I Am a Bacha Posh Page 7

  “Did she seem like an old man or an old woman?”

  “She was dressed as a man, with a turban on her head, like you. But with time, I think that nature had resumed its course, and I would say that she made me think of my old mother, except that she still had a lot of charisma. She was wise, an angel, neither man nor woman.”

  “Do you know if she is still alive?”

  She looked at me, surprised.

  “If she is still alive, she would be more than one hundred years old, Ukmina. But if you want her to still be alive, you can decide.”

  Above this, a young voice was heard:

  “Now, you are Badgai. Why don’t you run for the Council of the Province, Ukmina? If you are elected, you can speak to the people of Khost and even Kabul! Be a candidate, and we will follow you!”

  I asked them who would support me. They all raised their hands. I was in the process of becoming Badgai. Like her, I would go meet the authorities of Khost and Kabul, and I would defend the interests of the lesser people, which is what we were.

  But before that, I had to fix something with Allah.

  8

  ALONE BEFORE ALLAH

  2006

  “Come with me; this year, it is time.” It was the third time I had asked my older brother to accompany me to Mecca. I could not go there alone; no woman could go to the holy city without a moharam sharia, a close relative, a male escort: a father, a husband, or a brother. I have only my brother.

  “We do not have the money, Ukmina.”

  “We are going to sell the land that our father kept for us to make the pilgrimage. I made that promise, and I must keep it.”

  “We will go later—these lands are all that we have left.”

  I understood that argument, but the passion of my youth had given way to guilt; if I did not want to listen to the mullahs, I could listen to Allah. I still wore men’s clothes, and I was not married; I had not completed my duty as a woman. What must He have thought? I had to explain to Him, so that He might forgive me.

  I harassed my brother, and finally his wife convinced him. Faced with two determined women, he eventually succumbed!

  “We will go, Ukmina, I promise, in a few months. We will sell the land, and I will settle my debts. I cannot submit to Him when I owe money to my friends. It will take me a little time. But you are right—we must make the Hadj. You must explain yourself to Him. This may be too hard.”

  “This? But, my brother, what do you mean? ‘This,’ this is me—this is what I am. I will not change, I just want to kneel before Him and make sure that He understands me and does not judge me. I could only give up my turban if He asked it of me!”

  “If you do the Hadj, Ukmina, you must repent to Allah and commit to never revert back to sin.”

  “Who said that I live in sin? The mullahs? I do not listen to them; I will see Him. He will speak to me, and I will follow Him.”

  For three months, I prepared. To make the Hadj, you must be in good physical and spiritual condition. You must be able to give anything to the worship of Allah and reflect on the meaning of His way; you must have a sincere intention. I think that there was no one more sincere and motivated than me. I had had an appointment with Him for a long time.

  One beautiful morning in September, my brother and I left the house. We would be gone for fifty days.

  I lived through this time as though it were a dream. In Khost, we took the bus to Kabul. Looking at the dusty road, I remembered this same journey; I did it with my father at the beginning of the war with the Russians. They were gone, though, and the Americans had taken their place. They were fighting the Taliban just like the Russians had bullied the Mujahideen, and with the same success, it seemed. They wanted to develop the country, but the road was still bumpy, and our district still had no electricity or drinking water. We did not come across tanks but heavy cars marked with a single blue UN. Inside, Westerners wearing bulletproof jackets fixed their gaze in front of them, as if diverting their eyes from our bus might trigger the bomb that we could be carrying. Just like the Russian tanks . . .

  In Kabul, we reached the first stage: the Eidgah mosque. All the people taking the Hadj were gathered here for a few days before flying off to Saudi Arabia. We had to change into pilgrim clothes. I bought mine in Khost: long white pants, a kameez, a white dress, an ehram, a hijab (a veil), and a shawl, white as well. This was the first time I had put on a dress and a hijab in public. But these clothes do not have the same meaning as in everyday life; these are those of a woman who is presented before Allah, and with Him I must be true. Despite everything, I felt hidden beneath a shroud. I wondered what I would do when I went to Allah. Would I go dressed in three pieces of cloth as a man, or in five pieces of cloth as a woman, including one for the head? Was I going to go bound as a man, or free as a woman? Should I turn my face toward Mecca?

