This brief but essential background may help readers understand what I was up against when, naked faced and bare headed, I went into town on my own, and took a bus—just as if I were riding down Fifth Avenue in Manhattan.
In 1961, that first time alone on a Kabul bus, I was so stunned by the burqas at the back of the bus that I failed to notice that I, not the burqas, was the object of every man’s attention. Turbanned and baggy-trousered men, young men, old men, tall men, men with rifles nonchalantly slung over their shoulders—all had apparently stopped talking or dozing and were staring at me. The men were still staring when I hastily got off the bus. I was unprepared, though, for the small group of men who also got off and began following me. Years later I would write, “Suddenly, I found myself bumping into people, being moved along not at my own pace. Someone brushed by me, slowly. A man in brown yelled something at me. Two large moustaches whispered near my cheek. Coins jingled. Laughter. What had I done? What had I forgotten to do? I realized that they thought I was an Afghan woman without her burqa, without even her headscarf and coat.”
I was lost. I was also dizzy with heat and fear. I kept walking. Eventually the crabbed street flared into a European-style square, and I found myself facing a war memorial for Afghans who died fighting the British, a battle in which only one Englishman survived.
I hailed a horse and carriage (gaudi) and gave the driver the address of the family business. Oh, what a brouhaha my little expedition caused.
“You could have been kidnapped or held for ransom,” Abdul-Kareem raged and nearly wept. “You could have been murdered. You can’t wander around as if you’re some dumb American tourist.”
Then Abdul-Kareem told me about an Afghan minister whose wife had indeed been kidnapped and held for ransom. The shame drove her husband to commit suicide when she was returned. Abdul-Kareem was genuinely concerned that I could have been raped and murdered—which might have meant he would have to kill himself. I could not believe the intensity of emotions that followed upon a simple bus ride in order to sightsee.
Abdul-Kareem must be mad to think that he can waltz back into this medieval country and start a literary and theatrical salon. Who exactly will attend his performances of Eugene O’Neill, August Strindberg,
Tennessee Williams, and Arthur Miller? Is he going to direct plays only for the English-speaking foreign embassy personnel?
If he is planning on translating these plays into Dari and Pushto—what cultural context do these plays have in common with people who are 99 percent illiterate and whose ideas of entertainment include rough sports on horseback, wrestling, shooting, and swordplay? He is definitely a world-class dreamer.
How the hell am I going to get out of here?
Four
Harem Days
My trip into town and what could have happened is talked about for days. However, my so-called escape has led to one good thing. The family has begun to take me out on some carefully choreographed trips. The chauffeur drives us to each appointment. I am always chaperoned or accompanied by at least one, sometimes two, female relatives and often by one male relative, too.
It is early morning. This is my first official look at downtown Kabul. Our car windows are tinted so no one can see in. I keep rolling the window down to take it all in.
The road is mainly filled with—men. Barefoot men, men on bicycles, men driving other men in horse-drawn carriages, men holding hands, men driving flocks of fat-tailed sheep, men riding donkeys, men with rifles slung over their shoulders and a full clip of bullets across their chests, men leading a train of camels, men all talking loudly, affably.
The car finally stops somewhere in the center of the city. I get out, stand up, look up—and am awestruck. We are surrounded and embraced by majestic mountains. Kabul is a city in a valley, a city in a crater. For a moment it feels like the dawn of the world. Afterward, whenever I spend time in the American and Canadian Rockies, I will always be reminded of Kabul, with its wide open sky and thrilling mountains.
There are rows of flat-top adobe houses climbing up (or down) the mountainside. The houses are perched, oddly tilted. They have probably been here forever. But they also seem so precariously angled. What happens to them in a fierce rainstorm or a mud-slide?
Barefoot boys in long tunics and loose pants are selling yoghurt and fetching tea. There is an endless flow of human and animal traffic, both heavily laden with goods, fruits, vegetables. Fruit sellers are offering huge melons and gigantic grapes. Huge mounds of carpets are moving forward carried by men who are bent double.
