Open Skies

by Niloofar Rahmani

  Later that night, I called home and spoke to my Baba Jan. I told him the US Air Force had offered me a chance to go to the United States and train to fly the C-130 Hercules. He knew this was a great opportunity, but I told him I was unsure about accepting the offer. It would be difficult to be away from him and the rest of the family for so long. Family is everything to me, and we’d been through so much together; I felt if I went to the United States for training, I would be abandoning them during hard times. I still blamed myself for everything that had befallen my family.

  My father wouldn’t hear any of it. Although I couldn’t see him, his tone indicated he was smiling. He asked jokingly, “Don’t you believe in your Baba Jan? Don’t you think I can take care of us while you’re gone?” He went on to say I should never blame myself for anything that had happened. I lived my life and did everything exactly as I should have and in the manner he raised us. “We are a strong family, and you are not selfish,” he said. He believed I had to go—it wasn’t even a question—and he would support me no matter what happened.

  I had tears in my eyes, both of happiness and sadness. I thanked my Baba Jan, telling him I wouldn’t let him down.

  I left Afghanistan on September 8, 2015, for the United States to undergo C-130 training.

  40

  Back in Training

  I arrived in San Antonio, Texas, along with two other Afghan pilots, Captain Emal and Lieutenant Mohammadi. The two additional pilots would join us shortly. One was already in the States for another bit of training (he was General Zafar’s son), and the other was expected to graduate UPT soon. We were a total of five.

  Similar to my initial flight training in Afghanistan, we had to complete language training at the Defense Language Institute English Language Center (DLIELC) at Lackland Air Force Base. We needed a score of 89 percent to be cleared for the next training phase, which was notably more difficult than what we’d done at Thunder Lab. Fortunately, I didn’t have any problem with the curriculum.

  Being at DLIELC and living in the United States was quite an experience. Training ended at four every day, and then we were on our own. We had the weekends off too. Not surprisingly, my Afghan colleagues didn’t approve of anything I did, but I essentially told them to shut up. I was an officer and outranked some of them. They needed to accord me the respect I was entitled to. They were not my father, my brother, my uncle, or any other relative, and they had no power over me. They needed to mind their own business.

  After class, I spent my time getting to know the other international students, who came from all over the world, including Jordan, Kosovo, Iraq, Albania, and Turkey. I enjoyed spending time with them, learning about their cultures, hearing their stories, and socializing. A woman named Jasmina, who was from Kosovo, became like a sister to me, and we relied on one another a lot at DLIELC. We practiced speaking English together, we supported each other if we were struggling, we comforted each other when we missed home, and we laughed a lot. I still keep in touch with Jasmina.

  * * *

  The four other Afghan pilots and I graduated on February 12, 2016, and were cleared to move to the next phase of training.

  From Texas we flew to Tampa, Florida, to begin the first part of flight training at CAE’s C-130 Tampa Training Center. I would learn that CAE, an international defense company, is one of the principal vendors that provides training to both military and civilian personnel on the Lockheed Martin C-130 Hercules aircraft.

  We spent six months in Tampa focusing on academics and simulator training. Although I was eager to learn, I also found the training much more intimidating than what I’d done at Shindand. The C-130 is a four-engine turboprop military transport aircraft, and compared to the Cessnas I’d been flying, it’s a beast. But I knew if I worked hard and stayed focused, I would succeed.

  Inevitably, I began to miss my family. Although I had access to a phone and reliable service, my family back in Kabul weren’t as fortunate. I rarely reached them, and when I did, the connection would last for only a few minutes. It bothered me that I didn’t know what was going on back home. Afghans traditionally have very strong family connections, but I think ours was stronger than most, given our circumstances. Being on the other side of the world was very difficult for me.

  But by some stroke of luck, wherever I go in life I always find at least one person I can look to for support. In Tampa I became friends with a woman named Mary, a CAE employee. She would invite me out after work, have me over to her house for dinner, and introduce me to her friends and family. She was a genuinely nice person, and I will be forever grateful for her kindness.

  By the time August rolled around, the other pilots and I had completed 432 hours of academics, 40 hours of flight training device (FTD) training, and 60 hours of simulator training. We hadn’t flown a C-130 yet, but we knew as much as we could know without having strapped ourselves in and hit the throttle.

  We graduated on August 25 and were at Little Rock Air Force Base in Arkansas by September. Here we’d actually fly the C-130 and, if all went well, graduate in four months.

  * * *

  In Tampa, I’d lived almost like a civilian, wearing civilian clothes, working at a civilian location, and living in civilian quarters with access to the surrounding area. It was very pleasant, and I enjoyed my time in Florida, but I was glad to get back into uniform.

  In Arkansas, we were on a military base, wearing our uniforms, and training in a military environment with other military personnel. I always liked wearing my uniform, because it conveyed a degree of strength and respect, and here in the United States I wasn’t dismissed because of my gender. I was treated like everyone else, including the American students. It’s a good feeling when equality is not even questioned or an issue. I’d found this to be true the first day I’d landed on US soil for training.

