I Am a Bacha Posh Read online

  Copyright © 2013 by Éditions Michel Lafon

  Translation copyright © 2014 by Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.

  Previously published as Je suis une bacha posh in 2013 by Éditions Michel Lafon

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Laura Klynstra

  Cover photo credit Thinkstock

  Print ISBN: 978-1-62914-681-2

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63220-001-3

  Printed in the United States of America

  CONTENTS

  FOREWORD

  1. FROM KABUL TO NEW YORK

  2. “YOU WILL BE A BOY, MY GIRL”

  3. IN THE FLESH OF A MAN

  4. BEING SIXTEEN YEARS OLD IN THE JIHAD

  5. THE TIME OF HEROES

  6. PRISONER UNDER THE TALIBAN

  7. THE FIRST VOTE

  8. ALONE BEFORE ALLAH

  9. CANDIDATE TO SERVE WOMEN

  10. THE HAND OF PRESIDENT KARZAI

  11. WITH THE AMERICAN TROOPS

  12. BADGAI, THE SACRIFICE OF THE LIFE OF A WOMAN

  EPILOGUE

  FOREWORD

  They are called bacha posh, literally “girls dressed as boys.” At birth, their parents decided this: that their daughter will change appearance, name, and identity. She becomes, in the eyes of everyone, the son of the family. It’s an old Afghan tradition that effectively permits families without a son to cross-dress one of their daughters to preserve the honor of the family. In this society, dominated by masculine values, it is frowned upon not to have a son and is overall impractical: a girl cannot work, cannot go out alone to provide for the home, cannot help with manual labor; a girl is a burden. All you need to do is cut her hair short, and she can perform tasks reserved for men. A bacha posh, according to Afghan superstition, may also help ward off bad luck and favor the birth of a boy in the family.

  In Afghanistan, thousands of girls must cross-dress starting at a young age. There are no reliable statistics, however. This practice is ongoing and discreet. The parents do not say loud and strong, “This is my daughter—she’s a bacha posh!” but rather, “This is my son!” In the villages, they wear the traditional dress of men, the shalwar kameez, pants and a long shirt. In Kabul, the capital, they are dressed in jeans and hooded sweatshirts, they play soccer and tennis, they go with their mothers to the bazaar, they defend their little sisters on the playground, they are the men of the family when the fathers are not there. However, who is fooled? Who forgets that underneath the shalwar kameez is a little girl’s heart that beats? Close relatives and neighbors play along, too—even religious officials. They do not condemn the parents who make this choice—they even encourage it sometimes—and they do not see any offense to Islam, up to a certain point . . .

  At puberty, there is no more question of playing along; at this time, the problem is serious and must be adjusted in a much simpler way: go back to the original plan. Girls must forget the shalwar kameez, wear a niqab, go back home, learn the domestic tasks, get ready for marriage and maternity . . . in short, embrace the role intended for women. The mullah keeps close watch on the recalcitrant who would like to live in sin, those who lie about their identity. The recalcitrant? The rebels? Those who refuse to become women in the eyes of society because they have had a taste of the men’s freedom cannot be renounced. How many of them exist? Still, no statistics, but the subject is taboo.

  We want to talk about these women. From the age of twelve, when their families tell them they must wear a dress and a veil, they suffocate just to imagine themselves dressed as such. They grew up as boys, they played with them, went to school, went shopping, they were free like them. And then one day their parents, the district mullah, their relatives, all tell them it’s over, all of it. No more tennis training, even if you are the champion of Afghanistan, no more school, even if you had planned on continuing your studies, no more friends, even if you have known them your whole life, no more short hair, no more life without constraints; you will become a woman. For many of these young girls, it is already too late.

  Imagine: you are raised as a boy, you grew up with this plan, and then tomorrow someone tells you to dress, move, compose yourself, think, and act like a girl. For some, it is simply impossible. So they cling to this lie they have been living since birth. They go out alone, without a veil, work at their own free will, go to school, and play sports . . . They resist their transforming bodies; they hide their chests. To be a bacha posh is, for them, a way of surviving in a society marked by a conservatism that makes women second-class citizens: deprivation of freedom, violence, and unjust laws. Today, 80 percent of Afghans are still illiterate.

  At sixteen years old, the social pressure of the emotional blackmailing becomes too much: “You are offending Allah in cheating your own identity; you bring the shame onto your family.” Many give up at this point and abandon with regret their shalwar kameez, their jeans and their tee shirts; they learn to polish their nails, wear makeup and dresses and put on the veil, and sometimes to disappear beneath a burqa. But they will never be women like the other women: they will live in the nostalgia of an ideal past; more so than the other women, they will know of the gap that separates the women from the men in Afghanistan since they once lived on the other side. Some also say the trauma will help them in the end: Azita Rafat, a former bacha posh who became a political leader, says that during her childhood as a boy, she developed the strength and independence of mind to dare to put herself forward as a candidate in the elections. And so there are others, those who do not give it up—they persist, refusing to let go of their men’s clothing and way of life. They commit the sin to stay disobedient women. They are rare and keep quiet, because they risk their lives. They are driven by their mental strength to transform, to give themselves appearances so masculine that they pass by unnoticed: they become men among men. And in their men’s disguise, they defy the authorities.

