by Barbara Bick
We are in old Faizabad, which still feels very much like a village. Narrow canals, babbling like country brooks, run down the side of each street. We walk along dirt paths bordered by high walls and surrounded by greenery—wildflowers and grasses, emerald green moss and verdant creepers, grow alongside the blue water in the ditches, while bushes and trees reach over the walls to shade the paths.
Mme Rabbani’s school and orphanage are housed in modern buildings. Women in long, multicolored dresses and wide shawls, as well as a row of children, are lined up waiting to welcome us. The school was founded as a residential establishment for both boy and girl orphans, but the years of war have created many homeless widows so the orphanage now houses thirty or forty of those with children, the women working as resident caretakers, nurses, cooks, and teachers. We spend six hours in the school and see dozens of children, ranging from babies to teenagers, in nurseries and classes, both academic and industrial. Mme Rabbani is charming and gracious, revered in Faizabad as a kind of noblewoman for her good works.
Back at Star House, I ask Nasrine what she thinks of the president. “He is not well liked,” she admits. “Relations between Rabbani and Massoud are no longer close.” Nasrine believes that Massoud has developed into a humane, thoughtful, and battle-weary warrior who has learned the lessons of compromise and reconciliation. Rabbani spent the war in Peshawar, as did most of the other mujahidin leaders, embedded with Pakistan’s ISI. She suggests he has changed little over the years.
Our last visit in Faizabad is to a former student of Mary’s. The woman is married to a local farmer, so the trip will give us an opportunity to visit a country family. Our driver slowly heads out of town, then onto a broad new road, which leads into an area of flat land, subdivided into building lots for a new suburb. A few new shops and houses are already built near the road. We soon pass into actual farmland. The Kokcha River here is a wide, calmly flowing, light blue body of water. Rich parcels of land, separated by mud walls, are heavily planted with corn, vegetables, and fruit trees. Across the river, above a bank of buff-colored rock, yellow fields extend to a distant horizon of rounded mauve hills. As we drive deeper into the countryside, large fields of grain, corn, and tall brilliant sunflowers stretch down to the river, where there are still some light tents or thatch-roofed structures that farm families use in the summer for relief from the heat. Women are working in the fields and tending to household chores. For the first time since we have arrived, I feel a sense of tranquillity and appreciate the genuinely singular beauty of Afghanistan.
We come to a village, get out and walk through damp fields to the farmhouse where Mary’s student, Soraya, lives. Soraya had been a widow when she attended Mary’s physical therapy class. Intelligent and outgoing, she enjoyed working but wanted to get married again, even though the man she was interested in had a first wife.
The village grapevine has sent her news of our arrival and Soraya is already outside to welcome us. She leads us into a comfortably-sized room, where we all—even I—sit on the mat-covered floor, since there is no Western-style furniture. Soraya is an amply endowed woman with an animated personality. She is a picture of female fertility, with one baby at her bursting breast, smelling of milk, and several toddlers and young children surrounding her. Shortly, the first wife, whose name I never learn, walks in, demurely greets us, and joins us on the floor. I am surprised that she is about the same age as Soraya, but otherwise they are unalike in every way. She is slim, shy, and quiet. Her two boys, about ten and twelve, stand behind her, and she keeps her arm around her six-year-old daughter. We are told that the first wife suffers from cerebral malaria, a particularly horrific manifestation of the disease that can cause seizures and brain damage.
The first wife seemingly carries the burden of housekeeping, while Soraya, even with her large brood, works as head teacher in the large school in the village. Despite the teaching and the children, Soraya jumps at the suggestion that she commute to Faizabad and work with Mary to set up and run a physical therapy unit and training program at the hospital.
The first wife gets up after a short time and leaves the room with her children. She returns, and while her children spread a cloth on the floor, she puts trays of tea and fruits before us. Then she sits down and joins us again. I don’t see overt hostility between her and Soraya. Her children are older, so that a natural kind of childcare takes place between them and Soraya’s babies. The arrangement certainly seems to work for Soraya, but I can’t help wondering how this first wife and her children feel about it.
