Open Skies

by Niloofar Rahmani

  Omar walked with a certain amount of dignity and respect, and with a level of confidence I hadn’t seen in him when I’d left home over a year and a half ago. Although we’d talked on the phone and everything seemed fine between us, now being with him, I wondered if things would still be the same. He’d always supported and believed in me; I hoped he still did.

  Thankfully, as soon as I got in the car I knew everything was the same between us, as if we’d never been apart. I could see he was proud of me and happy I was home. I very much wanted to tell him about everything I’d done in flight school, but I knew there were more important issues to talk about.

  I asked how things were at home and begged him not to hide anything from me. I needed to know what had happened since I’d been outed. He took a deep breath before he spoke, and to this day I can recall the sadness in his voice as he told me all that had gone on.

  He said most of our extended family had found out about the photo of me and learned I was in the air force, training to be a pilot. He seemed very concerned about Afsoon, who was still living with her husband and his family. Once they learned what I was doing, they started harassing her and telling her she came from a shameful family. This upset our parents quite a bit and was one of the reasons my mother had fallen ill.

  As for our father, his brothers and cousins had been calling him. They were furious, not only because I was a disgrace and an affront to Islam but also because he’d lied to them, telling everyone I’d been at university. They told him he’d dishonored his family and he would not get away with it.

  At work, coworkers had confronted him, showing him the picture and all the accusations. They were disgusted and chastised him for allowing me to join the military. They questioned his manhood and told him he was a bad Muslim. Soon after, his boss told him he needed to look for another job because he wouldn’t be allowed to work there anymore.

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. While at Shindand, I had no idea all this had happened, but now my worst fears were coming true, and I didn’t know what to expect when we got home. Part of me wondered if I would even be allowed in the house.

  It had been a few weeks since I’d spoken to either my father or my mother, and the darkest part of me wondered if they would expel me from the family. Rationally, I knew they wouldn’t, but I was so scared and felt so ashamed for everything I’d brought down upon them. I loved my family, cherished them, and hearing this news broke my heart.

  When we arrived home, my little sister Maryam opened the door. Her face immediately lit up, and she started yelling as she ran through the house shouting, “Niloo is here! Niloo is here!” My brother and I were still in the courtyard, but I could hear the commotion inside.

  My mother appeared at the doorway, and after a moment’s pause to get her bearings in the fading light, she rushed outside. With each step, I saw the tears welling in her eyes, and she took me in her arms and held me close. I buried my face in her shoulder and started crying. My Mother Jan held me tighter and told me it was OK, that they were so happy I was home, and they were so proud of me. “We will always support you,” she said. “You’re our daughter.”

  It’s hard to explain how much my mother’s words meant to me and how desperately I needed to hear them. I’d been gone for so long and been through so much, without anyone to talk to or turn to for support, so hearing my dear mother’s voice warmed my heart and gave me a sense of comfort I’d greatly missed.

  But in all the commotion of seeing and embracing my mother and sisters, I didn’t see my father, my Baba Jan. I asked where he was. My mother said he was inside praying.

  I pulled myself away from my mother and walked inside, finding my father in the back room, kneeling with his eyes closed, periodically leaning forward to touch his forehead to the ground as he whispered his prayers to God. I watched him silently, not saying a word or wanting to disturb him, but he knew I was there.

  In the few moments while I waited for him to finish, I remember thinking I couldn’t wait for him to hold me in his arms and tell me everything was going to be fine. I felt horrible about all that had happened and hoped he wouldn’t be upset with me.

  When he finished, I went toward him, immediately starting to mutter that I was so sorry, that it was my fault, and that I’d put everyone and everything at risk. His career, the family, it was my fault. I told him I would do whatever he wanted; I would quit the air force at that very moment and come home, if that’s what he wanted me to do. I implored him to believe me, I’d done nothing wrong to shame myself, our family, our country, or God. Everything people were saying about me was a lie.

  As my father took me in his arms and dried my tears, he shook his head as if dismissing my fears and apology. He said there was no need to apologize; of course he believed me. “I know you better than anyone else in this world,” he said, “and I don’t care that these people found out or what they’re saying.” He would always support me. He wanted me to go back to training, finish what I started, and make him a proud father.

  My Baba Jan’s words meant everything to me; I smiled and held him tighter. We stayed like this for a while, and having my father’s arms wrapped around me made me feel more secure and protected than I’d felt in a very long time. I truly needed this moment.

  * * *

  Over the next few days I stayed at home, telling my family stories about the military, my life in flight school, and what it felt like to fly an airplane. They also told me about how life had been in Kabul, with my younger sisters in school, my brother about to graduate from university, and Afsoon with her growing baby (she had a two-year-old son named Mustafa), whom I had yet to meet.

  After that first night, we didn’t talk much about me being outed or the problems that had resulted, probably because we were all so happy to be together again. But on the third night while we were eating dinner, the doorbell rang. My brother went to open the door and found Afsoon standing outside. She was crying and had a bag by her side.