  As for the training itself, I felt confident about my abilities to fly the C-130, but I still had quite a few things to learn that I’d never been exposed to in Afghanistan. I had to learn the Federal Aviation Administration rules, because in Afghanistan we followed the International Civil Aviation Organization (ICAO) regulations. Not a huge difference, but it was important.

  There were also technical systems we didn’t cover at CAE but which I was expected to know. The biggest challenge I faced involved the nondirectional radio beacon, or NDB, which is used for long-range navigation on modern aircraft and maritime vessels. I’d never been trained on the NDB—they weren’t used in Afghanistan—but during one of my check rides I’d be expected to use it. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any way of getting up to speed on the NDB in Arkansas.

  With no other option available, I contacted some of the instructors from my initial flight training at Shindand. I was fortunate to reach a few of them, and I explained the situation. They in turn sent me some instructions via email, and one of them created a short video he sent to me.

  With their help, I learned what I needed to and passed my check ride without any issues.

  * * *

  By this point, we were nearing the end of training. It was November, and we had less than a month to go; we were all excited and could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

  But for me, the situation back home lingered persistently in the back of my mind. Despite repeated attempts, I hadn’t been able to reach anyone for weeks, and not knowing my family’s situation was making me worry. One night after a training flight, I kept calling until my younger sister picked up on the fifth call.

  I was so excited I’d gotten through, and hearing her voice touched my heart. I wanted to share everything I was doing and hear how everyone was getting on back home. But something was wrong. My sister sounded sad and had little to say, as if she didn’t want to talk. I asked her if anyone else was home, and she put my mother on.

  My mother tried not to say anything about what was wrong, but I kept asking until finally she gave in. She said she was very ill, and she didn’t think she could do it anymore. I asked her what she
meant, what was going on, but the line went dead. I tried to call back over and over, but I never got through.

  I went to bed distraught, wondering what had happened to my family. Here I was, in the middle of an amazing opportunity and experience, something I’d never dreamed of, but my family was suffering. I knew they were. With everything that had happened over the years—the ostracism by our relatives, the threats, the moves, the attempts on my brother’s life—I knew whatever was going on in Kabul wasn’t good. Yet I had no idea what it was and I could do nothing about it. I felt helpless, like I’d deserted them when they needed me most.

  The next day, a few of the American students noticed something was off with me, and Major Korry asked if I wanted to talk. I told him some of what was going on, mainly about the call with my mother, and shared with him how much I missed my family and that I feared for their safety. He acknowledged everything I was going through and said he could only imagine how difficult it was for me, but he also encouraged me to keep on with the training. We were only two weeks away from graduation. I’d come this far, and he knew my family would want me to finish what I started. Otherwise, all of this would have been for nothing.

  Major Korry was right, and I did my best to remain focused, but I also explored other ways to find out what was happening with my family. I contacted my friend Margherita Stancati to see if she knew anything. She had since left Afghanistan, but she reached out to her friend Kimberley Motley, a renowned international human rights attorney who had been working in Kabul for over ten years, focused on domestic violence. I’d met Kimberley once at Margherita’s house in Kabul. She was a very kind person, and she said she would try to check on my family for me before she flew back to the United States.

  * * *

  My last training flight was on a beautiful sunny day in December. Everything went well, and I felt truly at ease up in the air. These days, flying was the only thing that brought me joy and peace of mind. There was no time to dwell on anything else. I just flew, and it was wonderful.

  But after I landed, finished the debriefing, and went back to my room, I saw a missed call from my father. I immediately called him back. I was so glad to hear his voice, but I could tell something was terribly wrong. He tried to sound cheerful, but I pressed him until he finally told me. Since I’d been gone, the family had moved three times. In their previous apartment, four men had tracked them down and attacked the house, breaking windows and doors and fighting with my brother and father. Luckily, the police showed up before anyone got killed.

  He said there was nowhere else for them to go, and he didn’t know what else to do. He had decided to move the family to Pakistan, which was where he was calling from. They’d left Kabul a week ago and were already across the border.

  The news shocked me. I’d had my suspicions, but I had no idea how bad the situation had gotten since I’d left. My family was on the run again, maybe a step above refugee status.

  Then another realization struck me. Once I finished training on the C-130, I would go back to Kabul. But unlike in the States, where anyone can rent an apartment and make a fresh start, a woman is unable to do that in Afghanistan. I couldn’t simply use a realtor to find an apartment with vaulted ceilings and a nice view of the park. I wasn’t married either, so I would need to stay with a male relative. But with my family gone and my extended family wanting nothing to do with me, I had nowhere to go. I couldn’t stay on the base, because it was also risky.

  I’d never be able to find a place to live and keep my identity hidden.

