One Saturday morning, Rashida and I met there for brunch. The security guards were used to me by now.
“Gun?” said the chubby one, his moustache twitching with a smile.
“Not today.”
“You are sure?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then please go in.”
The café was busy as usual, but we managed to get a table in the garden. I was happy to be there, and liked the fact that the waiter knew how I took my coffee.
“I’m going to have the Kabuli Breakfast,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“Eggs, sunny or scrambled…”
“Sunny?”
“Sunny side up – because they look like little suns when they’re fried.”
Rashida made a note in the little book she always carried with her.
“They come with onions and tomatoes. And naan, cheese and walnuts. I’m pretty hungry.”
She picked up the menu and studied it. “I’ll have a sandwich.”
While we waited for our food we looked through the photos I’d taken so far.
“I’m pleased with them,” I said. “But have you noticed? Something’s missing.”
Rashida frowned. “I don’t see—”
“There’s no women in them. They’re just not there. I’d like to speak to some ordinary women, the ones we see shopping in the bazaar.”
“I don’t know,” Rashida said. “I don’t think they’d be happy talking to us, not there on the streets. Or having their photographs taken.”
The waiter brought our food and we began to eat. Two men were sitting at the table next to us, tucking into bacon sandwiches and chips and talking loudly. They looked like consultants, the sort who usually sat inside, tapping away on laptops at reports for the UN or ISAF.
“It’s a lawless place,” one of them said. His accent sounded Italian.
“Yes, but isn’t everywhere we work?” said his British friend.
“Afghanistan’s different. The Afghans love war. They’re instinctive fighters. I mean, they’ve been at it for what – thirty years? This time round, anyway. And there was plenty of it before, as well. It’s not like Africa: no one’s killing because they’re drunk or high. Afghans always have a reason. They love war. They love violence. It’s always on purpose, and they’ll do it as brutally as they can.”
I glanced at Rashida, who was listening too, her face expressionless. An Apache helicopter passed overhead, casting a shadow over the lawn.
“There was that warlord, remember, who locked his enemies in shipping containers in the desert during the summer and let them roast to death. Can you imagine? Or what about the way the Taliban dealt with President Najibullah – castrated him, dragged him through the streets, strung him up?”
I knew the last thing Rashida would want was a scene, but I couldn’t help myself. I leant over and tapped him on the shoulder.
“The Italians strung up Mussolini,” I said. “That was pretty brutal.”
His face darkened, then he saw Rashida and had the grace to look ashamed.
“I don’t think the Afghans love war,” I said. “Why would they? Most people hate it. They want to get on and live their lives, just like anywhere else.”
Faisal put us in touch with a midwife who agreed to us joining her on a visit to a compound on the edge of town. She wanted to check up on a woman who had given birth a few days before.
“She wasn’t allowed to go to hospital,” she said. “It would have been better for her if she had. She nearly died.”
As we entered the compound, a gang of children ran towards us, laughing and pulling at our hands. They led us to the woman, who was lying on a carpet, covered with a blanket, the baby curled up next to her. The midwife knelt down and spoke quietly.
The other women gathered around, offering tea and snacks. I didn’t want to get in the way of the midwife, so we moved over to the other side of the courtyard, where there was some shade. The women bustled about, making tea, sending out a boy to buy snacks. When the tea was ready, we settled down to talk.
“How many families live here?” I asked.
Rashida translated the question.
“We are four families,” one of the women said.
“But there are so many of you,” I said.
“We are nine wives.”
“And do you all get along?”
She shrugged. “We spend our days together. We cook together, clean, do our laundry, look after our children.”
“What about the men? What do they do?”
They laughed, and started to discuss it, everyone pitching in with their opinion, loudly, talking over one another. Eventually one of the women said something that made the others laugh, louder than before. Rashida blushed and hesitated.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “What did she say?”
Rashida shook her head. “She is very uneducated.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Just tell me.”
There was a long pause. “It’s not nice language,” she said.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I’ve spent a lot of time with soldiers. I’m not easily shocked.”
“They beat us and they fuck us,” Rashida said. “That’s what they were saying. That’s all.”
Fourteen
ELIZABETH WILLOUGHBY’S DIARY
9th January 1915
An exciting day for us all: a visit from the King and Queen Mary! The news that they were coming sent us into a frenzy of preparation, supervised by Colonel MacLeod himself. We rushed to make the Pavilion spick and span, washing linen, finding clean pyjamas for patients confined to bed, fresh uniforms for the others, and for each of them a spotless new white turban. We even managed to find some flowers for their bedside tables: snowdrops and a bit of early forsythia, which cheered things up no end.
The sweepers swept and polished and mopped. I do find it very difficult to see them scuttling close to the floor like crabs across a beach. They never look one in the eye, their heads are always bowed and the patients simply ignore them. When I tried to thank one of them for clearing up a particularly horrible mess of bloody bandages, Hari stopped me, saying that I would embarrass him.