My favorite British traveler, Rosita Forbes, was in Kabul in the late 1920s. She marvels at the “cacophony of sound” in which the “singing of birds predominates.” She writes, “For in every cupboard shop, with the merchant tucked away on a shelf among his canes of sugar wrapped in brilliant paper, his furs, knives, striped rugs, long-necked bottles, fat stomached pots, his silver bracelets and gold-embroidered caps, there is a cage or half dozen cages full of the smallest imaginable birds. And they sing. They never stop singing.”
Thirty years later Rosanne Klass describes Da Afghanan, a smaller bazaar, rather wonderfully. It is “an Old Curiosity Shop of the world”: “These heaps of battered necessities were crowned with wild, gaudy jewels: a gilded French telephone or a sheaf of lacquered Uzbeck spoons; a volume of Sir Walter Scott, an exquisitely molded Greek coin turned up by some plow. . . . Once, I found an old mortarboard cap from Oxford University. It seemed as though, from the Universe of Objects, the crippled, the lame, the halt and the blind had all found their way here to await the day when someone might possibly look upon them again and find them good.”
Klass lived in Kabul in the 1950s and again in the 1960s. Naked faced, she taught English to male students who ranged in age from twelve to twenty-five and who came to Kabul from small villages. Like other foreign women, and like the intrepid female travelers, Klass was always able to roam the bazaars freely.
Afghan men may stare at the foreign women or may occasionally harass, even kidnap, them, but mainly such women are valued as customers and as the wives of powerful foreign diplomats. Such women do not really count and are avoided. They come from another world. They are naked faced, naked armed, and naked from the knees down. These are wildly independent women. Perhaps they are seen as super or as less than human.
I occupy a place somewhere in between. I may appear naked faced but never alone, and I am not allowed to roam the bazaar freely, gathering up merchandise and memories. I am an Afghan wife, and what I see is limited by my inability to travel alone outdoors. I see what I am taken to see. I am never allowed to simply wander about. My every interaction is planned and monitored.
However, in a country where women are still kept hidden, and brides must be bought and arrive—sight unseen—on the wedding day, a naked face is almost the same as the fully bared breasts of a prostitute. The level of sexual tension and aggression that may ensue is far off the Western charts. Paradoxically the Islamic veil functions as an erotic advertisement; imaginations run riot about how the hidden woman looks when she is entirely naked.
Many travelers have commented upon the bare-faced, often bare-footed Kuchi, the nomad women of Afghanistan. They are dignified, almost imperious, clearly physically strong. I am delighted by their presence.
Kuchi means nomad in Dari. Seeing them is heart-stopping. The first time I did, I stood still, at attention, but I was trembling with excitement. Here were our ancient nomadic ancestors—alive and right before my eyes; yet I felt I was dreaming—a dream perhaps of awakened memory. Here too were the camels, men on horseback, droves of sheep and goats, bands of children, an entire tribe on the move—and here are the women, wearing every piece of jewelry they own and all their splendid colorful clothing. These women are naked-faced, indigenous Afghans.
The Kuchis, who are Pushtuns, follow the weather, seasons, and pasturage as
they herd their animals clear across Afghanistan, down to India (now Pakistan), and back up to Russia—year after year. Some are semisedentary, some are traders, but the pure nomads have no fixed abode. Rather, they have fixed gender roles. The women are responsible for child rearing, preparing the food and water (no small task), weaving their tents, and sewing their clothes.
In the late 1930s Rosita Forbes admired the Kuchi women’s “bold and active” steps, the way “they walked all in a piece without movement of hip or shoulder. . . . With their shoes upon their heads they trod sublimely, bare-footed over sand and rock.” In the mid-1950s
Edward Hunter depicted them as wearing “all the colors of the rainbow, on foot and on horseback, as they had done before the dawn of recorded history.”
