An American Bride in Kabul: A Memoir

by Chesler, Phyllis

  “Well, then, just think about it. America invaded Afghanistan after only 3,000 American deaths,” my Israeli friend notes.

  It is true: 9/11- and Boston marathon–style terrorism might be new to America, but it was a daily reality for Israelis, who were shot down or blown up in their beds, cafes, nightclubs, hotels, hospitals, schools, and on buses for the last seventy years of the twentieth century. Matters worsened considerably with a new Palestinian intifada (uprising), which began a year before 9/11.

  This jihad against the Jews went global. The genie had again escaped from the bottle, and the world inherited the whirlwind.

  What had been happening to Muslim, Christian, Jewish, Hindu, Zoroastrian, and Bahai civilians (at the hands of Islamist terrorists) in the Middle East, India, South and Central Asia, the Far East, and the Muslim parts of Africa was now happening to civilians in North and South America and in Europe.

  Over the years Abdul-Kareem has condemned the way in which the world first turned its back on Afghanistan and then jumped in for its own gains.

  “Why don’t they all just get the hell out and allow us to develop our mineral wealth, our gas and oil? Why did America use us to fight their Cold War against the Russians? Why did America abandon us to the Arabs and the Pakistanis once the Cold War ended?”

  These are fair questions.

  I acknowledge that American oil interests and American Cold War realities dictated our foreign policies. America did support the worst tyrants, the most dangerous reactionaries, to contain communism and protect the oil trade. These tyrants also held back the Islamist tide.

  Many Westerners condemn imperialism, colonialism, and racism and believe that only the West is guilty of such crimes. This is not true. The West has behaved very badly—but so has the East. The West has changed, even repented somewhat; the East has yet to do so. We have abolished slavery and fought for human and women’s rights; the East has yet to do so.

  According to Ibn Warraq, most recently in his book Why the West Is Best: A Muslim Apostate’s Defense of Liberal Democracy, Islamic culture is historically characterized by imperialism, colonialism, infidel hatred, militant jihad, massacres, genocide, conversion by the sword, antiblack racism, slavery, and gender and religious apartheid. These facts are poorly understood and often denied.

  Many antiracists believe that American white supremacists, including police officers, have targeted, falsely charged, and even murdered African American boys and men. While racism definitely plays a role in who gets imprisoned and sentenced to death—it is also true that American law enforcement is facing an epidemic of black-on-black violence. Because feelings run hot and high on these issues and the matter remains unresolved, many antiracists project their negative feelings toward legal authority onto American military and counterterrorist intelligence forces. They view them as analogous to white supremacist police—and they view the most violent jihadists as being targeted for racial reasons, and not because they are enemy combatants and transnational soldiers in a military–religious war against the West.

  What was the father of 9/11, Osama bin Laden, like as a human being, as a son, a husband, and a father?

  After divorcing and banishing Osama’s Syrian mother, Allia,

  Osama’s own father, Mohammed bin Awad bin Laden, had little time for him; in his mother’s absence Osama was mocked as the son of the slave by his fathers’ other wives, and by Osama’s half-brothers and half-sisters. He had fifty-six siblings. According to his son Omar, “There was something odd that I had noticed from my youth. Never once did I hear my father call his father, ‘my father.’ Instead, he always referred to him as ‘your grandfather.’ I have no explanation for this, other than it seemed to pain him to use the words ‘my father.’”

  In the days following 9/11, I was struck by how angry Osama was because President Bush had not immediately interrupted his reading of a story to a little girl to respond to the great—and greatly spurned—Osama. I remember wondering whether Osama was still vying for paternal or for male presidential attention.

  According to his son Omar, al-Qaeda’s Osama was an exceptionally cruel father who verbally and physically abused, tormented, and endangered his biological sons. According to Omar, Osama routinely beat his sons with his wooden cane “for the slightest infraction.”

  “There were times he became so excited when hitting [us] that his heavy cane broke into two pieces. . . . It was not unusual for the sons of Osama bin Laden to be covered with raised red welts on our backs and legs.”

