I Am a Bacha Posh Page 5

  My elder brother had joined us: he had fled from Khost, which had been taken over by the Russians, who, in a last gasp of pride, wanted to leave Afghanistan on a military victory. He spent all of his savings and bought an old tractor to dig a new well. Life began again, slowly.

  To pay for the supplies we needed to reconstruct the well, we sold most of the land for a paltry amount of money, but we had no choice. Those who bought the land from us were returning from Pakistan. The refugees took advantage of their exile. Many of them, upon reentering Peshawar, invested in a tea shop, a small business, and they amassed enough money to consider a brighter future than ours.

  They had their hands full, but I felt stronger about other things, and I did not envy them. The rumor that I was “a good person” circulated—that I helped the Mujahideen—and the men and women who returned to the village had great respect for me. Nobody made comments about my choices any more: I was older than twenty, and my body looked like that of a man. My family and my neighbors no longer believed that I would end up as a bakri, an old girl, but rather, as a hero.

  My father’s heath declined day by day. His coughing fits became more profound and lasted longer. It was as though his soul was leaving his body through his throat. One night, he felt the end was near and made me come over to him.

  “Promise me still, Ukmina, that you will go to Mecca. Allah forgives all those who served in the jihad, but if you do the Hadj, you will become great in His eyes. I did not sell all of the land. The remaining land is for you. When you are ready, sell it and go see Him.”

  A few days later, he took his last breath. My mother cried. He had a heavy hand more often than not, but he was a good man. A true Pashtun.

  I drowned my sorrow in work on the farm. My brother returned to Khost, which had been recently liberated; this time, the Russians had left for good.

  The year 1989 began well, but the victory had a bitter taste: the last Russian soldier left Afghanistan with a souvenir of a million Afghan civilians murdered. Four million refugees fled to Pakistan and would return. Among them were students of religion. Close to the border, I had the privilege of discovering the Taliban, who were teeming as thugs and preparing a bad attack. And of realizing, quickly, that they would not be my friends.

  6

  PRISONER UNDER THE TALIBAN

  In Kabul, the battle raged between the different Mujahideen factions, the warlords shared the country and, during this time, the Taliban arrived in a large mass in Pakistan. Afghanistan, coming out of thirty years of conflict, was drained but still appetizing enough to arouse the lust of men greedy for power. In the village, we were protected from the postwar turmoil, but it was the calm before the storm. I went back to my chores: riding my bike, I regularly went to the bazaar in Khost to buy supplies. And I saw from week to week the misfortune that came over a city that had just regained its color.

  I made friends with a Malang, a wise man, a bright old man, a poet. He gave me medicine when my back hurt. Years of masonry, working in the fields, and a hard life in the mountains had left their marks on me, and I saw them all the time. The Malang belonged to the sect of Sufis, a branch of the Muslim religion, moderate and spiritual, despised and fought against by the Sunnis, the majority in Afghanistan. The Pashtuns are Sunni Muslims, the Taliban as well. But I liked this Malang a lot; he treated me and soothed me and I admired the perspective he brought to the world around him, curious and caring. Things were different the last time we met, though—I saw him sitting under his tree, a shadow drowning his face, an omen, his shoulders more arched than usual, seeming to carry the weight of the world. I sat by his side in the Afghan way—crouched, arms laying on the thighs, a position that we practice since childhood and in which we can stay for hours to reflect and meditate.

  Here, we are so close to one another; protected by the shade of the tree, we witnessed in silence the spectacle that was before us: Three pickup trucks were parked, or rather stopped, in the middle of the road. On the rear platform, young Taliban members overtook the passengers, who, by reflex, cast their eyes down. Only the Malang and I dared to watch them. After a few minutes, the Malang turned to me and, in a low voice, gave me his diagnosis, assuring that he was not talking about my bad back or my joints: “These are bad people, and they are going to destroy what is left of the country. Unfortunately, for this illness, I do not have a remedy.” He took his cane and withdrew with his slow and stiff steps. I never saw him again.

