food, music, and lots of dancing. I was very happy for her and believed at the time she, too, was happy.
But I was also sad; I was losing my sister. She’d been my closest friend and confidant my entire life, and now she was leaving. We’d been together every day our whole lives. We laughed together, we cried, at times we were terrified, and other times we were filled with joy and happiness.
The day of the wedding, she left to be with her new family, and for the first time in my life, I felt immensely alone. Her absence from our house was acute; it was as if a physical part of me had been cut out. Her footsteps and the sound of her breathing had vanished, her voice no longer mingled with mine. My sister and closest friend was gone. I missed her.
* * *
That summer I continued taking classes, preparing to take the entrance exam for Kabul University. I was eighteen years old; this was a good age to attend university.
Kabul University was where my mother had dreamed of going. She’d aspired to earn a degree in journalism from here, but the wars got in the way. With my prospects of attending the university, she seemed to live a bit vicariously through me.
I didn’t know precisely what I wanted to do upon getting a degree, but I knew I had to go—I wanted to go. Like our parents had ingrained in us growing up, I believed education was a necessity for opportunities, freedom, and justice in this world. Education opened doors, and I deeply wanted to learn and have more education.
Although the idea of becoming a pilot was a distant dream, my desire to help other women and work toward an equitable society was real. I couldn’t do that without an education. With an education, I could stand up and speak out for the rights of women. I could be an advocate, championing the rights of girls to have careers and do more than serve in the home as obedient wives who take care of children. Perhaps I could find a way to encourage the founding of the first civilian flight school in Afghanistan.
A week after my sister’s wedding I took the entrance exam. It was a difficult test, not unlike the placement exam I’d taken back in 2002. It covered a variety of subjects, but I was confident in my abilities, and when the results came back, I was selected to major in economics. Classes would start in September.
16
A Commercial
I started my freshman year at Kabul University in September 2009. At first, I found my class load intimidating—I was attending a university, not a small girls’ school on the edge of Kabul—but I knew I’d be all right. I’d prepared well.
I made new friends at university fairly quickly. I’d always been outgoing, and my time at university was no different. However, unlike my time in high school, the university was coed and most of the professors were men. This took some getting used to, and as a woman I had to wear a scarf, but in general I was accepted as an equal in the academic community. The American and international presence in Kabul had brought these changes.
Going to university was a significant time in my life, but there was one day in October that eclipsed everything. It was windy, overcast, and getting cold with the approaching winter. Kabul can be bitterly cold—sometimes there’s even snow—and the air is so dry the skin on your hands will crack if you simply bend your fingers.
It was five in the evening and I was at home. Omar and I were in the main room of the house playing chess. He was teaching me moves he’d learned from our father, and I was listening intently because I appreciated the game’s complexity. I found it intriguing how one needed to think two, three, four moves ahead, perhaps more. I wanted to play against my father, like Omar did.
Suddenly a commercial on the television caught my eye. My father had bought us a TV a few years earlier, and my sisters were watching a show I can’t recall. The commercial seized my attention, though, and I couldn’t look away from the astonishing images on the screen or ignore the announcer’s voice, which drowned out my brother’s.
The Afghan military was calling upon men and women to join the armed forces. The announcer said the US-led coalition was working to develop Afghanistan’s security forces, and they needed everyone who was able bodied. The army needed soldiers in the infantry, in logistics, in supply, and to work as mechanics, engineers, and other specialties. The Afghan Air Force was also recruiting people to be mechanics, truck drivers, administrative officers, and many other positions.
Toward the end of the commercial, the announcer said something that would change my life forever: the air force was recruiting women to be pilots!
I yelled for joy and jumped around the room. I couldn’t believe it. Here was my chance. I could become a pilot. I could enroll in the military academy to become an officer and train as a pilot in Afghanistan’s air force.
I couldn’t contain myself, wanting my brother and sisters to share in my joy, but they either laughed at me or ignored me. They didn’t think this was serious. They’d seen the commercial like I had, but the idea of women becoming pilots in the Afghan Air Force was too radical. It was in contrast to so many aspects of Afghan life and culture.
But I wouldn’t be dissuaded. I couldn’t be dissuaded. This was my chance, my one opportunity to learn to fly and soar through the air, and I could do it as an officer in the Afghan military.
After dinner, I told my parents about the commercial and that the air force was recruiting women to be pilots. They already knew it, but I told them anyway—this was a dream come true for me. There were no civilian aviation schools in Afghanistan, so this was my one opportunity to learn to fly. Plus, I would serve my country as a military officer.
The Taliban had retreated from the Americans and their allies, who were fighting and dying to bring peace and justice to our country. I knew they wouldn’t be here forever, nor did I want them to be. We as Afghans had to fight for our freedoms and liberties, and the only way that would happen was if Afghans served in the security forces.