  Bin Laden subjected his sons to long forced marches in the desert but allowed them little water. Although his sons suffered from asthma attacks, he had banned the use of Ventolin, an asthma treatment, because it was a Western medication.

  In addition, according to Omar, Osama condemned his sons to “inferior schooling” by teachers who were exceptionally cruel to them, and the other students, who envied and hated the bin Laden sons, constantly threatened each boy with gang rape.

  Nevertheless, his son Omar writes that he “still desperately loved his father [ . . .] despite his cruelty.” Eventually Omar and his older brothers realized that life was far more agreeable when their revered father was far, far away.

  Many Muslim sons seem programmed to dote upon fathers who are both sadistic and absent and to subsequently gravitate toward similar kinds of male leaders.

  Thus, when they were in Afghanistan, Omar was thrilled that his father had allowed him to serve “as his personal tea boy.”

  Omar was seventeen when bin Laden took his family to Afghanistan. Omar was eighteen or nineteen when his father stopped him from “washing” the senior bin Laden’s feet. This devastated Omar, who displays a classic ambivalence toward the man who had tormented him. He writes, “Although I hated what he did, what his actions brought to his family, he was still my father. As such, I would never have betrayed him.”

  For psychological reasons alone, the overthrow of sadistic tyrants might prove exceptionally difficult among people with histories like Omar’s. On the other hand Omar does ultimately leave his father and, together with his mother, writes a book about him.

  Why did he do so? I would guess that the family may have needed to publicly disassociate themselves from the mastermind of 9/11. But I believe Omar wrote this book because he had finally concluded that his love for his father was unrequited. He had nothing left to lose or hope for. Omar writes, “My father hated his enemies more than he loved his sons. That’s the moment that I felt myself the fool for wasting my life one moment longer.”

  Nevertheless, after bin Laden’s 2011 execution by American Navy SEALs, his family published a letter in the New York Times condemning America for not having arrested Osama and given him a fair trial with a “presumption of innocence until proven guilty by a court of law,” something that had been accorded Iraqi president Saddam Hussein and Serbian president Slobodan Milosˇevic´.

  In their letter Osama’s sons note that one son, Omar, had always condemned their father for his violence but that they all now “condemn the president of the United States for ordering the execution of unarmed men and women.” The bin Laden sons view their father’s execution as a “violation of international law” and have vowed to pursue the matter at the International Criminal Court and International Court of Justice.

  How did bin Laden treat his wives?

  Osama permitted himself the most powerful Western cars, planes, and weaponry, but he did not permit his five wives and children to use “refrigerators, electrical stoves, or the cooling or heating systems.” His wives were forced to cook on “portable gas burners.” His family was condemned to suffer the heat of Saudi Arabia and Sudan without air-conditioning—just as Mohammed the Prophet once did.

  In the heat of summer in my own Manhattan neighborhood, I have seen religious Muslim men walking by in white lightweight Western-style summer clothing, follow
ed by women wearing dark-colored and heavy head and body coverings. Increasingly their faces are shrouded as well.

  These are the kind of men who permit themselves the best of both worlds while insisting that their women fly the flag of reactionary Islam on their bodies.

  Was Osama cruel to women? Well—yes and no. According to his son Omar, like so many sons of Islamic polygamy, Osama loved his mother, Allia, “more than he loved his sons, his wives or his siblings.” And, from his point of view, he was kind to his five wives—at least so long as they remained sexually available, fertile, modest, friendly toward each other, and religious; followed his relentlessly ascetic set of rules without complaint; and were obedient in all ways.

  Polygamous husbands are not necessarily cruel to their wives—

  beyond the pain that polygamy itself inflicts. In Kabul I never saw my father-in-law, Ismail Mohammed, berate, mock, or physically abuse his wives, daughters, or daughters-in-law. He treated me with great tenderness. We were women and as such were viewed as naturally, biologically, inferior. Women are not worthy opponents; there is no honor in defeating us.