  After he left, I stayed only a few meters away from the Taliban. Their long shalwar kameez hung down to their feet, and they boasted heavy beards. Among them, Afghans, Pashtuns who had grown up in the madrasas of Pakistan during the war, but also foreigners whose language I did not understand. They also seemed not to be understood anywhere else; they seem disorganized. To me, they looked like puppets serving a cause from a different time. I took the time to understand what was hiding behind this agitation. I listened to the noise that came from the other side of the street, that which hid me from the pickup trucks. I bypassed them and found a quiet place near a small business. The shop was still open, even though it was prayer time; according to the new Taliban rule, the owner should have closed the shop. The owner of the shop tried to explain to them that he had not seen the time and that he would close the shop immediately. Passersby gathered around to watch the scene, none of them flinching, fascinated. The youngest of the Taliban then took a heavy stick and, with all his strength, struck the poor man, who was old enough to be his father. The crowd remained silent, all fixated with counting blows. At the fifteenth hit, the Taliban ceased their work, and the convoy took off to spread their order and terror elsewhere. I was appalled; I told myself that Allah could not allow such acts. But I was more appalled yet by the attitude of the bystanders. They seemed to be willing to accept all the injustices as long as they were not affected. After ten years of war, these religious fanatics appeared to be the ramparts of the chaos. I did not like them. What happened confirmed my hunch.

  A few weeks later, I was back in Khost. The city had been transformed, and I did not recognize it anymore. The bazaar I liked so much had become sad and gray. Fleeting looks, blue chadors grazing the walls, scurrying like trapped mice; all of the merchants now had beards and closed their doors during prayer hours. In the alleyways, the Taliban went through the crowds and hit the stragglers, violently pushing them to the mosques. Music, now forbidden, took refuge in our heads. In my head, I hummed the tunes of Ahmed Zaher, the most famous Afghan singer. He had managed to join every community with his lyrics: Pashtuns, Tajiks, Hazaras. The Taliban made all of the singers stay quiet. Fortunately, he was no longer of this world to see this disaster.

  Dast az talab nadaraam ta kahme man barayaad

  Ya taan rasad ba janan ya jaan ze taan barayad

  I do not ask for anything so long as my goal is not reached

  Maybe my body will hold or end itself by letting go, betraying me

  I felt uncomfortable. I looked like a man, certainly, but without the goddamn beard, I was exposed. I could have passed as a young beardless man, but I took the risk. Fear made me paranoid; I thought that the Taliban stared at me longer than the others, that they didn’t look at the other people walking by, that they scrutinized me, looked into my innards, that they had discovered the blood that flows between my legs.

  My pace increased, and I grazed past the walls; I imagined that one of them stopped me, flipped off my turban with his baton. My hair was short, but not enough. He saw, understood, and called for reinforcement, a prey of choice, something to serve to the people hungry for blood, a woman to correct, a woman who passes herself off as a man. He realizes this is worse than adultery, an insult to Allah, guna, a sin; I am a woman to whip, a woman to stone. My head felt as though it was going to explode, and my legs failed beneath me. My labored breathing choked me, and I ran without realizing it.

  What was I doing? I was mad, I told myself. Who was I? I was Hukomkhan—the one that gives orders—I am a Mujahideen; I fought the Russians while they were sheltered in Pakistan. Who was I? I am Ukmina—the most courageous woman in Afghanistan. I raised my head, fixed my gaze. Yes, I am looking at you, you the Taliban, because if I look at you, you will think that I am a man. No woman would dare, so I dare to.

