An American Bride in Kabul: A Memoir

by Chesler, Phyllis

  Although Goodwin is critical of the plight of Afghan women and expresses her loathing of the burqa, she is deeply sympathetic to the mujahideen and to their cause. To her they are freedom fighters, and one of her main goals in this book is to humanize them and to show how vulnerable and sentimental they can be.

  The mujahideen’s unexpected victory against the brutal, calculated, and better-equipped Soviet army was heroic, legendary, moving, and entirely unexpected. However, the victory was bittersweet because it led to the rise of the regressive Taliban, al-Qaeda, and other Islamist terrorist groups, as well as to prolonged civil war in Afghanistan. Many people blamed America for this never-ending debacle, but a lot of hands had stirred this putrid pot: the Soviets, Pakistanis, Americans, Islamist

  Arabs—and the Afghans themselves.

  Pakistan had tricked America into backing the sadistic and anti-American warlord Gulbuddin Hekmatyar. Pakistan wanted to make sure that the Soviets did not incorporate any disputed areas of Pakistan, such as Pushtunistan and the tribal border areas. Hekmatyar was their man.

  In her excellent book Kabul in Winter, the author and activist Ann Jones describes this particularly wicked warlord, who fought in (and arguably started) the Afghan civil war, which lasted from 1992 to 1996. Hekmatyar killed tens of thousands of his own people—mainly civilians, including those who were still trapped in Kabul. Jones describes what a professor from Kabul University told her: “Hekmatyar assaulted women students who appeared on campus in Western dress. Some report that he threw acid at their unveiled faces and at the legs of those who wore short skirts. The professor remembers that [Hekmatyar] more often beat women up. ‘He’s a psychopath. . . . He should have been locked up then.’”

  The Soviets feared an increasing Islamification of their own Muslim republics and thus stepped up their indoctrination and infiltration of Afghanistan. Now, the Soviets moved their puppets into place more daringly.

  Abdul-Kareem remembers it well. He tells me, “It was 1973 and I woke one morning, and a servant brought me coffee and told me that there had been a coup d’état. The king had been replaced by Daoud, who would remain president until 1978.”

  Abdul-Kareem realized that the Soviets could never succeed in a country like Afghanistan. He says, “Communism was designed for a country like Germany—that is to say, for a country that is highly industrialized. When you apply communism by force, rather than by harnessing it to the national will—when you are dealing with an underdeveloped country where there is no industry, where there are mainly peasant farmers, and no serious landowners—the result will be a disaster. On top of that, Afghanistan is a conservative and deeply religious Muslim society. The people will resist until there is nothing left of the country, and then the Russians will leave.”

  Oh, my. I wish he had described Afghanistan to me just like this way back when. I only wish he had said that returning to Afghanistan with him would mean real hardship and deprivation because the country was tribal and quite backward. On the other hand I had never intended to stay there. I really thought we would be meeting his family, traveling the country, and then leaving together.

  Abdul-Kareem told me what it was like living in Afghanistan as the Soviets increasingly took over. What follows is an edited version of our original discussion in early 1980.

  Phyllis: How on earth did you get out of Afghanistan? But first tell me what you did after I left.

  Abdul-Kareem: Oh, I was alright. Well, I never recovered. So I was living alone until 1966. I had my career. Then I married again and had two children. My wife, Kamile, had a career, and my family scorned her for working outside the home.

  I started an advertising agency in Kabul. Soon I had every account that was worthwhile. I became the biggest advertising agency in town. My clients included the International Hotel, the national bank, the largest soap factory, the Castile Oil Company, quite a few factories.

  He is such a survivor, so ready to forge ahead no matter what, so admirably stoic, a noncomplainer, but someone who has been groomed for success.

  Abdul-Kareem: Then there was a change—someone I knew became prime minister, and my other friend became the minister of culture. They asked me to become the deputy minister of culture and president of the national theater, which I began to reorganize.