I felt rather cross about that, but there was no time for arguments. The morning was a whirlwind of washing patients and changing dressings and serving breakfast, then more ritual washing, prayers, then straightening sheets and then ourselves. The patients tied their new turbans even more carefully than usual; moustaches were clipped, uniforms pressed and boots shined. They absolutely revere the King. Queen Mary’s Christmas gift had been followed at New Year by a photograph of him, and I had been surprised at their reaction. They handled the photograph carefully, as if it were a valuable family portrait, some of them kissing it solemnly.
“He’s the King-Emperor to them,” Hari had said. “That’s tremendously important. To be killed in battle in the service of the King would be a blessing, because it would end the cycle of death and reincarnation. You’d be sent directly to paradise.”
By the time the royal party arrived, just before noon, everyone was on tenterhooks. We knew they had arrived from the cheering from the crowds outside: we were all lined up in the vestibule, which looked splendid with a red carpet and a hundred potted ferns, making the Pavilion look wonderfully exotic.
I think I was not the only person to be nervous as they made their way towards us, but the King gave a kind speech, thanking the city of Brighton for the sacrifice it was making on behalf of the patients, which put everyone at their ease, and Queen Mary had a smile for everyone. They visited every ward, stopping at patients’ bedsides and asking questions of the men, who were eager to answer. I had not realized that the King spoke Hindustani, and indeed there were moments when he faltered a little and had to be helped by the various officers and surgeons who stood close by, but it was marvellous to see the King-Emperor face-to-face with the patients, speaking their own language.
An official photographer fo
llowed them everywhere, at a respectful distance of course, recording everything with his camera. By the end of the day he must have taken more than thirty pictures of the King and Queen Mary, the staff and, of course, the men on the wards. I should be used to having my photograph taken after the other day, but I was still not sure quite how to pose, a little intimidated at the thought of becoming part of history.
At luncheon, the King and Queen tried some Indian food: a thick and delicious lentil soup called dhal, and flat chapatti bread with curried lamb. We cannot have beef or pork in the hospital: the cow is sacred to the Hindus and Mohammedans are forbidden to eat the flesh of pigs, so lamb is often on the menu. I was not included in the luncheon party, but word spread that Their Majesties rather took to it, commenting that the spices were very warming and suitable for the time of year.
They left in the early afternoon to visit York Place and the other Brighton hospitals, seen off by the medical and the administrative staff, plus some of the able-bodied patients. As their motor car drove off there came a spontaneous cheer. The visit, I think, had been rather a success.
Fifteen
Coming out of my room at the guest house, I bumped into Orla, an Irish doctor who worked at one of the women’s hospitals. I’d met her a few nights after I’d arrived, and liked her a lot. She reminded me a bit of Molly the CNN journalist – tall and dark with a wicked sense of humour and a penchant for drink.
“Jo!” she said. “I was hoping to catch you. Want to come to a dinner party?”
“Sounds swish.”
“It won’t be anything fancy, but Veronique’s a pretty good cook.”
I’d had a long day walking the streets. “I don’t know – I’m pretty tired.”
“Come on,” she said, “Thursday’s party night!”
I’d been pretty solitary since I’d arrived, apart from hanging out with Rashida. “Oh go on, then,” I said, deciding to have a bit of fun.
When we arrived, the flat was already full of young and pretty people, drinking up a storm. The vodka was premium-strength duty-free and went down nicely. By the time we sat down to dinner, I was feeling pretty good. Orla knew everyone, and introduced me to all of them – a couple of journalists, a film-maker, doctors, human-rights lawyers, UN staff.
“Wow,” I said. “It’s the entire expat population. Is there anyone who isn’t here?”
She laughed. “There’s plenty of private-security contractors. And the military – but they’re all kept on base. That’s no bad thing: they’re not exactly safe to be around. My office is on the Jalalabad Road, near the Americans at Camp Phoenix. Makes it the perfect place for suicide bombers.”
“Ah.”
“Yep. I try to get to the office early to beat the rush hour. You want to avoid getting stuck in a traffic jam, especially near an American convoy. I don’t want to get blown up by the Taliban, and I don’t want to get shot by one of the Yanks because they think my driver’s a bomber either.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Sometimes, it depends. You shouldn’t hang around after Friday prayers, or after dark, or in certain areas, but usually I feel pretty safe. It’s always the same, though. Nothing happens for a while, then something does, and you remember.” She took a swig of wine. “If you really want to find out how things are around here, go online, read the blogs. There are some that are pretty personal, but others that are trying to show the rest of the world what things are really like, not what’s in the papers. Some of the military ones are actually quite good, though they often get shut down by the authorities. I’ve got one – check it out. I call it The Kabul Chronicles.”
One of the UN guys, a strapping Swede called Henrik, tapped his knife against his glass. The party grew quiet.
“It’s Thursday night,” he said, grinning. “Another week in paradise!”
Laughter and groans.
“Sh! I can’t think of a better way to celebrate than being here, and eating this wonderful pasta.”
He raised his glass, and everyone followed. “To the chefs!”