  This makes the savage mistreatment of so many Muslim women at the hands of their male and female relatives something of a paradox as well as a tragedy.

  According to Najwa bin Laden and Omar bin Laden, Osama allowed his wives to have little furniture. The wives had “no decorations, not even one picture hanging on the walls.” Osama kept them locked up and isolated. Even when they were alone, just with each other, his wives swam in their dresses in their own private swimming pool.

  When Osama relocated to Afghanistan, he expected the wives who accompanied him to endure freezing weather without any heat, to live in squalid huts and cave-like dwellings, to live without access to medical care or a social life of any kind.

  According to Omar, Osama viewed the younger jihadists in Afghanistan as eager to kill—but “the quality of their characters appeared questionable.” They had run away from “problems in their home countries. Some had fled to avoid being punished for violent crimes. . . . Others lived in such severe poverty that they had only eaten meat a few times in their lives. Most could not afford to marry.”

  Omar describes how such young men were shown doctored videotapes of “Israeli soldiers gleefully stomping on Palestinian women; Israeli tanks purposely destroying Palestinian homes; Israeli soldiers viciously kicking young Palestinian boys.”

  It is a known fact that Palestinians celebrated 9/11 in the streets. The women trilled and gave out candies. The men shot rifles into the air; everyone literally danced for joy.

  In the late 1980s or early 1990s the author and filmmaker Saira Shah (yes, the granddaughter of Saira Elizabeth Luiza Shah), noted anti-Israel graffiti on the Afghan border. In her riveting book, The Storyteller’s Daughter, she writes, “We passed a gigantic military installation. . . . Daubed on its flat surface, a patch of graffiti said, in English, ‘Down with Israel.’ I laughed aloud. What had Israel to do with this conflict? We were witnessing the birthplace of a worldwide Islamic movement. We had just passed one of the military installations sponsored by the CIA, funded by Saudi Arabia and engineered by an idealistic young Islamist firebrand. His name was Osama bin Laden. The volunteers were known to the Afghans as Arabs, although they were actually Islamic radicals from all over the Muslim world.”

  When I was in Kabul, I was laughed at for wanting to befriend a dog and for adopting a gentle deer that had been wounded.

  “Dogs are dirty, filthy, unclean,” my mother-in-law insisted.

  Years later I encountered a Muslim taxi driver in New York City who became dangerously and righteously incensed when a passenger wanted to board with a small dog in tow.

  Osama bin Laden was cruel to animals, including pigeons but especially dogs. Omar and his brothers had a pet monkey they doted on. Yet one of their father’s men chased their pet down and then ran over it with a water tanker. Apparently Osama had convinced this follower that the baby monkey was really a “Jewish person.”

  I will never forget bin Laden and 9/11. It abruptly brought me back to my time in Afghanistan and reminded me of what I had learned about the difference between freedom and tyranny. It set my feet upon a new path.

  Twelve

  9/11/11

  Abdul-Kareem’s wife, Kamile, is ill and has been asking to see me. My first free day happens to be the tenth anniversary of 9/11. So I agree to spend the afternoon, ironically or appropriately, with my Afghan relatives.

  Kamile can no longer travel, so I make the trip to the suburbs. I have been visiting them in their home for more than a quarter-century.

  When I arrive, Kamile and I embrace. Having shared the same husband makes us feel like sisters. We hug, we kiss—these are gestures I do not repeat with Abdul-Kareem.

  No one mentions that it is the tenth anniversary of the September 11 attacks—the day that tore a hole through history. It is as though this event did not happen. It has nothing to do with them. Perhaps, they will not discuss it with me.

  Perhaps it is shameful to them that Muslims attacked America and that the plan was hatched in Afghanistan; as with all things shameful, silence reigns. Or maybe Kamile is too ill and Abdul-Kareem too worn down with worry to focus on anything larger than themselves.