From my one snapshot view of this farming village, life under the Northern Alliance seems to be essentially as it has been for generations. Boys and girls receive an elementary education, and women work as teachers, farmers, professionals, wives, and mothers.
I feel very positive about the Northern Alliance after this visit to Faizabad. We have seen a limited number of schools, but schools for girls do exist in the north and, despite extremely limited materials, children are being educated. We will also be able to report that women are working in many capacities, despite the traditional expectation that they remain in the home.
Within towns almost all women are covered by the burqa when they go outdoors, but in every workplace we have visited—hospitals, offices, schools, food production in town or on farms—women wear conventional Afghan clothing of long skirts and long-sleeved blouses, with headscarves. I understand that in many areas of Afghanistan, burqas have historically been a normal part of a woman’s wardrobe, although not mandated as compulsory attire. Nasrine tells us that her mother used to pull on her burqa to shop for food on a bad-hair day.
It is September 8. All of us, including Mary, who will be going with us to Khoja Bahauddin and then on to the Panjshir Valley, are packed and ready to leave Faizabad, this time by helicopter. It is another old, beat-up machine, parked in a field on the edge of town. A line of spectators, including many children, are waiting for entertainment, some of which I will inadvertently provide. Nasrine wants to devise a way to get me into the helicopter, which like the other lacks steps. Having spied a long board on the field, she oversees a makeshift seesaw, upon which I am to stand, and rise up to the helicopter door. The spectators all draw close, and everyone holds their breath as a member of the Northern Alliance presses one end of the board slowly. I try to stay balanced. I spread my arms out to steady myself. I wobble, regain my balance, and wobble more dangerously. And then I fall off the board and hit the ground.
I am laughing as hard as our audience. Again, I am unceremoniously lifted and pushed into the rusty old helicopter crowded with mujahidin, who are shaking with laughter at me. The helicopter rises and we swoop off for Khoja Bahauddin. I feel a little sad at the thought that I will soon be leaving Afghanistan, but also quite relieved that I am on my way home.
Chapter 6
The Assassins
The helicopter drifts down onto the same green field where we first landed. The Amu Dar’ya River still flows on one side, amber cliffs still loom on the other, and the jeep, filled with young men from the foreign ministry, again brakes with a swirl of dust beside us. We are back in Khoja Bahauddin, and it feels almost like coming home.
Yet I quickly sense a palpable difference. Certainly I have changed; no longer fit and eager, I am tired and ready to go home. But in addition, the young ministry men there to meet the helicopter are no longer smiling and immaculate. They seem exhausted. Our reception is different as well: when we first flew in, the vans took us directly to the front section of the compound, and we were given our lovely suite in the new guesthouse villa. This time we are driven to the back half of the compound and all our bags are piled up in one of the small rooms in the old building. The atmosphere in the compound is now perceptibly charged with uneasiness. There are still other guests, but they are no longer gathered informally, convivially. Anxiety pollutes and hangs in the air.
We quickly learn the reason for the change. Nasrine brings news that the Taliban have gone o
n the offensive. All through the summer there has been a buildup of Taliban and Al Qaeda fighters. As many as sixteen thousand are now massed along the edge of the Shomali Plains, a once-fertile area that has become a no-man’s-land bordering Massoud’s front line. Among the opposition’s troops are many Arabs, Pakistanis, Uzbeks, and Muslim ethnic minorities from China. On the previous Tuesday, there was a battle on the road to Kabul. Prisoners were taken and several hundred men on both sides were killed or wounded. Nasrine is quickly told that all of us, Sara, Mary, Nasrine, and I, will leave for the Panjshir Valley that afternoon. We do not yet know that all foreign visitors are being evacuated from the compound.
I have a great desire to go to the famous Panjshir Valley, reputed to be exceptionally beautiful, surrounded by the towering peaks of the Hindu Kush. It is a traditional visit for all admirers of Massoud, an opportunity to visit his homeland and the base from which he launched his legendary rebuffs of Soviet attacks. But I cannot extend my stay further, and I am tired.