  My brother quickly brought her into the house, and my parents went to her, asking her what was going on. She said her husband and his family had seen everything about me and they were furious. They said we were a shameful family and no longer Muslim, and I was a prostitute for foreigners. They beat her, saying she had brought shame upon them as well. They kicked her out of the house, but kept her baby.

  Afsoon was terribly upset as she told us these things, and I felt my heart breaking with each word. Then Afsoon turned to me and said it was all my fault. I’d been selfish to join the military. Her life was now ruined because of me.

  I couldn’t argue with her, nor did I want to. She was right; I’d been selfish to join the military and try to become a pilot, not thinking about the effect it would have on the rest of my family. I broke down and we both cried. At that moment I wanted to undo it all, wishing I could go back and erase everything.

  Our Baba Jan came over to embrace us both, one in each arm. He looked at me first and said none of this was my fault, none of it. Joining the military and becoming a pilot was my destiny, and I should never doubt that, not even now. Next, he turned to Afsoon and told her everything would be fine. We would get her baby back and keep him safe from her husband and family. He said, “That man lost a valuable diamond, and he will never get it back.”

  My sister and I eventually calmed down, but a cloud of worry hung over my family for the rest of the night. When I woke the next morning, I still couldn’t shake the disturbing feelings that were eating at me. Despite my parents’ assurances, I felt this was all my fault and I had to do something to make it all stop. I’d ruined my sister’s marriage, our extended family was threatening us, my father had been told to find another job . . . none of this would have happened had I not joined the military to become a pilot.

  That morning I talked to my parents alone and told them I was to blame for everything. My choices and my actions—my selfishness—had brought this upon the family. I had to quit flight school and resign my commissi
on from the military. I would tell my command I needed to be home to care for my family—where a woman belonged.

  But my father stopped me right away, not letting me say another word. He told me I couldn’t quit, I had to be strong, because if I didn’t the bullies would have won. He didn’t consider my dream of becoming a pilot and serving my country to be just mine. It was his dream, it was for the rest of the family, and it was for all of Afghanistan.

  * * *

  I thank God for my father and my mother and my entire family. It’s not lost on me how much they risked, and in some ways lost, with me being Afghanistan’s first female air force pilot for fixed-wing aircraft. If I hadn’t chosen this path, our relatives would probably never have ostracized us, my sister would not have suffered such a horrific end to her marriage, and my father would never have lost his job and means for supporting the family.

  They not only supported me but also encouraged me to go back and do this thing, become a pilot and serve my country. Every single member of my family is courageous and strong, and I believe that with every fiber of my body.

  Although I carried guilt for everything that happened, I knew my father was right. I had to go back and finish the training. It wasn’t only about me; it was about women across Afghanistan. If women were ever going to be treated fairly, it had to start somewhere.

  29

  Graduation

  On May 12, 2013, I passed my final check ride and completed undergraduate pilot training (UPT). In the final months of training, I’d mastered instrument navigation, night operations, low-level flight, crew and ground operations, and everything else required to be designated a full-fledged pilot.

  I’d also completed UPT at the top of my class, outpacing the men in nearly everything. This was a point of embarrassment for them—a woman receiving higher scores and being rated above them—and their verbal criticisms, the way they shunned me, and how they disparaged me behind my back worsened.

  At this point, I wasn’t going to let their behavior bother me. I’d come this far, worked hard, and done well; I wasn’t going to let their small minds and ignorance discourage me. I wasn’t just a pilot, I was a good pilot, and they couldn’t do anything about that.

  * * *

  The graduation ceremony for UPT class 12-04 occurred on May 14 in a massive hangar near the Shindand flight line. All of our instructors attended, as well as a good number of the air expeditionary group and base commanders. The chief of staff for the Afghan Ministry of Defense also attended, and there was a bevy of local reporters and national TV news crews present to report on the event.

  I was Afghanistan’s first female fixed-wing air force pilot, and the Ministry of Defense and NATO considered this important news. During the ceremony, along with the other students, I was promoted to first lieutenant. Chief of Staff Sher Mohammad Karimi gave me my wings and my diploma, and as he did this, he told me all of Afghanistan was proud of me and I needed to serve my country to the best of my abilities.

  This was a very happy moment, being officially recognized as a pilot in the Afghan Air Force. There was lots of picture taking too. In the back of my mind, I feared this would cause my family greater problems—receiving this kind of publicity—but in that moment I did my best to ignore the fears. Graduation from flight school was a once-in-a-lifetime event, and I deserved an opportunity to be proud of my accomplishment.

  What further brightened my day was seeing two Afghan women who were students in Thunder Lab. One was Ferozi (the only other woman who passed the flight physical back in Kabul), and Noori. Both were a few years older than I was, and they hoped to become pilots too. I was so proud to see them again and talk with them, because it gave me hope the situation in Afghanistan really could change.