Today, on this outing, there are no Kuchis walking through Kabul on their way to someplace else.
I stand on the banks of the Kabul River. Today, it is not surging. It is stagnant and muddy. Some men are bathing in it. Some naked children are splashing away. There are very few women visible.
Nearby stands a row of shops: A man could choose a beautiful karakul lambskin in brown, gold, silver gray, or black, and have his hat ready by the next day. These shops are stalls which open directly onto the street. The vendors sit and work on the floor.
Kabul has more than one bazaar. This one is an open bazaar. It does not look like the Teheran bazaar. It smells of wood-smoke, kerosene, tobacco, perhaps hashish, fresh produce, spoiled produce, spices. I am enchanted. Thousands of birds are singing. Instinctively, I look for the trees. But the birds are all caged.
We are here to see a tailor. I’ve been told, “He can make anything.” It is true. I show him a fashion magazine photo and watch him quickly create a sample by just looking at me. He does not have to take my measurements. The tailor is not obsequious. He is business-like, very polite, very shy, and clearly proud of his skills. A young boy serves us tea while we wait.
To this day I remember the smart gray wool suit he chose to make for me. It fit me like the proverbial glove. He whipped up some sleek Western-style party dresses for me as well.
Oh, how I wanted dresses that would sweep the floor and be made out of the gauzy, sari-like materials with embossed gold designs and shot through with gold threads (very fairy princess–like), but the tailor and my female relatives say that this is out of the question.
I beg to walk down the street a bit more, just a little more. Suddenly I am surrounded by little children. They tug at my elbow, pluck at my sleeve, my handbag, even the buttons on my blouse. They are part of a small and persistent band of child beggars in Kabul. They look like pathetic trick-or-treaters but also slightly hideous, wearing the cosmetics of trachoma and parasitic infections. It is a wretched sight. I am full of pity for these children but my sympathy is mocked. I am told that their mothers are thieves, hiding behind buildings and in doorways.
Other than in Teheran, I have never before seen a blind and barefoot child—or one missing a limb and on crutches—actually begging for bread. In the streets they swarm after people they recognize as foreigners. I immediately give them money. I give them whatever I have. I have begun to carry small candies for just this purpose. Afterward, at home, Bebegul laughs at me and then says in a harsh tone: “They are fooling you—they are richer than we are, they are tricksters in disguise.”
I am saddened and puzzled by her callousness.
I do not understand the intensity of Bebegul’s suspicion and distrust—toward beggars, toward servants, and toward me. Does my independence insult and frighten her—does she secretly share my need for personal freedom? Will she be held accountable by the family and by “all Kabul” if I am not tamed? Or does she dislike me because I am an infidel, a Jew, a Westerner, an American? Is she perhaps jealous that I got to spend time with her long-absent son? Or is she worried that I might have influenced him to become Other as well?
No matter. I am being taken out more often.
We see a recital at Zarghuna [a school]. It was too long but it was a diversion nevertheless. One speech was given in English but it was fairly senseless. “Let us, as women, make ourselves really free so that we can be better mothers in our homes and God save the King and Queen and all the audience too.” One skit pointed out that you cannot criticize arranged marriages just yet. If you must marry a boy just because he has money then resign yourself to it and try to educate him yourself.
Ah well, the music was good and we were treated to a brief comic-pantomime. Princess Maryam was there. Flowers were thrown onto the makeshift stage. It was dull and mindless. But by now, even I could probably write a sweet little piece about it: Signs of an Afghan Awakening.
The prisoner is so grateful for her afternoon out.
The family is going to the movies! Our group never includes Ismail Mohammed, who does not socialize with his first family at home but who does see his four oldest sons every day at either the bank or at the import-export company. Bebegul never comes out with us, either.
I can no longer remember what we saw. It was probably an American movie. The married men (this includes Abdul-Kareem) do not talk to their wives or fiancées in public. The men sit apart from the women. This is disconcerting but I am thrilled to be out. Afterward two men race across the parking lot to start the cars. Two men gallantly, protectively, accompany the women outside and herd us like treasured cattle across the lot.