I wanted to serve my country to defend those who couldn’t protect themselves. I wanted to ensure Afghanistan’s women had justice and equality and could stand up to speak their minds. “You raised me to be like this,” I told my parents. “You made us strong, and you told us we must follow our own path.”
My father listened intently but didn’t say anything. My mother was concerned, and I remember her words clearly. “It’s too dangerous,” she said. “This is Afghanistan. Society is not ready to accept working women and will never let women wear a uniform. And people will judge you if you try this, and you will be shamed.”
I heard her words and I knew the risks. She was right; this was Afghanistan, and even though the Americans were here and society was changing, the nightmare of the Taliban still lurked behind closed doors and in the countryside. Furthermore, it wasn’t just the Taliban. Most Afghan men still believed women were inferior and had no business outside the house without their husbands, fathers, brothers, uncles, or cousins, escorting them like children. The men’s backwardness ran deep.
That’s precisely why I felt compelled to join the air force to serve my country. It wasn’t only for me. I wanted to fight for all the women of Afghanistan. Justice and equali
ty for women wouldn’t be handed to us; we needed to prove we had the strength to do these things. I knew I would make a good officer and that I could learn to fly. I never had any doubt, and I wanted my parents to believe in me.
My father was silent for most of the discussion, but I knew he was proud. He wanted this for me as much as I wanted it for myself. He turned to my mother and said Afghanistan was changing. The Americans were here, and if the military was asking women to join up, then it could be done. It made me so happy to hear him say these things.
My parents eventually agreed I could join the air force, but they had a condition. My decision to join the military must be kept secret from everyone. Only my older siblings, Afsoon and Omar, could know, not my younger sisters. None of my friends could know, nor anyone else outside the house. I needed a story to tell our relatives and another one to tell my classmates at university to explain why I was leaving. If someone found out, it would bring shame upon me and our family, putting us all at risk.
Of course I agreed to this condition. As reprehensible as it was, it was true that my decision to join the air force would put my family and myself at risk. There were many people in Afghanistan who would hate me for entering the military, considering me a disgrace and perhaps someone worth hurting. Nonetheless, with a huge grin on my face I hugged and kissed my parents. I will always be thankful to God for them and how they raised us.
This was my chance, and I seized it!
17
Recruitment
The next morning, Omar accompanied me to the recruitment center. He and I had become close in recent years; I was glad he was with me. He took after our father in that he had a kind heart. He respected women and considered them equals. He also possessed courage and would stand firm on what he believed was right, and in the defense of others.
The military recruitment center was located in a dusty, run-down compound on the southern edge of Kabul. The buildings were constructed of gray concrete or mud bricks, all one level. Some had windows, but most were broken or missing panes of glass. It was less than inspiring, though I hadn’t expected much more.
Throughout the compound, hundreds of young men milled about; I assumed they, too, were here to join the military. They were dressed in a wide assortment of clothing—traditional shalwar kameez, jeans, slacks, wool vests, T-shirts, button-down shirts, pakols, taqiyah skullcaps, scarves, and a few baseball hats—indicating that the recruits hailed from the city as well as the surrounding provinces. They came from all different backgrounds, from the more devout to the more liberal urbanites. They were either waiting in line to go into buildings, absently standing off to the side or leaning against a building, or sitting together in small groups.
When Omar and I entered the compound, everyone stopped to stare at us. I had on a modest black dress with a scarf over my head, clearly a woman. I can only imagine what these men were thinking, seeing me there, but I didn’t dwell on it. I put on a brave face and we went into the main building to register.
We waited a long time in a drab corridor that lacked any overhead lighting, and soon enough I needed to use the facilities. I asked a soldier for directions to the ladies’ room, but he looked at me with disbelief. “There isn’t a women’s bathroom,” he uttered, as if the idea of having one here was absurd.
His response didn’t surprise me. Women hadn’t been allowed in the Afghan military since the Soviets. A lot had happened since that time, not least of all the banishment of women from public life. Thus, there was no need to accommodate females.
Sometime later, another woman entered the building. She was accompanied by her father, a sickly looking man, and she wore a full burka. It heartened me to see her; I wasn’t the only one who had the audacity to think they could join the military. But when we started chatting, a reality became apparent to me that was common for a lot of Afghan women who joined the military in those first few years.
She didn’t say it directly, but she told me about her sick father and that he wasn’t able to work or support the family. She didn’t have any brothers or other relatives who could help. But her family of three girls, an aging mother, and an ailing father needed to survive. She was here out of desperation, the oldest of three girls with no marriage prospects. Her only hope was to join the military so she could send money home.