  Ukmina is one of these people. She was born in the mountains of southern Afghanistan, in the vicinity of Khost, near the border of Pakistan—in a Pashtun region where an ethnic group strongly upholds their traditions and codes and where women live closed off beneath their burqas. At her birth, her father decided she would be the son of the family. She grew up playing boys’ games with the responsibility to look after her mother and her sister. At puberty, she refused to obey, against her father’s will and that of the religious authorities. She thus opened the door to an extraordinary fate. She lived through the war against the Soviets; she ran away into the mountains and helped the Mujahideen. She acquired the name Ukmina the Warrior and the eternal respect from the men of her village. At the end of the conflict, it was too late to turn back. Under the Taliban regime, she had to hide herself, but she did not abandon her men’s clothing. At the reinstatement of democracy, she took her pilgrim stick and knocked on every door in the villages of her di
strict to convince the women to vindicate their rights. Some years later, drenched in triumph at the Council of the Province of Khost, she shook the hand of President Karzai. Ukmina, illiterate and penniless, tread the soil of New York in March 2012, invited to participate in the presentation of a prestigious award in the presence of Michelle Obama and Hillary Clinton.

  The story of Ukmina the Warrior is that of a rebel with a big heart. Thirty years of Afghan history are seen on the face of a woman who wanted to be as free as a man. It is also homage to the courageous, strong, exemplary, and admirable women. Women who refused to be invisible, to carry on behind the walls of their burqas, to submit themselves into the slavery of marriage, to accept the principle of their inferiority. They took the appearance of men to better fight for women’s rights. And for that, they pay a high price.

  — Stéphanie Lebrun, January 2013

  1

  FROM KABUL TO NEW YORK

  I never liked mirrors. The elevator doors opened, and I couldn’t escape seeing my own reflection in front of me; it was impossible to avoid.

  Fifty-fourth floor.

  My eyes met those of a man without a beard, of a woman without charm. Large stature, powerful jaw line. Me. A pointed nose, thin lips. I moved forward, smiling to reveal my false gold tooth. Its original luster was well tarnished. I needed to change it. My eyes. I never really knew the color of them. Neither blue, nor green, nor brown. Zarze, as it is called in the language of my people, Pashto.

  Forty-seventh floor.

  I stepped back. Age had altered my strength as a man. My lumberjack arms remained, my shepherd legs, the stoutness of a healthy Afghan. What would they think of me, down below? I was intimidated. This rich hotel, this conference filled with important people. It was said that Michelle and Hillary would be there. Mrs. Obama and Mrs. Clinton. It made me laugh, anyway. What was I doing there?

  Thirty-fifth floor.

  I was wearing a black turban with thin white stripes on my head, and some locks of gray hair had escaped. A beige shalwar kameez, a jacket without sleeves made of gray wool: my men’s uniform. Masculine shoes, those of a stranger, of a Westerner. I have dressed this way for nearly forty years, since I decided to be a bacha posh, a woman dressed as a man.

  Thirty-first floor.

  Was it this outfit that had led me there, to the heart of the US Department of State? Among women from all over the world chosen to receive the award for Most Courageous Women of the World? And to think that three months ago, I had never heard of March 8, Women’s Day.

  This was all because of Shakila. She came to find me during a seminar at Kabul: “We thought of you, Ukmina. You were chosen to represent Afghanistan. If you want, you can join the delegation that will go to New York for March eighth.”

  This was in January. I thought about it and agreed. Anything that talks about my people is better than nothing. I had the right to be accompanied, to bring someone of my choice, someone who spoke English. My husband, for example. But I was not married, and no one understood this language in my family. I almost refused the invitation then.

  I was scared, I admit. Me, Ukmina, the one who had fought the Russians, the one who shook the hand of President Karzai, all of a sudden, I was returning to my former life: I was just an illiterate peasant from southern Afghanistan. A Pashtun without a destiny. But then I thought about Badgai, who lit up my life; who in her men’s garb transgressed the laws, clothing, and fears. And so I got on the plane. But to be honest, I was still nervous.

  I was going so far, I told myself; there would be all of these women who had certainly done incredible things in their lives. And me, what was I going to say? I made myself sick with these thoughts. I had a fever for many days before my departure. The plane ride was horrible, a nightmare. It was long, and I could not understand anything. We landed in Washington and then took off again for New York. And then I was there, in the elevator.

  Twelfth floor.

  A man entered. Western. Handsome in his gray suit. He looked at me, surprised. I saw that he did not know with whom he was dealing. Hello, sir? Hello, madam? He preferred not to choose, smiled timidly, and turned his back to me. In Khost, my province, they called me “uncle” on the street. We say this to mature men. Officially, I am forty-five years old, but I look fifteen years older than that. The story of my life shows in my face; the wrinkles are profound.

  Second floor.