  Unfortunately, no one in my family was able to attend this event. The other students had invited their families, but I feared for the safety of mine. The situation in Kabul had not improved, and if they came to Shindand and were associated with me, I was genuinely concerned for their safety. In Kabul, they knew their surroundings and neighborhood and could spot trouble when it was brewing. But if they traveled to Shindand, there would be many opportunities for the Taliban to target them. I didn’t want that.

  Immediately after the graduation festivities ended, I called my parents. Both my father and mother were on the line, and I could hear the joy in their voices. They were so happy for me; they couldn’t wait for me to come home to visit. When I told them I’d been assigned to the 538th Air Expeditionary Advisory Squadron at the Kabul air base and I’d be able to see them much more frequently, they were ecstatic.

  I’d be home soon!

  30

  The Squadron

  I had about a month off between graduation and when I had to report to my operational command at the Kabul air base, the 538th Squadron. I spent most of my time at home with my family, taking a break. I had been pushing hard for nearly two years and really needed the down time.

  However, both the US and Afghan militaries had their own agendas. They wanted to tout my accomplishments as a way to promote the changes happening not just in the Afghan Air Force but also in broader Afghan society, as well as the success of the NATO advisory mission then in its twelfth year. The public affairs offices of the US and Afghan militaries scheduled me for countless interviews with local and international media outlets.

  Although I was hesitant to do these interviews, not wanting to attract more negative attention, I also saw them as an opportunity to fight for the rights of women in Afghanistan. When asked about my story, I tried to explain things in a way that would encourage other young girls and women to pursue their dreams. I spoke about the challenges I overcame and candidly shared how it was very difficult to continue at times. I also said this was a new Afghanistan—a place where women deserved to be treated fairly, with respect, and as equals. Moreover, there shouldn’t be any barriers put in front of us.

  I never found out if these interviews had an impact. The military didn’t share any data on female recruitment. Nevertheless, I hope I managed to inspire one or two people.

  * * *

  I was scheduled to report to the 538th Squadron in June 2013, and on the morning of my first day I discovered my youngest sister, Manizha, wearing my flight suit. She was doing a very amusing impression of me, alternating between marching around and standing with her arms crossed, with a very serious look on her face, as serious as an eleven-year-old can be. Her antics made me laugh, but I told her I needed my flight suit back so I wouldn’t be late. She could have her own flight suit one day, I said, but she turned her nose up at my suggestion.

  As she unzipped my flight suit, my darling little sister said quite confidently she wanted to be a journalist and would rather interview me one day instead. We both had a good laugh at that!

  My brother would drive me to and from the base most days because it wasn’t safe for me to use public transportation. If I did, people would see me going in and out of the base and potentially target me.

  As a precaution, when we neared the base I would duck down in the passenger seat so people outside couldn’t see me. I also wore civilian clothes so that if someone did spot me, they wouldn’t see me wearing a uniform. My brother would proceed to drive onto the base and drop me at my squadron building. I’d go inside to my office and change into my flight suit.

  Although I had hoped things might be different now that I was no longer in a training command, my first day at the squadron was less than welcoming. Most of the pilots and support staff ignored me, only speaking to me if it was absolutely necessary. My commanding officer, Colonel Pacha Kahn, also gave me a cool reception. He was professional and respectful but expressed nothing beyond formalities.

  There also were no bathroom facilities for women, not in the squadron building or anywhere nearby; the closest women’s restroom was across the base at KELTC. I either had to hold it all day or use the men’s room, which was extremely uncomfortable.

  Nevertheless, I was on b
ase, a full-fledged pilot, and couldn’t wait to start flying real missions. The 538th was a combat support squadron, and I’d be flying missions throughout Afghanistan transporting troops to various outposts, flying the wounded back to hospitals (medevac flights), and delivering supplies to the combat units on the ground fighting the Taliban and other insurgent groups.

  There was one type of mission, however, I was told I would not be allowed to perform: HR flights, which stands for “human remains.” These flights transport the bodies of deceased soldiers back home to the next of kin. Apparently, this prohibition against women performing this sacred duty was enshrined in air force regulations and was directed not at me personally but at all female pilots.

  There were two reasons for this prohibition: one, under Islamic law it is disrespectful for a woman who is not a family member to touch the body of a deceased male, and two, women are supposedly too weak emotionally to handle such a solemn mission.

  While I respected the reasoning under Islam, I did not think this regulation was fair. As a pilot, I could easily fly the plane, perform all my duties, and never touch the remains of a soldier I was transporting. The notion that I was too weak because I was a woman was insulting. It was an affront to my status as a military officer, my professionalism, and my skills as a pilot. I promised myself one day I would fight this regulation, but for the time being I just wanted to get in the cockpit and fly.

  * * *

  For my first year, I flew as a copilot. I needed to log 280 flight hours before I could be qualified as an aircraft commander (AC). Often, it takes pilots well over a year to log that many hours, but I purposefully volunteered for missions going to the farthest provinces or the ones with multiple intermediate stops, called hops. I wanted to be an AC as soon as possible.