  Tears streamed down my cheeks, and I asked my Baba Jan what I should do. “Where could I go? Where could I live?” I had no answers and feared there were none. Then my father said something I never thought I’d hear him say. With a very sobering tone, my father said I should not return to Afghanistan. If I came back, I’d be killed within days, if not hours. I had to stay in the United States and request political asylum.

  I was speechless.

  41

  Asylum

  By graduation time in mid-December 2016, I still hadn’t decided what I was going to do. My father’s words had rattled me. Never once had he suggested I stay away, which made me realize just how bad things were back home.

  Whereas in the past he may have found a way to care for us and keep us together, it was clear that now he must have feared for our safety as he had twenty-five years ago when he packed up the family in the dead of night to flee to Pakistan. The difference now was by circumstance; I was already safe. If I returned to Afghanistan or tried to find them in Pakistan, I would only put them at more risk.

  My choice was clear, but it pained me. I reached out to Kimberley Motley, who by then had arrived in North Carolina. I asked her about political asylum and what it meant. I knew generally what it consisted of, but I needed to know the extent of the potential consequences.

  Among many things, I would essentially be giving up my ability to leave the United States throughout the duration of the asylum process, which could take years. And if I chose to seek American citizenship, it would be even longer before I could leave. This meant I would have no chance to see my family in the foreseeable future, unless by some miracle they traveled to see me.

  This was so hard for me to fathom. I’d been away from my family for long periods before, but it’d always been a given I would return to them. Now, I could potentially make a decision that would keep me away from them for years, perhaps forever.

  I also had to consider my status as a captain and pilot in the Afghan Air Force. By seeking asylum in the United States, I would have to effectively resign my commission and put myself in a position where I would no longer be flying—stepping away from my career in aviation. After so many years of fighting to earn and maintain my status as a pilot, that very struggle was now the reason I might have to walk away.

  This aspect of my decision, which some might construe as selfish, was, in fact, quite demoralizing. My childhood dream of flying, which I’d overcome so much to achieve and for which others had also sacrificed beyond their due, would be over. Everything I’d worked for, everything I’d done in the hopes of blazing a path for other young women, would vanish. Rather than continuing to fight and be an example for others, proving women were as capable as men and we could stand up to their bigotry—I’d be giving up.

  This crushed my soul.

  * * *

  I graduated training as a certified C-130 pilot in December 2016, one of the few Afghans to have achieved this certification, and the only Afghan woman to have done so. The following day, rather than getting on a plane to return to Afghanistan and resume my duties in the air force, I waited for Kimberley Motley. She was driving from North Carolina to Arkansas to pick me up and take me to Washington, DC.

  I filed for political asylum in late December, citing persecution for race, religion, nationality, and political opinion, and fear of torture. My interview was scheduled for January 4, 2017. Kimberley offered to be my lawyer, and she accompanied me to the interview.

  I’d been to Washington, DC, before on my trip for the International Women of Courage Award, but that had been a time of celebration and recognition. This time felt different, and the nation’s capital that had been so beautiful and inspiring during my previous trip now intimidated me. Without my uniform, I struggled with my identity, and I had no idea what the future held.

  I thanked God for Kimberley; she stayed by my side. We rode in the taxi together to the US Citizenship and Immigration Services office on Massachusetts Avenue, and she sat beside me in the waiting room as I waited for them to call my name. At one point, she leaned over and whispered everything would be fine; she’d been through this process before, and she’d be beside me every step of the way.

  Finally, a man in a dark suit, white shirt, and blue tie emerged from the back and called my name. I followed him into a small, windowless room, with a framed print of the Jefferson Memorial hanging on the wall. My interview officer asked me to raise my right hand and
swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Sworn in, I told him my story and requested political asylum in the United States.

  * * *

  Within a few days, the news broke that I had not returned to Afghanistan and had requested asylum in the United States. CNN, Fox News, the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times, the Guardian, the Independent, Al Jazeera, and numerous other international media outlets covered my story. The headlines seized on the drama: Afghanistan’s first female pilot seeks asylum, flees her homeland for her safety, threatened by her own government, Afghan government responds, she quit and she lied, she gave up . . .

  I was taken aback at how widespread the coverage of my story was. Some articles portrayed me as a victim, forced to leave my country and abandoned by the government and military I’d chosen to serve. Others took a human-interest angle, discussing how I’d been separated from my family, who had since gone into hiding. And other articles drew connections to the broader US effort in Afghanistan, questioning the success of the advisor mission and whether the US and NATO were having a real impact.

  And there were also reactions out of Kabul, including from the government and air force. They smeared me, told lies about me, and said I was a traitor, and some were quoted as saying if I ever returned to Afghanistan I would be tortured and killed.

  * * *

  The following months proved overwhelming for me. Initially, I stayed with Kimberley and her family in North Carolina. I had nowhere to go and no family to help me, so I was extremely grateful for her hospitality. But I couldn’t live with them forever. A decision about my asylum case could take over a year, maybe longer, and I couldn’t stay idle in Kimberley’s guest bedroom for too long.