“Merci,” said Veronique, our hostess. “Silvia brought the pasta back from Italy.”
Silvia smiled. “It’s the parmigiano that makes it good. I almost got searched at the airport, it smelt so strong. It took their attention away from the wine, though. I managed to get six bottles in.”
“Bravo!” said the handsome man sitting next to her, kissing her cheek.
As people went back to their conversations, the girl sitting opposite leant in towards us. “I was listening to what you were saying, Orla,” she said. “Sure, we’re all scared of suicide bombers – but I’d rather be blown up than kidnapped.”
“This is Elsa,” said Orla. “Dutch. Medic.”
“That’s got to be the worst thing,” said Elsa. “Not knowing whether you’re going to get out alive, putting your family through all that. They were bad enough when I told them I was coming to Kabul.”
“Exactly,” said Orla, lighting a cigarette.
“Who’s doing the kidnapping?” I asked.
“Depends,” said Elsa. “Sometimes they’re just petty criminals trying to get some cash from the families or from someone else who wants the hostages. Or it could be some warlord wanting to make a point. They’re the ones who really run things around here.”
“Are they Taliban?”
“Some are, some aren’t. They’ve been known to kill foreigners for un-Islamic behaviour. But I’ve heard it’s often because they want their recruits to get some experience in killing.”
“And un-Islamic behaviour means?”
Orla rolled her eyes. “It covers quite a lot. We’d be in trouble tonight, put it that way.”
There was a pause.
“Anyway,” said Orla. “Let’s not think about that. I’ve had a rubbish week, and I want to forget all about it.”
“Hear, hear,” said Henrik, who had come to sit next to Orla. “Me too.”
“Is it still the affair?” asked Elsa.
Orla stubbed out her cigarette and lit another one. “Uh-huh.”
Henrik reached over and took one from her pack. “What’s the latest?”
She sighed. “So. Jo, to bring you up to date. We have a bit of a situation where I work. Two of our Afghan staff are having an affair. They’re both married. People mustn’t find out.”
“What would happen if they did?”
“She’d probably pay with death. He probably wouldn’t.”
“What?”
“Well,” she said. “The honour of the family depends mostly on the behaviour of its female members, or on what happens to them. So if a female member is dishonoured, it needs to be sorted out. If a girl’s raped, for example, the only way to restore honour is by the other family giving their girl to be raped in return. But if a woman behaves badly, it brings shame on the whole family. So that has to be dealt with too.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Right. And apart from it being a terrible situation for them, it’s also really difficult for their managers. Now that they know, they’re implicated. They have to sort it out.”
“They have to?”
“Absolutely. If they don’t – if we don’t – the hospital will be in big trouble.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Well, their manager, Dr Khan, isn’t going to report them. Personally, she finds the whole thing unspeakably vulgar. She disapproves of their behaviour completely. But she doesn’t want to be responsible for whatever terrible punishment they’d get, especially not death. She’s in an awful position. And so this afternoon we had a meeting. It went on for hours, but we finally came up with some kind of solution. We’re going to sack him now, then her in a year’s time. They’ll know why, even if we don’t say anything about it directly.”
“And they’ll accept it?”
“It’s better than the alternative.”
“And then no fingers can be pointed at you,” said Henrik. “Not a bad solution. Or abou
t as good as it could be, anyway.”
“It’s really that serious?” I asked. “For the hospital, I mean.”
“Listen,” said Orla. “Dr Khan’s husband goes to a mosque where the imam has preached that if your wife is working for an NGO, you should tell her to stop, that it isn’t right, because it’s promoting Western culture. The imam also says that if she won’t stop, you can kill her. That’s how much we’re hated. Not by everyone, but enough. We promised a lot when we arrived, and most of it hasn’t happened. There’s great resentment. Something like this would have serious ramifications. They’d see it as us not respecting Afghan values. It’d cause a riot.”
“What about Dr Khan? Will she be OK?”
“Yes, I think so. Her husband’s an educated man. He’s pretty liberal, relatively speaking. But there you go. It’s been really bad.” She poured the rest of the wine into our glasses. “Which is why I’m going to get good and drunk.”
As the night went on, bottles emptied and the room filled with smoke. People danced to music from an iPod, others sat around the table, talking intensely. I joined in, swigging back the Italian wine, smoking my head off, nattering to whoever was next to me.
“Having a good time?” asked Elsa.
“Great,” I said, realizing that I meant it.
“You planning to stick around for long?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Depends what I find to photograph. I might.”
“Look,” said Elsa, nodding in Orla and Henrik’s direction. They were talking quietly, looking into each other’s eyes. “I wonder if tonight’s the night? I hope so, he’s a lovely guy.”
There was something in her tone that made me look at her. “Elsa?”
“Yeah. Soon after I arrived. It didn’t work out, but it was fun while it lasted. No big deal.” She took a drag of her cigarette.
“That’s what Kabul’s like.”
The doorbell rung. I looked at my watch. It was midnight. “Are you expecting more people?” I asked, surprised.
The Repercussions Page 6