A lot of the women who joined the military during this period did so out of financial need, not because they had a strong desire to serve their country or become soldiers. Some joined because they sincerely wanted to serve—I wasn’t the only one who dreamed of doing something important and independent—but not many. They viewed the military as a means to find stability and earn money that they could send to their family. Most men made this assumption about female soldiers.
* * *
The recruiter for the military academy called my name, and I went into his office. He was a paunchy fellow in his midfifties, his uniform faded and ill fitting. I imagined he’d joined the army as a private back during the Soviet-Afghan War. During the subsequent civil war and reign of the Taliban, he’d probably disappeared into civilian society. When the Americans arrived, I imagined he’d pulled out his uniform and dusted it off. Now, here he was, recruiting new soldiers.
He had a TV in the corner of his office, which he could view from behind his desk. He had on a Tom and Jerry cartoon. He was probably more interested in the antics of the cat and mouse than the recruits coming before him. When he saw me, he stared quizzically. He’d seen my brother through the doorway, but Omar remained outside in the hall. It was just the recruiter and me in the office.
I remember the exchange we had almost verbatim.
He took a long slurp of his green tea and said, “You don’t look desperate. Why are you here? Is there no one in your family who can support you? No father, no brother?”
“I’m joining the military because I want to, not because I have to,” I said. The recruiter scrunched his face at my comment, but I continued. “It is my choice to be here, and I will be proud to put on the uniform. If you think that is shameful, why do you wear the uniform, sir?”
My words and confidence put the man off balance. He stopped staring, averted his eyes, and reached for my recruitment paperwork. He signed it quickly and said, “Good luck.”
That was the end of it. I was scheduled to report for training in two months.
18
Basic Training
On December 2, 2010, I reported for basic training. I packed a small bag and wore black pants, a long, dark-green shirt, and a black scarf over my head.
I said goodbye to my family in the morning. Afsoon wasn’t there—we’d said our goodbyes earlier in the week—but everyone else was present. They were all sad, my mother crying.
When Afsoon got married and moved out of the house, it was considered normal. Newly married couples typically remain close to family to rely upon the associated support network. Afsoon had simply moved into another neighborhood in Kabul, and my parents saw her regularly.
My enlistment in the military, however, was something my mother never expected, and she was very upset for a host of reasons. I was not only going away; I was entering a new, hard life that could be dangerous. Her view of the military was also colored by her experiences in the Soviet-Afghan War and ensuing civil war. Although NATO and the Americans were currently advising the Afghan military to modernize it, she feared what might happen to me.
I hugged my mother tightly, trying to assure her I would be fine. I did the same with my father. I kissed both their hands, reminding them they’d taught me to be brave. I promised to maintain my honor and the family’s, and to make them proud. I’d try as hard as I could in everything I did to become a military officer and a pilot—these were my greatest goals. I wouldn’t let challenges or failures along the way stop me. I was strong because of them.
My mother was still teary, but my father looked at me with pride. He didn’t say much, nor did I expect him to. I remembered everything he’d told me over
the years; he had faith in me.
I was sad when I left the house, but eager to get things started. Omar accompanied me to the bus station where I’d find transport to the training facility. I was glad he walked with me. He’d always supported me and been a close friend. I told him this wouldn’t have been possible without him; I was lucky to have a brother like him. He smiled and hugged me warmly, and I got on the bus.
* * *
There were nineteen women on the bus, including myself, ranging in age between eighteen and twenty-five. Later I found out seventeen of the girls were Hazaras; only one was a Tajik like me. Everyone was nervous and no one talked. None of us knew what to expect.
The driver drove east out of Kabul toward Pul-e-Charkhi, to an area roughly eight miles outside the city, where the Kabul Military Training Center was located. At the gate to the base, the guards stopped the bus to search the outside of the vehicle for bombs. One of the guards came aboard for a cursory search of us, after which he welcomed us to the base.
The driver began threading his way through the base. We were going to the Malalai Company, which was the female officer candidate school. Our training company had been named after Malalai of Maiwand, who was a heroine of Afghanistan from the Battle of Maiwand. In 1880 during the Second Anglo-Afghan War, Malalai rallied the local warriors to fight the British at Maiwand, Qandahar, helping Ghazi Mohammad Ayub Khan, the emir of Afghanistan, achieve victory. She’s been called the Afghan Joan of Arc, and I was proud to be associated with a national hero like her.
Malalai Company was colocated with the Afghan National Army (ANA) Command and Staff College. We had two buildings containing classrooms and training spaces, and there was a barracks secured by metal doors where no men were allowed. Our entire initial training, including all our meals, would take place inside these two buildings and the barracks. We would be around the male trainees only when we went to the rifle range. Some weekends we’d be allowed to go home, but most of us lived too far away to make the journey, myself included.
Open Skies Page 11