Up to now, I haven’t considered exactly how I will get back to Tajikistan. But with Nasrine and the others getting ready to leave, I have to clarify my plans. I consider my options, but the facts never change: first, I need a Northern Alliance helicopter to take me to the Tajik airfield at Kulab; second, I need a car for the long drive from Kulab to Dushanbe; third, there is only one plane a week that goes from Dushanbe to Germany; and fourth, the next plane leaves in three days.
In order to be on the plane to Munich on September 11, I need to be in Dushanbe on the tenth to take care of my visa and ticket. So I must travel from Khoja Bahauddin to Dushanbe on the ninth—tomorrow.
Then I ponder the imponderables: will a helicopter be available to get me out of the country? The ministry men are already strained, coping with visitors while preparing for the possibility of battle. Further, I will need a translator to arrange transport from Kulab to Dushanbe.
I find myself becoming frightened. The drone of helicopters flying over the compound reassures me somewhat that an aircraft may be available. I have no way of knowing that the helicopters are only transporting foreigners to Panjshir. Nasrine has dragooned a car and whisked Sara off to town to telephone her employer in California yet again to get her agreement for Sara to go with them to Panjshir. But Nasrine is my only means of negotiating this country. Will she really take off and leave me alone in Khoja Bahauddin, the only woman among all the tired, anxious, Dari-speaking young men on Assim’s staff? I find it hard to believe that she is not worried about me. For the first time I feel not just old, but frail, unable to cope. I know that without medication my arthritis will become painful and my spinal stenosis will make my legs incredibly weak; I know that I will not be able to negotiate difficult terrain if much walking is required. Without speaking the language, I will not be able to even communicate with anyone. I decide to confide my fears to Mary.
She is in one of the guest rooms, sitting cross-legged on the floor with four men, teaching them a card game that she had picked up from her grandchildren on her last visit to the United States. She seems totally relaxed. Perhaps she has absorbed the philosophy of inshallah—translated roughly, “if God wills it”—the ubiquitous term in many Muslim countries for letting go of things outside one’s control. Jaheen is learning the card game, as is Fahim Dashti, a young photojournalist who has been studying in Paris with Reporters Without Borders and who has known Massoud since childhood. Mary quickly ends the game and joins me when she sees how worried I look. I explain my dilemma and confess my feelings of abandonment. Mary sympathizes and agrees that she and Sara can and should go on alone and Nasrine should remain with me.
When Nasrine returns, I take her aside. “Nasrine. What about me? What will happen if you go off to Panjshir this afternoon? I don’t feel comfortable with no one here who speaks English.”
“You’ll be fine, Barbara. Assim will take care of you and see that you get to Tajikistan.”
“But Nasrine,” I burst out, “you can’t just go off and leave me! What if there are no helicopters available! Assim is much too busy with everything else. I can’t be a burden on him. And what happens in Kulab? How will I get to Dushanbe?” I am very angry. “Nasrine, you can’t just go off.”
“Barbara, you’re being difficult,” she retorts, growing angry in turn. “You’re making it hard on everyone. They’ve asked us to leave this afternoon. If I stay behind, that means that Mary and Sara must stay behind too.”
Mary, who has come over to us, says, “Nasrine, I have traveled throughout Afghanistan for twenty-five years. I don’t need you to take care of us. Sara and I will go on today as they want us to.”
Nasrine’s first response is always impulsive and negative, but she is ultimately reasonable. She acknowledges that it is not safe to leave me and soon enough comes to terms with our joint dilemma. A short time later, Mary and Sara clamber into one of the trucks that pulls into the compound. Forlornly I hug Mary, knowing I may never see her again. Nasrine and I wave as they leave with all the other foreigners.
The compound feels strange, so empty and quiet. Then Assim calls us into his office and gives me the bad news. I will not be able to leave the next day. Tajikistan’s borders are still closed for its tenth anniversary of independence and will not open again until the eleventh. Even if a helicopter were available to take me across the border on the eleventh, there is no way to get to Dushanbe in time to make the plane to Munich; nor would I have time to arrange my visas. There is no other choice: I will have to stay another week. Both Nasrine and I are hard hit by this latest setback. Assim tries hard to reassure me that it is still possible for some sort of arrangements to be made that will get me to Dushanbe.