  Kamile and I first met in the early 1980s when, unannounced, she rang the bell to my apartment in the midst of a blizzard. I laughed—because, unlike me, Kamile has blond hair and blue eyes, something Abdul-Kareem’s brothers had valued. I liked her straight off. We talked for hours.

  “I did not get along with his family. I think they hated me,” she says. “Probably because I worked and remained independent.”

  “I don’t think they hated me,” I say. “I was not there long enough to be able to work, but I was a foreigner who could not be tamed. To them I was a liability.”

  “His mother was so mean to me.” We say this at the same time. Softly I say, “She was a poor soul, driven mad by her life, but no daughter-in-law should have had to live with her.”

  I ask Kamile, “Why have you come alone and on such a dark and stormy night?”

  Kamile wants me to stand by her side “for the sake of sisterhood” at an upcoming family gathering.

  “We two are independent women, strong in spirit. Please come.”

  I arrive at their home. She is used to glamorous parties as a way of life. Abdul-Kareem is her protector, her life. As a mid-life immigrant, who has endured exile from two countries, she has no job, no money of her own, and her English could stand some improvement.

  They are having a party that afternoon, and relatives are coming and going. Ismail Mohammed’s third wife, Meena, and some of her children are present. They all hug and greet me with considerable affection. I am touched by their earnest welcome and return their warmth.

  We all share having been in Kabul at a more hopeful time, when it was not at war, when the aroma of flowers and the songs of birds filled the air, and servants poured our tea. Even though I was unhappy there, this bond of sorts is unbreakable.

  The shop where I get my photos framed is run by an Afghan family. Always, always, the elderly father insists on bringing me the expertly framed works himself. He can count on my greeting him in his native Dari: “Choob astain? Chitoor astain?” (Are you well? How are you?)

  I offer him tea, he sits, he reminisces, he cannot believe I was actually in Kabul when he was a young man. He is the quintessential Afghan: courteous, courtly, gracious, and sweet. He has chosen to take care of me personally.

  At Abdul-Kareem’s family parties everyone gets up and dances—all together. I love this custom. The gathering that Kamile has asked me to attend is so crowded there is no room for all of us to dance. Finally, reluctantly, I leave the people with the warm and shining eyes, each of whom formally embraces me to say good-bye as they continue to drink tea and
coffee and munch on nuts and little cakes.

  In all the years that I’ve known her, Kamile has smoked nonstop—but in such an elegant way. She is known to take more than a drink or two. No matter. For years Kamile always managed to dress the part of a fashionable woman-about-town—yet as time went by, she left her home less and less and took to wearing the kind of caftans long associated with at-home harem life.

  Well, as I’ve noted, I also wear a caftan when I write, and I write at home even though I have a writing studio.

  Ma sœur, mon semblable. My sister, myself.

  Despite everything, Kamile has two children who adore her and take care of her, just as they take care of their father. Abdul-Kareem now takes care of her, too, and very tenderly.

  The three of us sit together in a room overlooking their swimming pool, which is surrounded by plants. Nearby Abdul-Kareem has a small library strewn with newspapers and a computer. They are both tired and worn down today. I actually have to ask for tea. This minor failing is uncharacteristic, unthinkable.

  I am here this 9/11/11 on an errand of mercy, not to cross swords, but the heavy purposeful silence about 9/11 is deafening and painful. I should not be surprised—but actually I am stunned and a bit frightened.

  “Phyllisjan,” Kamile says, “my daughter was so glad that you introduced her to Seyran Ates.”

  Seyran is a Turkish German feminist who was shot and nearly killed for her work on behalf of battered Turkish female immigrants. Her latest book is titled Islam Needs a Sexual Revolution. Right after it came out the Berlin police suggested she take a vacation, and she came and stayed with me in New York.

  Kamile speaks in heavily accented English. She continues but in a whisper.

  “Talk to me about Seyran. Tell him”—and here she glances darkly at Abdul-Kareem—“that there are Muslim women in the world who want their freedom.”