  That evening, I returned from Khost in a car that a neighbor suggested that I move from the village. The night fell upon the road. When a flashlight shone on the windshield, we were forced us to stop. A Taliban security post. The wife of the neighbor kept quiet underneath her chador with her head down, as it should be. I sat next to the driver, in my usual attire, shalwar kameez and turban. The flashlight scanned the inside of the passenger compartment and focused on me, on my feet. I wore closed-toe shoes, “Western.” I fixed my gaze on the Taliban, but it did not work. The flashlight turned around and its bearer screamed: “This is a woman, and she is dressed as an American!” The worst insult possible; I was in grave danger. My neighbor took things into his own hands. He explained that I was in the jihad, that I was a war hero, that I would fight against the Americans as I fought against the Russians, that I was an admirer of Osama bin Laden, and so on. He gave them some money, and we were off. They had let me go, but I was scared—very scared. These crazy armed men scared me to death! I was fragile, and I knew I could not handle a beating from their sticks or even worse. So I made the decision that I would now avoid going out.

  In the village, I calmed down. The Taliban had not yet come this far, but their ideology was spreading and gaining support. The radio, our only connection to the world, incessantly spit out their fanatic speeches, and the rumors spread: the Taliban cut off hands, stoned, and executed people. Fear revealed the most cowardly, and we all know it was best to avoid them.

  For the first tim
e in my life, I wondered if I should renounce my appearance and make myself invisible like all the other women hidden behind their blue chadors. I could have died for the sin that I committed each day by offering my face to the light of day. Guna. The word of the mullah who came to see my father woke me at night. I was sweaty, and I shuddered. How many of my neighbors would condemn me? How long would my exploits on behalf of the Mujahideen protect me?

  Despite this, I decided not to give it up! I could not trap myself in a shroud of blue and pretend to live; I would slowly die. Of shame.

  I refused the confinement of the burqa, but I didn’t go out any more. I became a prisoner of my condition. Neither man nor woman, I was suspicious to all. One morning, I heard knocking on my door. My stomach turned into knots every time a visitor came by. It had become very rare these days, as everyone lived isolated and left only for the necessities. But I always imagined the worst: that a neighbor would denounce me, and a pickup of armed Taliban would come to my house. But no, when I opened the door, I came nose-to-nose with a burqa, with an invisible.

  “Hello, Ukmina.”

  I did not recognize the voice; the heavy blue fabric muffled the sound. I searched for the face, but all I could make out were two sad, anonymous eyes. I worried—was it a trap?

  “Ukmina, it’s me, Kamala!”

  Kamala? From my childhood? The one who dressed as a boy and served tea in the tea shop? It was her. I quickly made her come inside; it was best not to loiter outdoors. I had not seen Kamala in years; she left the village after marrying somewhere else in the district. She immediately lifted up her burqa and sat down on the carpet. What was she doing here?

  “I am visiting the village to see my parents. My father is very ill; there is no doubt that he will soon die. I came here to warn you, because people are talking about you, Ukmina. No one wants any bad for you, but they are concerned. They say that you should wear the burqa and stop pretending to be a man—it has became too dangerous. You risk death if the Taliban take you.”

  I laughed to reassure her.

  “Do not fear, Kamala. They do not scare me. If they come here, I’ll kill them. I am stronger than them. Have you not seen my arms?!”

  “Stop, Ukmina! You know very well that they have guns; you have no bearing against that.”

  “But no one will come. Who knows that there is a woman like me here? No one will tell them, I trust my neighbors.”

  “Today, you cannot trust anyone. My husband, for example, if he knew—but I would never tell him—he would denounce you.”

  “Why? Is he one of them?”

  “No, not really, but he does not like women like you. Like us.”

  “He married you!”

  “Precisely. He saw that I was not a woman like the others, even if I looked like it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s true that we have not seen each other in a very long time, and then the war separated us. You remember, when we were young, we were the same, dressed as boys, but differently. You liked boys’ games, and I dreamed of letting my hair grow long and wearing dresses. I was young then, and for me to be dressed like that meant that I was obliged to go and work in that shop. And I hated it, I hated the people. They treated us badly, us children, as if we were their slaves.”

  She paused, slightly winded. It was as though she had not spoken for months. Perhaps even years.

