A couple of days after I’d conducted a mortuary mission, I went to meet her. My brother drove me to the diplomatic zone, and I again wore a burka to disguise myself. When not at the base or at home, this—the burka—had become my daily attire. I’d come to accept I was no longer free, and if anyone recognized me I’d be hunted down. So would my family.
When we arrived at the diplomatic quarter perimeter, we stopped at a fortified security checkpoint manned by both Afghan police and foreign security guards. It was an intimidating sight, replete with machine gun nests, hardened guard houses, vehicle lanes, drop arms, and most likely an impressive array of additional security features I couldn’t see.
When one of the guards approached our car, my brother provided our names and identity papers. We were on the list to visit that day, so we were allowed through. Through the security checkpoint—the strictest security procedures I’d ever experienced—we traveled along the narrow roads that made up this international enclave filled with reporters, diplomats, military commanders, and international organizations.
After slowly weaving around blast walls, HESCO barriers, and numerous armored cars and SUVs, we arrived at a small gate with Margherita Stancati’s address. She was there to meet us, standing outside with a scarf around her head. She had brunette hair, an oval face, a petite physique, and a pleasant smile complemented by her brown eyes. I learned she was Italian by birth and had earned a degree at Oxford before becoming a reporter and working across the Middle East and India.
She welcomed my brother and me warmly, and invited us inside for tea. It was a sparsely but beautifully appointed home, with a cosmopolitan feel both inside and out. She had decorated with Persian rugs and traditional Afghan serving ware, and flower baskets hung on her balcony. In her courtyard she kept a rose garden. I imagined this is what Kabul must have looked like before the Soviets came.
During this first meeting, we chatted about my life, my family, and how I’d come to join the Afghan Air Force, but it was more conversational than the focused interviews I’d done before. She shared as much about herself as I did with her, and she seemed genuinely interested in me as a person, not only as a story.
As our visit came to an end, she expressed she wanted to remain in touch and eventually write an article about me. She believed my story needed to be told and that it could inspire others. I liked the idea, and I felt she was becoming a real friend.
We would meet many more times over the years, and Stancati wrote a few articles about me. She also came to my aid in one of my darkest hours.
* * *
Another fortunate encounter occurred in October 2014. A contingent of senior military officers from NATO—Americans, British, Norwegian, and others—were coming to visit the Kabul air base to meet with some of Afghanistan’s female military officers, including me. This was a typical command visit under the NATO advisory mission; they were coming to observe firsthand how we were doing as Afghanistan’s initial crop of female officers.
Honestly, it was very hard for these outside observers to see the true reality of our situation. The NATO officers weren’t going to meet with us in private. Rather, multiple members of our senior leadership would be present, including General Zafar. None of the female officers would dare say anything negative or controversial while he or any of his aides were around. If an observer asked a question, we would respond positively and with deep respect, saying it was an honor to be allowed to serve our country. We would maintain the party line.
When the day finally arrived, we met at the base command post inside the conference room. General Zafar introduced the six other women and me, and the NATO officers greeted us and started asking very simple questions about our backgrounds, military specialties, and such. I did my best to put on a strong demeanor as directed, but the struggles my family and I faced weighed on me constantly. We’d just moved again, and every hour I feared for the safety of my family.
To my surprise, an American, Colonel Holly Silkman, and a Norwegian, Colonel Tormod Heier, noticed the sadness in my eyes. As the meeting came to a close, both officers approached me on their own at different times and surreptitiously passed me their phone numbers and email addresses. They said to contact them if I wanted to talk.
I was surprised they’d slipped me their contact information in such a manner, but I also realized I had an opportunity here. That night, I emailed Colonel Silkman and told her a little about my situation, including the threats against my family. The next day, she invited me for tea at the NATO compound.
As he had with my visit with Margherita Stancati, my brother drove me to the NATO compound, and we went through a similar round of security checks before being allowed onto the facility. We were met by one of Colonel Silkman’s security officers, a man named Michael Coleman, who was a retired US Army colonel. Coleman preferred to wear traditional Afghan clothing, like a pakol hat and patu blanket, and with his beard he looked very much like a local. My brother quickly took a liking to him, and they chatted while I met with Colonel Silkman.
Coleman escorted us to Colonel Silkman’s office, and she and I spoke for quite a while. She told me to call her Holly and that this wasn’t an official meeting. She was a public affairs officer, but she wasn’t meeting with me because she needed a story or had to write a report. She wanted to hear what my family and I were going through.
I told her my father’s story, and everything that had happened flowed out. I wasn’t emotional, and I didn’t break down and cry, but I conveyed the immense weight and sadness that had come into our lives. I also spoke about my love of flying and the dedication I felt to my country, and that I had a responsibility to serve as an example for other Afghan women who wanted to pursue their dreams. I told her how much it hurt me that my fellow pilots and my own countrymen hated me. I felt alone, targeted by everyone, and it was nerve-racking.