  The big day arrived. We left in a group from the parking lot, and we had to walk, passing through multiple security checks. Two hundred meters separated us from the main building, which was protected like a bunker. It took us an hour to get there, but I quickly realized that I was not at the end of the line! At the identity security check, I began to worry. For the trip, I had to have a passport made, for the first time in my life. And on the photo, I was Ukmina with a veil, because it was mandatory for women. I had forgotten this, that I had done that, and it was quite funny. I had gone into a photographer’s shop in Khost dressed in a turban with my brother. At first, he put me on the stool facing the photographer, but then my brother had a moment of clarity:

  “Ukmina, you must take off your turban; you will have the name Ukmina on your passport, and that is a woman’s name—you cannot look like a man!”

  I refused at first, but he was right: they could accuse me of having stolen the identity of someone else. I did not have a veil, so the photographer found a piece of fabric to make a hijab that I wore for all of thirty seconds to take the picture. I looked like a big, ugly matron. But this amused the immigration officer, at least. They clearly saw the difference between the man in a turban before them and the woman in the passport photo—I was wearing the white garb of a pilgrim, but I had my turban on top of my head. They spoke in Dari, which I did not understand. The trip organizer came to the rescue, but he was red with anger. I heard my name said many times, Ukmina Manoori. The eyes of the agents passed from my face to the passport, and then they moved toward a small office, followed by the organizer. I remained standing still at the front door. My brother joined me; he was visibly upset, as well. “Why did you wear that bloody turban? I am so used to seeing it that I did not even pay attention to it.”

  “Me, neither! It doesn’t even go well with my outfit today, but I put it on like every other day!”

  “They may not let you go through.”

  “But why? They will see that I am Ukmina Manoori!”

  Ten minutes passed, then twenty, and then thirty. My brother went into the office. I was the only one who could prove the truth to them, and nobody wanted to listen to me! The rest of the group had long since passed through security and the checks and had begun boarding. Yet I was not afraid. I rolled the little balls of my prayer beads between my fingers; it calmed me and helped pass the time. I had confidence; Allah was waiting for me, and He knew who I was.

  The door opened and the chief of security, followed by three agents, the organizer, and my brother, walked toward me. He handed me the passport without making eye contact and sent me to the line of women, where I was thoroughly searched. “You will never do that again, Ukmina! When you travel, you are wearing a veil from now on!”

  I surely did not have luck with planes. I remembered my first aborted trip, when I needed to go to Kabul to heal. The Russian soldier refused my entry at the airport, having taken me for a Mujahideen. This time, I was suspected of having falsified my identity. The words of the mullah of the village come back to me: “Islam does not allow women who are wearing men’s clothes. If a woman does this, she loses her identity and her place in society.” Is it that I had lost my identity? My place in society?

  When I finally got to my seat on the plane, I asked to be near the window because I wanted to see my country from the sky. Even if I was not very comfortable with my requested arrangement, I did not show it. After the event earlier, I had to make up for it, so I made myself seem like I was very happy. I comforted my brother when the engines shook and the plane soared over the runway. He was clinging to his seat, mumbling a prayer soon resumed by his neighbor and all the others. I did not pray, but I gave myself entirely to the spectacle that offered itself to me.

  Kabul was far away now, already more than a collection of confetti in the middle of majestic mountains whose summits are covered in snow. An old Afghan proverb came to mind: “Better is Kabul without gold than Kabul without snow.” In our country, where it rains so little, the snow is our only source of water: when it melts, it fills the rivers from which we drink. I could still see a few roads that dug their furrows into the rock, lacing around large stones; from time to time a green stain pointed out a fertile land, and then we were too high and the only things before us were the peaks of the Hindu Kuch, our forest of mountains. I was already elsewhere—I relaxed, I was not afraid, I felt like I had met Him.