  As deputy minister of culture [1973–77], I was in charge of the national museums; the Departments of Archeology and Restoration of Monuments and Sites, International Cultural Relations, Fine Arts, Music, Folklore, and Films; the Historical Society; the Afghan National Theatre; and the UNESCO Desk.

  I attended UNESCO [United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization] conferences in Kenya, Japan, and Turkey and led study tours to Sweden, Britain, Russia, and Pakistan. I visited India and Pakistan many times.

  I drafted and passed resolutions at the international meeting of UNESCO in Nairobi—I had Herat declared an international city, which meant the UN would contribute to the restoration of its monuments. I crafted the resolution that, when any country does archaeological research in a country, they must contribute to preserving and housing the objects they uncover.

  Abdul-Kareem did become an important man in Afghanistan and also a player of sorts in the global village. But I bet he did most of his traveling alone, not with his wife. I would never have stayed back home in Kabul. He was lucky to be rid of me. I would have made this Afghan husband’s life difficult.

  Phyllis: What were the Soviets like?

  Abdul-Kareem: They were bullies. Everyone was afraid of them. The king, the prime minister. If an official refused to do something the Russians wanted, he would be replaced. You should have seen how the officials would bow and scrape when dealing or socializing with the Russians. The Russians would come without appointments. They would demand to be seen.

  The Russian embassy served the worst food and drink, and the official hospitality left a great deal to be desired, yet any official who was invited would never think of refusing to attend, as an anti-Russian attitude would get them fired.

  I had no Russian friends—we never became friends because they were not allowed to mix with us.

  This fear of the Russians was contagious. It was felt by the shopkeeper, the merchant, and the laborer. Fear and impotence led to hatred. All the Afghans hated the Russians with passion.

  Phyllis: Did you know anybody in the various Afghan Marxist regimes?

  Abdul-Kareem: Of course. They were very ordinary people: clerks, petty civil servants, men mainly from the provinces. They were jealous of everyone.

  When the Marxists took over, something very strange happened. The first thing these spokesmen for “the people” did was to move into the most deluxe houses in Kabul. Some moved into palaces. Nur Muhamad Taraki, the chairman of Afghanistan’s Communist Party [1978–79], moved into the king’s palace.

  All of them drove the latest Mercedes Benz, and their wives and children were given automobiles, too. These officials were supposedly the spokesmen for the peasants, and they had all the tailors in town working for them. They dressed only in the best clothes. They became so chic. They ate the best food. Meanwhile their peasants were displaced and lived terribly as refugees.

  Phyllis: All the Soviet puppets ended up dead, assassinated by the next Soviet puppet. Daoud [1973–78] was assassinated by Soviet-led Afghan insurgents. Then Taraki [1978–79] was assassinated by his right-hand man, Hafizullah Amin. Then the Soviets assassinated Amin and installed Karmal Babrak at the end of 1979. Who did you know?

  Abdul-Kareem: I knew Taraki. He took his afternoon walks right in front of our house. He attended Teachers’ College at Columbia. Hafizullah was also educated at Columbia University. He ordered Taraki’s death; some say he killed him with his own hands. The Russians were pissed, but what could they do? They sent Amin a telegram saying, “Congratulations on your election.”

  When the Russi
ans invaded they used the opportunity to punish Amin, so they brought in Karmal [Babrak], who always did exactly what Moscow asked him to. I knew him, too. He was always invited to celebrate the anniversary of the October Revolution at the Soviet embassy. Karmal was obedient to Russia but to nobody else.

  Most of the people in the parliament were there to become rich, and each individual province was just helping each other to help themselves. In offices everyone would just sit around. If you tried to do anything, they would give you a rough time.

  Phyllis: This is all Afghan politics as usual. What got the average Afghan so angry at the Russians—before the invasion?

  Abdul-Kareem: First the Afghan Marxist state did nothing for them. They made empty promises about giving them land. The Russians tried to break the back of Afghan tribalism. They relocated people, breaking up tribes, in the hope that this would make it impossible for them to mount any resistance.