Do they expect brigands or crusaders to attack us?
There is no lingering—no ice cream sodas or coffees or alcoholic drinks—afterward. What am I thinking? Muslims are not allowed to drink alcohol. Many do—but they do so secretly, discreetly, both at home and abroad. Also, the town has only one hotel and one new restaurant. The kitchens probably shut down hours ago. But mainly dining out is simply not done. Afghans are not used to any cafe-based nightlife. They probably still view it as an immoral and Western custom.
When an Afghan invites a guest for a meal or a party—for some of that fabled Afghan hospitality—he would never think of charging you for the food or drink or lodging. He opens his home to you. All that he has in the way of food and comfort are yours.
That travelers have to pay for food and lodging in the West is, according to the Scottish Saira Shah, viewed as sad, cruel, and uncivilized.
At the time I had absolutely no historical perspective. I had no way of understanding how daring Abdul-Kareem’s family was being—and all for my sake.
Forty years before I arrived, Afghanistan’s ruler, Emir Habibullah, still had a large imperial-style harem. He had many wives and concubines. According to the American journalist Rhea Tally Stewart, Habibullah “had one of the East’s last large harems; whenever a tribe wished to make him a gift, they knew that a girl would be welcome.” He had four queens, but no one was sure exactly how many women lived in the harem. Habibullah had fifty-eight children.
The people resented his wives, whom he dressed in the British style, which he thought fashionable; Habibullah and “a clutch of wives” would go out riding together. They were all lightly veiled—but wore European hats.
I do not live in a large imperial harem. I live in a much smaller domestic harem which has only (!) three wives and twenty-one children. My father-in-law does not hop from bed to bed as people believed Habibullah did. My father-in-law now lives only with his third and youngest wife.
One might say that Abdul-Kareem is treating me well. He is taking me out, showing me off; I am not completely hidden behind purdah walls. And yet an air of danger and risk is associated with all our outings. I note that none of Ismail Mohammed’s wives ever seem to leave the compound except to visit the homes of relatives.
Abdul-Kareem takes me to a diplomatic function of some kind. I am so excited but he made me so nervous I could barely enjoy myself. I am not supposed to say anything to the Americans that might get Abdul-Kareem or Afghanistan (!) in trouble.
>
I do not like what one American diplomat has to say. He explains that American diplomats are not willing—nor should they be—to challenge Afghans on their treatment of women or on anything else. He says: “If they don’t like us, they will turn to the Russians. We can’t tell them how to run their country. They are a proud and touchy bunch.”
I think my father-in-law is secretly flirting with me. I can’t be sure but he does look at me very carefully and his eyes are kind and soft when I meet his gaze.
He is a very attractive man. He does not seem “old” at all. He maintains a ramrod-straight posture and he is always nattily dressed.
* * *
Abdul-Kareem closes our bedroom door in order to whisper. We are going to a Western-style party in the home of a young progressive Afghan couple. Foreigners will be there. The event is hush-hush. Men and women are going to be dancing together. By now, this feels forbidden, dangerous, even to me.
There is liquor and popcorn. The lights are dimmed. There are rock ’n’ roll records playing. Abdul-Kareem grabs my arm and tells me that I had better not act like the other Western “whores” there, women who agree to dance with men who are not their husbands. He remains at my side the entire evening.
Has he always been this controlling, suspicious? Perhaps he has been and I mistook it for love. Many years later a college mate writes me a surprising note. He says:
I was always a loner, the professional “Frenchman” who had to work hard on his English. I saw Abdul-Kareem as an English “bloke,” his accent was somehow British as were his clothes and manners. You were pure New York. You were closer to Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine. You were wild and funny, as talkative as he was a bit “tight.”
An American Bride in Kabul: A Memoir Page 7