  I was at the US Department of State! And again I thought about Badgai, the strong and brave woman who had the courage no “true” man ever had. Badgai, who asked King Amanullah for an explanation for the assassination of her two brothers. Badgai, who had come back, sad and proud, with their bodies on her horse. Badgai, the man with a woman’s body, the woman at the heart of a man, the light of my life. I dedicated that moment to her.

  Ding! Lobby.

  The elevator tone brought me back to America. It was terrifying. There were more people there than I had ever seen in my whole life. Women, so many women. All courageous, I suppose. But I did not like them. They talked and laughed so loudly, to the point that I wanted to cover my ears sometimes. And they had this way of dressing . . . nude legs and shoulders and necks. I had never seen this before, neither in my village, obviously, nor in Khost, nor in Kabul, nor in Mecca, nowhere I had ever been until then. The free woman. Was this it, freedom? Giving up your body for all to see?

  Freedom, for me, is to be respected. And for this, one must respect others and not impose something on them they do not want to see. These women were doctors, lawyers, engineers who came to speak to me. These women had fulfilled their wants, their talents; these women had transformed their luck of being born in the right place at the right time into a tool. These women had the opportunity to become successful—something that we Afghans could not do. Unless we were cunning, denying a part of ourselves, denying being born female, for example. And for this, we needed courage and sacrifices.

  People I did not know introduced me to other people I did not know. They took pictures of me. Listening to their whispers brought me back to being one of the Afghans in the delegation who understood a little English: “They are talking to you, Ukmina. They are calling you Ukmina the Warrior!” Others called to me, “It’s you, the Afghan woman dressed as a man!”

  Sometimes I would smile, sometimes I would make myself look mean, pressing my lips together while slightly narrowing my eyes, like I had in the elevator earlier in front of the mirror. Women from Iran, Iraq, and Germany asked me questions: Was it common for an Afghan woman to dress as a man? Were there others? Yes, I knew that I was not alone. Some told me: “You are a hero—a heroine!” What were they saying?

  I attended to speak about our country, about the status of women, the war, the future. I did not hold back, I wouldn’t miss an occasion to retell the mess of the American intervention: “You came into Afghanistan, you brought in your dogs, they came into our homes. We Afghans, we hate dogs, dirty animals that scare the angels and prevent them from visiting us. You did not understand our culture.” I am not saying that this is why I didn’t win the prize for the Most Courageous Woman of the Year, but it must not have helped! The winner was Afghan, another kind, someone well educated. But I did not regret it. This was my job, I represented my country. I couldn’t hide the truth and not say what everyone thinks. This is how I am. This is why I wrote this book. So I could tell the truth about Afghani women.

  Because I lived as a man for most of my life, I could do this today. What a paradox! But I was seizing the opportunity. I learned not very long ago that I was the only Afghan to know of such a special fate. In our country, we, the bacha posh, the “women dressed as men,” made ourselves discreet. No one could say how many of us there were. We made the choice in a single moment of our lives not to renounce the freedom that our simple masculine clothes give but to risk our lives every single day. I wanted to write this book before I became an old woman or ill, before I was no longer able to remember my life, my special fate. Everyone wanted
to know why some Afghan women made this choice. I think that from reading what I am going to recount of my life, they will understand. I want them to talk about us, the Afghans who fight to no longer be ghosts, to come back to the visible world. To no longer hide ourselves under burqas or men’s clothing.

  2

  “YOU WILL BE A BOY, MY GIRL”

  I never knew my date of birth. At home, we did not celebrate birthdays. On my identity card, it says I was born in the year 13461 on the Iranian solar calendar, the calendar that all Pashtuns use. It’s a guess, an approximate date; I do not have a birth certificate, no official documentation that announces my arrival into the world. When I was asked for a form of identity, my mother made up stories: you must have been born around 1346, she would tell me. Give or take two years or so. It was sometime in the spring, that she was sure of. She remembered everything else, for when I came out of her belly, my parents wondered if I was going to survive. They had already lost ten children.

  I like my mother’s name, Soudiqua, “an honest person” in Pashtu, our language. It’s what my mother was: honest, and brave. Her life was like that of all the women here. A life of submission. An orphan, she was married at fifteen years old. In our community, a woman without a father and without a brother is a woman without protection: they need a husband as soon as possible. She found my father, fifteen years her senior. He owned land and animals: sheep, goats, cows, donkeys, and a camel. He was one of the richest people in the village, one of the most respected. His large beard was already turning gray; it gave him an elderly look, and, in his spare time, he would sort out neighborhood problems when the villagers would consult him. They were a good match; my mother managed well. She lived in her in-laws’ home: a mud-brick farmhouse on the outskirts of the village, surrounded by almond trees. In the center was a well that had been constructed by my grandfather, who is no longer on this earth. Life revolved around this sole source of water until night fell. Then, darkness fell over the home like a starry cover, a lead weight. Electricity never made it to our region, closer to Pakistan than Kabul. In the course of time, the everyday routine had not changed much throughout the centuries.