  In 1972 the Russians did nothing to help when people were dying from starvation as a result of a three-year drought. The government tried to hide news of the drought, but an independent newspaper finally printed stories of the famine. The newspaper encouraged its readers to adopt children who were being sold to wealthy families who could feed them.

  Then the Afghan-Russian communist government sent their armed forces to attack one particular village. A well-known religious leader lived there, and they wanted to arrest him. When they arrived, the people put up a fantastic resistance. They evacuated their mullah—the villagers carried him out on their backs. In retaliation the Soviet-led government ordered an air strike that completely demolished the village.

  To the people of Afghanistan the most sacred thing is their religion. And the Russians were taking their religion, their homes, and their land. The communists were trying to destroy all tradition in a country that is built on tradition.

  God, I wish he had described Afghanistan to me in this way before he took me there. But if he had, how, then, could he have imagined that the American and European plays he started to direct would find an audience in such a country? He is definitely my mad dreamer soul mate.

  Phyllis: Why were so many Afghan leaders so vulnerable to being trapped by the Russians?

  Abdul-Kareem: Russia found an ally in Daoud, who had ousted his first cousin, King Zahir Shah, from power. Daoud did not like Nixon. He [Daoud] was disenchanted with America because his request for arms was denied. So he asked Russia, which agreed to sell him armaments. Daoud became sympathetic toward Russia, having been a recipient of Soviet generosity. But he committed himself far too much to the Russians, and then he wanted out. He did not understand that the arms deal was a quid pro quo situation.

  Daoud thought that he was so smart. He thought he could use the Russians, without them using him. Daoud made the government something to be feared. Before he came into power, getting a passport in Afghanistan was an easy thing, but afterwards it was impossible to get a passport. He essentially created a police state, and he was directly involved in every minute detail of running the country. He spent hours a day selecting furniture for all the new embassies he was building. He wanted to choose the curtains himself.

  He dares to talk about passports to me! Doesn’t he remember what difficulties I—and possibly he too—had because of the missing Afghan and American passports? Has he forgotten how tightly the Afghan government controlled who would be allowed to study abroad, how much money they could be paid, and when they would have to return? Has he forgotten the pre-Soviet Afghan regime?

  Phyllis: Did the Soviets force Daoud out of the country?

  Abdul-Kareem: No, they just massacred him and his family: women, children, babies—Daoud, his wife, his brother, his sons, daughters-in-law, grandchildren. They were all killed. It was a massacre. They did the same thing to Tsar Nicholas II and his family. It was a coup d’état. The Russians attacked the palace.

  The first attacks, which began at 12:30, were tank attacks, and that went on until about 4–4:30 in the afternoon. Then around 4:30 the air force took over, firing rockets at the palace. That went on for hours. It was all dark. It went on all night until about 8 in the morning.

  Phyllis: Where were you?

  Abdul-Kareem: When it started, I was in town. It was a Thursday. I was working at the Saudi Arabian embassy, and I had to drop the kids off at school in the afternoon because it was a half-day. I saw a man running. As he came near me, I recognized him and asked, “What’s the matter?” He said, “There’s a coup! They have taken over the radio station. Where are your kids?! Go home!” So I immediately went to pick up my son and then my daughter from their schools. Just as I got to my daughter’s school, I heard gunfire. Machine guns were being fired, and the artillery bombardment had begun.

  We were living in the huge house—you know which one—the one that used to be an embassy on Dar-Lamond Street, near the palace. Most of the fighting occurred right in front of our house.

  That street was the residential Champs-Élysées of Kabul and I remember the house well. When I was there, his father had rented it to an embassy, and Abdul-Kareem always coveted it for himself. I am glad he finally got to live in it.

  Abdul-Kareem: That night was rough. We could not sleep. We stayed on the floor of one bedroom with the mattresses against the windows. In the morning it was announced that Daoud and his family had been eliminated.