Holly simply listened, and it felt good to explain everything to her. She had a kind heart, and I will be forever grateful for what she did next. She wanted to introduce me to someone at the US embassy. She asked if she could share my story with one of the senior State Department officials and if I would be willing to meet with this official.
I said of course.
* * *
A week later, I met with Molly Montgomery, a senior Foreign Service officer at the US embassy. Molly was responsible for consular affairs, and she wanted to do anything she could to help me, thanks to Colonel Silkman’s intervention on my behalf.
During our first meeting, I shared many of the same things with Molly that I’d told Colonel Silkman. But unlike before, it was much harder for me to hold back my tears. Afsoon’s situation had been bothering me more and more in recent days. She’d finally contacted her husband, but he wouldn’t allow her to see her baby boy—not even once. Each night, I would hear her cry herself to sleep, and I couldn’t help but blame myself for her pain.
Molly listened intently to my story and everything my family was going through. She told me anytime I needed to talk, I could call her. From that day on, we met once a week for tea. Sometimes during our meetings, I would share other challenges I was contending with, while other times we would simply chat. She never hesitated to encourage me. She is a beautiful person both inside and out, with a kind heart. She told me courage comes through suffering and that I and my family were immensely courageous as a result of everything we had endured in our lives.
One time, she asked me if things were to get worse, what I would do. I told her flying was my life’s dream and the one thing that felt good right now; the idea of giving it up was as painful as being ostracized by my relatives and friends. But I recognized I wasn’t the only person who faced dangers or who had made substantial sacrifices. Given everything that had befallen my family, I was contemplating whether I should quit.
When I shared this with her, tears were streaming down my face. I was losing hope in the future. A long time ago, I’d felt free and cherished the idea of living in my homeland and serving my
country. But now, after everything that had happened, I felt like I was a prisoner in my own life.
She hugged me and encouraged me to stay strong. She said things would get better in time. Afghanistan was changing; I was a part of the change, and I was an inspiration to others. She thanked me for what I was doing and said she believed in me.
* * *
I received a letter from the American advisory group in February 2015. It came through my squadron, and it said I’d been nominated by the US embassy for the Secretary of State’s International Women of Courage Award. I was invited to travel to the United States in March to receive the award and be recognized with the other nominees. Receiving this letter made me very happy, and I felt joy I hadn’t experienced in months.
As soon as I could, I called my Baba Jan and told him the news. He was also thrilled, and I could hear him announcing it to the rest of my family. That same day, I emailed Molly Montgomery to tell her, and she said she was one of the people who nominated me; she also said she wanted to see me again before I went.
General Zafar, however, did not want me to travel to the United States to receive the award, and gave me a direct order not to go. He said I was needed here to continue flying missions.
I knew he was lying; he didn’t want me to go because I was a woman, and he didn’t want me to receive any more recognition than I already had. He resented me, and I could hear it in every word he spoke.
When the US embassy found out I’d been ordered not to attend, the US ambassador “highly recommended” I be allowed to go. I’m not sure what was said, but General Zafar approved my orders.
36
The United States
I flew to Washington, DC, in March 2015 to be honored with nine other women for the International Women of Courage Award. The other honorees hailed from Kosovo, Syria, Bolivia, Japan, the Central African Republic, and other countries. I found it fascinating to hear their stories. They had a range of backgrounds—investigative journalists, activists, lawyers, government officials—but they all had one thing in common: each of them had faced and overcome immense challenges and opposition, including threats to their freedom and life, but they had persevered.
Speaking with these women, I realized I was not alone. There were other women out there fighting for justice and equality who were willing to risk everything to do what’s right. I knew my interaction with these women would last only a few days before we went back to our respective countries, but for a brief time my head was free from worry about my family.
The second night I was in DC, I had another surprise. Three women I’d become friends with during training or with the advisory wing, USAF Captains Sophia Richardson and Jessica Bishop and Major Agneta Murnan, arranged to have dinner with me. They came from South Korea and the West Coast, and it warmed my heart to spend time with such dear friends. I was amazed at their willingness to come so far for me, because aside from my parents and siblings, no one had ever done so much to support me. Although my family couldn’t be at the ceremony, these women were like my family.
Deputy Secretary of State Heather Higginbottom presented me and my fellow nominees with the International Women of Courage Award at a ceremony in the auditorium of the State Department building. We received the full VIP treatment, and the State Department protocol officer read a short bio about each of us during the ceremony. Put simply, I felt honored and immensely grateful to be counted among these women.
The following day, we were recognized by the American Women for International Understanding, followed by a visit to the White House to meet First Lady Michelle Obama. The First Lady took time to speak with each of us and thanked us for what we were doing and for our courage. She said to stay strong, that we were the ones making a difference in the world, making it a better place.
