I was spared having to adhere to the Afghan woman’s strict dress code, and I could go wherever I wanted. Nevertheless, I often dressed in the burka, simply to be left alone. A western woman in the streets of Kabul attracts a lot of unwanted attention. Beneath the burka I could gaze around to my heart’s content without being stared at in return. I could observe the other family members when we were out, without everyone’s attention being directed at me. Anonymity became a release, the only place to which I could turn; in Kabul quiet places were in short supply.
I also wore the burka to discover for myself what it is like to be an Afghan woman; what it feels like to squash into the chock-a-block back rows reserved for women, when the rest of the bus is half empty, what it feels like to squeeze into the boot of a taxi because a man is occupying the back seat, what it feels like to be stared at as a tall and attractive burka and receive your first burka-compliment from a man in the street.
How in time I started to hate it. How it pinches the head and causes headaches, how difficult it is to see anything through the grille. How enclosed it is, how little air gets in, how quickly you start to perspire, how all the time you have to be aware of where you are walking because you cannot see your feet, what a lot of dirt it picks up, how dirty it is, how much in the way. How liberated you feel when you get home and can take it off.
I also wore the burka as a matter of precaution, when I travelled with Sultan on the unsafe road to Jalalabad; when we had to spend the night in a dirty border station; when we were out late at night. Afghan women do not normally travel with a bundle of dollar bills and a computer, so highwaymen usually leave the burka-clad women alone.
It is important to emphasise that this is the story of one Afghan family. There are many millions of others. My family is not even typical. It is kind of middle-class, if one can use that expression in Afghanistan. Some of them were educated, several of them could read and write. They had enough money and never went hungry.
If I were to live in a typical Afghan family it would have been with a family in the countryside, a large family where no one could read or write, and every day was a battle for survival. I did not choose my family because I wanted it to represent all other families, but because it inspired me.
I dwelt in Kabul during the spring following the Taliban’s flight. That spring fragile expectations flickered. The Taliban’s fall was welcomed – no longer was anyone frightened of being pestered on the streets by the religious police, women could once again go to town unaccompanied, they could study, girls could go to school. But the period was also characterised by the previous decade’s disappointments. Why should anything change now?
In the course of the spring, following a period of comparative peace, a more vigorous optimism could be detected. Plans were laid, an increasing number of women left the burka at home, some took jobs, refugees returned home.
The Government vacillated – between the traditional and the modern, between warlords and local tribal chiefs. In the midst of the chaos the leader, Hamid Karzai, attempted a balancing act and tried to stake out a political course. He was popular but possessed neither army nor party – in a country awash with weapons and warring factions.
Conditions in Kabul were reasonably peaceful, in spite of the murder of two ministers and the attempted murder of another; the population continued to be harassed. Many put their trust in the foreign soldiers who patrolled the streets. ‘Without them civil war will start up again,’ they said.
I have written down what I saw and heard, and have tried to gather my impressions of a Kabul spring, of those who tried to throw winter off, grow and blossom, and others who felt condemned to go on ‘eating dust’, as Leila would have put it.
Åsne Seierstad
Oslo, 1 August 2002
Migozarad! (It will pass)
GRAFFITO ON THE WALLS OF A KABUL TEAHOUSE
The Proposal
When Sultan Khan thought the time had come to find himself a new wife, no one wanted to help him. First he approached his mother.
‘You will have to make do with the one you have,’ she said.
Then he went to his oldest sister. ‘I’m fond of your first wife,’ she said. His other sisters replied in the same vein.
‘It’s shaming for Sharifa,’ said his aunt.
Sultan needed help. A suitor cannot himself ask for a girl’s hand. It is an Afghan custom that one of the women of the family conveys the proposal and gives the girl the once-over to assure herself that she is capable, well brought up and suitable wife-material. But none of Sultan’s close female relations wanted to have anything to do with this offer of marriage.
Sultan had picked out three young girls he thought might fit the bill. They were all healthy and good-looking, and of his own tribe. In Sultan’s family it was rare to marry outside the clan; it was considered prudent and safe to marry relatives, preferably cousins.
Sultan’s first candidate was sixteen-year-old Sonya. Her eyes were dark and almond-shaped and her hair shining black. She was shapely, voluptuous, and it was said of her that she was a good worker. Her family was poor and they were reasonably closely related. Her mother’s grandmother and Sultan’s mother’s grandmother were sisters.
While Sultan ruminated over how to ask for the hand of the chosen one without the help of family women, his first wife was blissfully ignorant that a mere chit of a girl, born the same year she and Sultan were married, was Sultan’s constant preoccupation. Sharifa was getting old. Like Sultan, she was a few years over fifty. She had borne him three sons and a daughter. The time had come for a man of Sultan’s standing to find a new wife.
‘Do it yourself,’ his brother said finally.
After some thought, Sultan realised that this was his only solution, and early one morning he made his way to the house of the sixteen-year-old. Her parents greeted him with open arms. Sultan was considered a generous man and a visit from him was always welcome. Sonya’s mother boiled water and made tea. They reclined on flat cushions in the mud cottage and exchanged pleasantries until Sultan thought the time had come to make his proposal.
‘A friend of mine would like to marry Sonya,’ he told the parents.
It was not the first time someone had asked for their daughter’s hand. She was beautiful and diligent, but they thought she was still a bit young. Sonya’s father was no longer able to work. During a brawl a knife had severed some of the nerves in his back. His beautiful daughter could be used as a bargaining chip in the marriage stakes, and he and his wife were always expecting the next bid to be even higher.
‘He is rich,’ said Sultan. ‘He’s in the same business as I am. He is well educated and has three sons. But his wife is starting to grow old.’
‘What’s the state of his teeth,’ the parents asked immediately, alluding to the friend’s age.
‘About like mine,’ said Sultan. ‘You be the judge.’
Old, the parents thought. But that was not necessarily a disadvantage. The older the man, the higher the price for their daughter. A bride’s price is calculated according to age, beauty and skill and according to the status of the family.
When Sultan Khan had delivered his message, the parents said, as could be expected: ‘She is too young.’
Anything else would be to sell short to this rich, unknown suitor whom Sultan recommended so warmly. It would not do to appear too keen. But they knew Sultan would return; Sonya was young and beautiful.