  And then the dream became reality. Under the belly of the aircraft, the arid plains succeed to the deserts of Saudi Arabia and we landed, among prayers played over the speakers by the captain, on the tarmac at the King Abdulaziz International Airport in Jeddah. Everything was perfectly organized; groups of pilgrims who came from all over the world were directed to air-conditioned buses to travel to the most sacred city of Islam, Mecca, in Bakkah. Seventy kilometers separated us from the holy place of Islam, a place forbidden to non-Muslims.

  There were checkpoints along the road. We had to show our identification cards. A non-Muslim who intrudes into Bakkah risks the death penalty or life imprisonment. Our organizer explained all of this to us over the microphone on the bus. I did not wear my turban now; instead I wore the white hijab. Was I still a good Muslim? Had I been a sinner since my childhood? What if Allah rejected me?

  My doubts faded away as we entered the sacred mosque, Al Masjid al-Haram. I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the Kaaba. I was crying, and I couldn’t stop. All the stories I had heard since my childhood about the prophet and the holy places came back to me—Madinah, where Muhammed is buried; the mountain of Arafat, toward which the pilgrims were flocking on the dawn of the second day and where Muhammed made his farewell speech. Here, we prayed until the evening before joining Muzdalifah and spending the night.

  I picked up a few stones for the next day. In the morning, I followed the group toward Mina on foot, as one must. Three hundred meters separated us from the place where Abraham took his son Ishmael to sacrifice him. I was overcome by emotions, and, when it was time to lay the rocks at the foot of the three pillars, the place where Iblis (Satan) tried to dissuade Abraham to abandon his son, I cried again.

  In front of Him, I prayed, as a woman, hands on my chest. I asked him to accept what I was going to say to Him. I began with a traditional prayer. Then I told Him how happy I was to be here, in this holy place. I asked that He bring peace to my country. And I asked His forgiveness. I spoke to Him about my clothing: “I know that it is not women’s clothing. If I am doing something wrong by wearing these clothes, forgive me. If you are not happy with it, you can ask me to change; if it bothers you, I will become someone else. Talk to me; tell me what I must do. If you are angry, send me a sign in my body, something that I can feel, hear, understand, and I will follow your will.”

  I was quiet then. I concentrated. I was expectant.

  Nothing was happening! Allah is great—He had forgiven me! I came to him, open hearted, with honesty, and He told me that I was forgiven.

  On the fifth day, I witnessed the fifth pillar of Islam: the sacrifice of hair. Men shave their heads, and women cut their hair very short. I cut mine very short, and I promised myself to never again touch it from that day forth. My hair is long today, but I tie it up every day in my turban. Only I know how much hair I have. And Allah. A sign that, in His eyes, I have not forgotten who I am.

  Despite the happiness that I experienced just being there, I was eager to get home. The return journey seemed so long to me, and I had barely set foot in Kabul before I put on my old clothes and got rid of the pilgrim dress. With my shalwar kameez on my back and my turban on my head, I was back in the village with my brother.

  And what a welcome! We celebrated the Hadj according to tradition: the villagers lined up to congratulate us; they brought us gifts and garlands of flowers. They all arrived with two garlands in hand, and they were relieved to see that I had not changed. “If you were to return in women’s clothing, we would not have been able to hang those flowers around your neck,” they said with a big laugh. If I had been dressed as a woman, they could not have approached me to give me the chain of daisy flowers. They seemed pleased to have found Ukmina the Warrior and Hadj Hukomkhan. I had made the jihad and the Hadj; I was now untouchable. Strong in the face of them and Allah, I could now devote myself entirely to my people, to be useful. It was necessary that I continue to accept what the women of the shura had suggested to me: to make democracy a weapon, to make ourselves heard—the poor Afghans nobody had listened to for decades.