Nasrine and I gloomily go to our denuded room, emptied of all luggage except our own bags beside the one high double bed. We sit on the bed and go over all that has to be done—another call to her husband asking him to change my ticket once again; a call to friends in Munich who expect to meet me; a call to my family. As dusk falls and it gets cooler, we go outside. Jaheen, not part of the ministry staff and with no work to do, joins us, and we sink into the plastic chairs on the outside concrete corridor. We sit in silence, each wrapped in his or her own thoughts, and watch stars begin to spot the softly darkening sky. It is very tranquil, but I cannot relax, cannot absorb or be comforted by the warmth of the evening. I am beset by apprehension.
Another foreigner has been left behind, a withdrawn and haggard-looking Frenchman, Roland—we never learn his last name—whom we see the next morning. He is a member of a French aid organization and has been waiting for two months for an interview with Massoud. He sits silently as far as possible from us, avoiding any eye contact. He makes me increasingly uncomfortable. I find him eerie and I suggest to Nasrine that he is either mentally ill or an opium addict, and I am worried about our safety. She thinks Roland is all right, probably depressed from the heat and from having hung around for so long. Our door has a key, and also, she points out, several of the men always sleep outside on the ground, not far from the room, so we hardly have to worry.
At the time I do not know that two other foreigners, the Arab journalists who accompanied us to the near by refugee camp, have also been allowed to stay. They sleep and eat in their room and stay there in the heat of day as well as the cool of dawn or evening. They arrived at Khoja Bahauddin before us, in the same helicopter as Shoukria.
That night, I use the big bed, piled high as usual with dirty mattresses. I unroll my sleeping bag and, without bothering to unpack, lie down. Nasrine unrolls her pad and beds down on the floor. Hardly a breeze comes in. Neither of us can sleep.
Then I hear Nasrine whisper, “Barbara, I’ve been thinking. I don’t think the compound was evacuated just because it’s vulnerable to a Taliban attack. I think it’s possible that Massoud is staying next door, in the villa.”
“Really?” I whisper. My heart begins to beat more rapidly.
“If that’s so,” Nasrine sounds thrilled, “maybe we can g
et to interview him after all.” She is now not so unhappy about having to stay with me.
I wake up early Sunday morning, September 9, step over Nasrine, unlock our door, and go out. Jaheen and some of the other young men are asleep on thin pads unrolled on the gravel. I walk over to the latrine as quietly as I can in the heavy walking boots I habitually wear outside town. When I push open the crude wooden door, I reel back from the odor, worse than usual. But I use the latrine, there being no alternative. Back outside, in the fresh morning air, I long to walk down to the river, but a foreign woman alone and dressed in a sleeveless shirt would, I know, be impolitic. A helicopter roars overhead; I hope it isn’t taking Massoud away, if indeed he is in the villa.
Around noon, Nasrine and I get a ride into town to use the satellite phone. I also want to buy a traditional Afghan shirt, the kameez, so that the long sleeves will keep flies off my arms. Zubair is again our driver and tells us that they have had thirty groups of guests just in the short time since our last stay.
In the dusty town square, the jeep pulls up in front of a shop, and Zubair waits in the car while Nasrine and I go in to call her husband. Then she explains to the shopkeeper that I want a kameez and he goes next door to have a tailor finish one off for me. While we wait for the neckband to be sewn on, the shopkeeper and Nasrine sit on the floor and converse. He tells her that he had a much better shop in Taloqan, but left after the Taliban took over the town. Now he competes with many other little one-room shops like his.
Suddenly, we hear a grinding of gears as Zubair guns the jeep and roars off. We are stunned. Why has he left us? Shortly after, a man comes to the door of the shop and whispers to the owner. Nasrine thinks she catches the word “Massoud,” but cannot get the rest. The shopkeeper comes back, sits down beside Nasrine, a lost, somber expression on his face. Nasrine and I stare at each other. The shopkeeper, almost speaking to himself, grimly says, in Dari, “Massoud should have five lives. If Massoud is killed, we are all dead.”