  In April of 1978 every man, woman, and child feared for their life. Nobody was sure if they would still be alive the next morning. You were not allowed to get together with friends—all assemblies were forbidden. Some people living down the street had a swimming pool. It was Friday, and they had some cousins and other relatives visiting them. They were all swimming.

  By one o’clock all of the men had been arrested. They were imprisoned for two months. Daily seemingly random arrests were carried out by communist military men, most of whom were Afghans—militiamen who had been trained in the Soviet Union.

  The Soviets are forbidding swimming! Once, in the late 1950s, the Afghan government completely freaked out when officials heard that Afghans and Americans, men and women, were swimming together in what was known as the Little America of the Helmand Valley Project. I remember when I was not allowed to swim with men present in Kabul in the early 1960s. Jan Goodwin, in Caught in the Crossfire, describes a hot day in the mid-1980s when she and her band of mujahideen brothers find a river. She writes, “Most of the men went down to the river to swim. As a woman, I was told, I couldn’t join them, but I envied the men the chance to cool off.”

  Is everyone here irrational about women swimming? At least the Soviets do not forbid women to swim; they just don’t believe in freedom of assembly, lest those assembled in the swimming pool engage in a conspiracy against Soviet tyranny.

  Phyllis: Did the Soviets torture their prisoners?

  Abdul-Kareem: Oh, yes. They wanted confessions. They kept files on everyone.

  Phyllis: How did you get your wife and children out?

  Abdul-Kareem: Slowly and carefully, through connections, and with many bribes, I was able to get passports for them and get them on a direct flight out. I stayed behind.

  He is clearly reluctant to share any further details about this, and I do not press him.

  Phyllis: What happened next?

  Abdul-Kareem: I had to routinely pay off government officials. I sold my car. All of the money was gone. Meanwhile they arrested the minister of culture and expected his ten-year-old son to pay back the money the previous government had granted [the minister] to attend a conference in Jakarta. They did this systematically to anyone who was linked to Daoud. I was forced into hiding.

  And now Abdul-Kareem faced his version of having to get out of Afghanistan. He was in dire danger and he knew it.

  Phyllis: Who could you trust?

  Abdul-Kareem: I trusted my brothers, but I wouldn’t discuss my p
lans with them. They were frightened and felt that if I escaped, it would jeopardize their lives even further. They kept trying to persuade me not to leave, but I had no intention of staying.

  Phyllis: Why were they not thinking of escaping?

  Abdul-Kareem: It takes courage to plan an escape. You have to be brought to the brink. For me it was not enough to simply be alive. I needed more. I needed a purpose.

  Phyllis: Ah, Abdul-Kareem, how I begged you not to stay—I saw that your dreams were doomed.

  Abdul-Kareem: I was living alone. I would get up, make coffee, smoke cigarettes, and read all day. My American friends smuggled in books for me. A diplomat, the consul general of Bombay, lived next door, and I would go and sit and chat with him and his wife. I really enjoyed their company.

  As I listen, I wonder: What ever happened to my books—the books I had shipped for a semester’s worth of reading, the books that were held up at the Khyber Pass because of a border dispute—the books that Kamile, Abdul-Kareem’s wife, thanked me for again and again? Were they destroyed? Perhaps Abdul-Kareem had already read through them all.

  Abdul-Kareem: All this time I was looking for a smuggler who could take me across the border to Pakistan. No one wanted to take me—I was too high profile. I finally grew a beard and spoke to some Pushtun smugglers. They were experts. They smuggled all kinds of goods across the Pakistan border: tires, batteries, textiles, rice, wheat, sugar, everything. They were smugglers but savvy businessmen, too.

  In April of 1979 I was told by a friend that all the borders would be closed within two to three weeks. I had to get out. Finally a friend told me to go to his house, where he introduced me to a man who had a bus that took people across the Khyber Pass. I knew this was my chance. I cut my hair like a peasant, dressed in peasant clothes, and burned some letters I did not want the government to find. I told my friend that I would send the message “The goods have been delivered,” when I arrived in Pakistan. He promised he would tell my brothers.