When I’ve heard other people say these things, sometimes it sounds like a script or a string of practiced phrases, all for show but without any real meaning. But with the First Lady, I had no doubt she meant every word and that she was a truly genuine and good human being. I’m lucky to have met her.
After the White House visit, the nominees and I went our separate ways. Some went back home to their home countries, but some of us stayed a few more days in the States. I went to San Diego, California, for a special surprise. I was going to fly with the US Navy’s Blue Angels!
Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I’d get to fly in an F/A-18! Rather than providing me with a G-suit to help me withstand the high levels of acceleration force, they gave me a basic flight suit and said it was a Blue Angel rule. I was totally OK with it. I got to fly with US Marine Corps captain Jeff Kuss, and we flew for about an hour over Southern California, reaching speeds and doing maneuvers that were over-the-top exhilarating. It was an incredible experience.
A year later, I learned Captain Kuss died tragically in a training accident in Smyrna, Tennessee, on June 2, 2016. When I heard the news, I was heartbroken. He was a true gentleman and a fantastic pilot. My prayers go out to his wife and two children; I will always remember him.
While in California, I also met with some of the people in the San Diego community, and Mayor Kevin Faulconer proclaimed March 10 as Captain Niloofar Rahmani Day for the city. I visited Marine Corps Air Station Miramar and met a C-130 air crew and got to see an F-14 Tomcat, the plane used in my favorite movie of all time, Top Gun.
In the final two days of my trip to the United States, I went to New York and visited the United Nations. I met up with my new friend and corecipient Arbana Xharra and her sister, and we spent our final hours in Times Square. We didn’t sleep at all that night, preferring to remain awake and soak in the last few moments of our time in America.
* * *
My trip to the United States was thrilling on so many levels. I felt honored to meet important people, like the deputy secretary of state, the First Lady, and the countless other officials and aides who welcomed me and made sure I was taken care of. I was also flattered to be counted among such extraordinary women as my conominees. They are people of exceptional strength, courage, and determination. My time in California and New York was amazing too, and I got see and do things I’d only seen on TV or dreamed about—like flying with the Blue Angels, wandering around Times Square, and getting to experience firsthand how wonderful the United States is and how welcoming Americans are. But most important, I came away from this experience inspired. I’d always known my status as Afghanistan’s first female fixed-wing pilot was significant, but I’d viewed it in the context of Afghanistan and the ongoing war. Simply put, I wanted to fly and I wanted serve my country.
The international nature of this experience, however, made me see more clearly that I wasn’t just fighting for myself and my career, or for my family, or for other women in Afghanistan. I was a part of something that spanned the globe, and I was among the many women fighting for equality and freedom who came from oppressive countries. If we didn’t stand up for our rights and the rights of others, and if we didn’t fight for the opportunity to live free from fear and pursue our dreams, no one else would.
I truly believed that, and I still do. Someone has to do it. Someone has to be the first. I’m not the only person to think this way, nor will I be the last, but I am proud to be among those who have.
Unfortunately, when I returned home to Kabul, no one cared.
I wasn’t surprised. I expected it. On my return, I saw the same animosity I’d experienced since I’d first put on the uniform. My squadron leadership never once acknowledged the award I received, and I suspect it caused them to resent me even more. What I hadn’t expected was what happened to my family while I was away for those seventeen days.
37
My Return
The night I returned home, I learned my brother was in the hospital after a second assassination attempt. He’d been at the bazaar buying food for the family. While walking home, his arms full with groceries, a car with two men inside came up from behind. As one drove, the other fired an A
K-47 rifle at my brother. He dove to the ground and by the grace of God the bullets missed, but as the car sped past it clipped my brother.
Omar sustained a severe injury to his left arm and leg and could not move. Fortunately, some of the witnesses on the street came to his aid and carried him to the nearby Khair Khana Hospital.
My father had started a new job at an engineering firm. It was his first day. But when the news about Omar reached him, he left immediately to make sure his son was all right. My mother was at home when she found out; she suffered another panic attack and had to be hospitalized again.
The day I returned was my father’s second day at work, but as soon as he arrived at the office his boss told him he could no longer work there. They didn’t want him or any of his problems being associated with the company.
I’d had visions of telling my family all about what I’d seen and done in the United States, but upon hearing what had happened to my family, the happiness and inspiration I’d felt on the trip vanished. It was like a horrible nightmare, one I couldn’t wake up from. But it wasn’t a dream at all; this was my life.
I asked my Baba Jan to take me to the hospital to see Omar and my mother. When I entered their room, my eyes immediately welled up. I went to my brother’s bedside and pulled out my award from my purse, clutching it in my hands before him.
I professed to my brother, my Lala Jan, that I never would have received this award or been able to accomplish anything in my life without him. “You never failed to support me, even at your own risk or by your own sacrifice. Yet I can’t bear to see you like this.” I begged for his forgiveness, and told him I was so sorry about what happened to him. I’d rather be dead than see him suffering in pain.
Open Skies Page 22