  “After I grew up, my father found me a job in a small grocery store. I was earning money, and the owner trusted me. Little by little, I learned his trade. He rarely came to the store—except to teach me: he taught me to read, you see! I did the accounts and kept the books. It was as if I had become the patroness. I was even going to the supplier, because, dressed as a boy, I could trade with them. Then the war came, and my parents decided to flee to Pakistan. I helped my father, as son of the family, to prepare everything, and during the journey, by donkey, we had to protect my mother and my five sisters. Upon arriving at Peshawar, I was a boy in the eyes of all; I was fifteen years old. And here again, I found work in trade, and I immediately had a lot of responsibility. I liked this. We lived in a refugee camp and I made acquaintances with Shabina, an Afghan woman from Kabul. She was gentle and beautiful like the day. We became friends, and I spent all my free time with her. On Friday, after prayer, we would explore the land around the camp and walk around the bazaar in Peshawar. For two years, my life was a dream, even though we had nothing and we lived miserably. Then, we were able to move into a building in Peshawar. Eight of us slept in one small room, but at least we had a roof. Shabina still slept in a tent with her parents, but we still managed to see each other. And then one night, my father came to me in the store and told me that it was my last day of work.

  “‘You are eighteen years old; you must get married.’

  “I could not believe my ears. I loved my job, I loved my life, I had forgotten that I was a woman and that I needed to get married to a man, share his bed, give him children! I was terrified and ran away. I found Shabina, and I cried all the tears in my body. Shabina knew my secret. She comforted me and told me that this was the destiny of women and that she did not like it either but that her parents had begun talking to her about marriage. I sank. This meant that I would never see her again. We would have husbands at our side and be locked away in our homes. I was mad with grief. Shabina took my hand, and I let myself go against her body. I felt good, I never wanted to leave the warmth of Shabina. Ukmina, I think that I loved her! Have you ever loved, Ukmina?”

  “No.”

  No, I had never loved, and I had never been loved. The warmth that Kamala talked about, I knew only from my mother. But I was fine; I did not search for the contact of another body or complicated feelings. The love of my relatives was enough for me.

  “I liked her because, without her, I felt like I was not really living. She caressed my face, and then she told me to leave. She must have felt that our relationship was no longer one of friendship only and that we should stop putting ourselves in danger. We had no other choice. I left knowing that I would never see her again. I went back to my house. I was already less than a shadow of myself. I was like a prisoner being led to the gallows. I knew that I was going to lose everything: my job, my walks with Shabina in the bazaar, my freedom, in fact. I realized that at that moment, I had lived as a free boy and that everything was finished. And what was the life that waited for me? I was panicking; I had not been educated as a girl. I knew how to read and count, but I didn’t know how to cook, or prepare tea, or sew. I never imagined touching the body of a man, and I had begun to love the softness of a woman.”

  I was captivated by her story. I looked at her; her face had not changed. She still had magnificent green almond-shaped eyes, but they no longer had the same light they used to; it was as if the small spark in her eyes had been put out. I imagined her in a pakol, a hat, or a turban on her head. She would make a pretty boy.

  “A week later, the ceremony took place. I obviously did not know my husband. My father had met him a few weeks earlier. I had not revealed to him that I dressed as a boy, that I was a bacha posh, as they say in Kabul (Shabina is the one who told me this), and that I knew how to read and count. Before the wedding, I was dressed in one of these heavy dresses and adorned with jewelry. I hated it; each bracelet on each wrist was like a bar in my new prison. I thought it was ridiculous, as if I were disguised. This was it—my life would now be disguised, and I would have to act, to pretend, pretend to be a woman. Nobody can understand this. Ukmina, I am sure you understand this. It’s because of this that I wanted to see you. You are lucky; you have been able to stay as such. Me, I do not know anymore who I am. Every time that my husband touches me, it is painful. He feels it. He investigated; it was not difficult to do. He knew where I worked. They spoke about a beautiful young man, and he asked them to describe him—he knew right away. There are girls like us in Pakistan, too, it seems. In any case, because he knew that I only had sisters, he put the story together very quickly. He went to find my father, who admitted to him the truth. Since then, my husband abuses me. He says that I am good for nothing, that I am not worth any more than an animal. Than a dog. It is true—I can’t give him a child.”