  The second election in our history was impending. It was to elect representatives to the Council of the Province.

  9

  CANDIDATE TO SERVE WOMEN

  2009

  One thousand three hundred votes for Anat Bibi, 1,900 for Zohrah, and 5,464 for Ukmina. I won a seat on the Council of Khost Province, far ahead of the other two candidates running. There would be nine members sitting on the council, including three women. The campaign was fantastic: people encouraged me, and I received plenty of calls from women—and men. Each one said that I was one of them!

  I have seen the good and bad that politics can bring—the hope that the voters place in us, but also the corruption and clienteles. Many candidates were rich and spent countless money to buy votes. I did not have any money to waste. The only thing I had been able to do was pay for a driver—only on the day of the election—to transport those who could not get out but wanted to vote for me. And yet I was elected!

  A new life had begun for me. I thought of my mother and how I missed her. I would have liked her to have been there; she would have been so proud of me. She wanted a different destiny for her daughter from her own, and she wanted the life of Afghan women changed: the time had come for me to act in this direction.

  After the election, I spent the week in Khost. I slept in a small apartment with one of my nephews, who had become my bodyguard. On Thursdays and Fridays, I went back to the village. Each day, we were with the other members of the council from 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. Anat and Zohrah wore veils, and they expressed some reservations on my presentation in the beginning. I understood that I may have disturbed them. Not only was I dressed as a man, but I behaved like one, as well. I talked with great strength, I had a laugh that could knock you off your feet, and, when I sat down, I did not sit like a delicate woman, legs together to one side and set beneath the body. No, I sat with my thighs apart, or lying on one side; my body was spread long and wide on the mat. I ate like four men; I belched to ease with digestion. Men like my company, as I do not bother them. Elsewhere, the leader of the Council of the Province took things into his own hands. He made a jirga, an assembly, to talk about my case. I liked him; he was a good man, and he had an enormous red beard that I envied! He said:

  “Islam gives rules, and among these rules there is the fact that nobody can change their identity. Otherwise they risk the punishment of Allah. I know that a member of my female council comes wearing men’s clothing. She wears a turban. But she has been this way since her childhood. Her parents were in need of a son. Then she chose to keep this appearance of a man, but there was a war and she defended our country. Then she went to Mecca, and God did not blame her. She is not married; she has paid the price, and that is her choice. Let us love her.”

  The leader had spoken, the tension receded, and we were able to work together. At 8:00 a.m., the parade began. The inhabitants of the district came to us so that we could help them solve all sorts of problems: disputes about their land, conflicts in the family, etc. They also asked us to intervene for admission to schools, to move to Kabul or elsewhere, to obtain a government-issued driver’s license, or even to claim compensation from the US authorities. The last item on that list represented a good half of the complaints: a herd of animals lost during a military operation, a damaged house, a car that had been destroyed . . . We needed to then verify these claims, because the allegations were sometimes whimsical, as they were every time it was possible to get easy money. We asked that the claimant write or have written (a majority of them are illiterate like me) a letter of grievance, which would be recorded by the council; and then we had to take charge of the case and find a solution.

  There were several commissions within the shura. I was in charge of women’s affairs. I listened for hours to stories and complaints of violent husbands, girls being forcibly married, evil mothers-in-law; widows came begging with their children saying that they did not know what to do. They reminded me of my mother and her suffering; her submission became inevitable. I found them courageous to present themselves as such, to dare to think there may be a solution to their problems and that the solution was located here, within the council. My mother did not have anyone to talk to; women were not represented in assemblies—only men. I was proud to be the ear that heard their confidences. Sometimes my role was simply to give advice; sometimes I intervened with a husband and convinced him to let his wife go to the doctor, for example. And when the case was heavier, I requested the claimant return with a formal letter or figure of his testimony. I wished to be able to write as well, but no. With this letter, though, I could bring the case to the Ministry of Women in Khost; they had the power to trigger the intervention of the police.