An American Bride in Kabul: A Memoir (15 page)

I am burning up. The man looks me over—and ventures that it is “only nerves.” He says, “These foreigners, especially the women, have weak stomachs and very jumpy nerves.”

I fall into a brief coma, another first. I turn muddy yellow. I start throwing up. I am nauseous. A day or two later another doctor arrives. First he is served tea and engaged in polite small talk. Then he looks me over and says that I have what the other foreigners have—hepatitis.

He says that there is really nothing he can do.

I fear that I will die and be buried in a Muslim cemetery somewhere out in the wild countryside. I have just turned twenty-one and am seriously contemplating my death. Even this is not as frightening as Abdul-Kareem’s apparent indifference.

What should I do? Kabul has no good hospital. Wealthy Afghans travel to Europe and America for their serious medical needs. Hospitals in Kabul do not even serve food; a patient’s family has to bring it in, together with clean towels, fresh sheets, and the prescribed pharmaceuticals.

I do not want to see any more Afghan doctors. I beg to see an American doctor. And so Bebegul’s entire family accompanies me to an American doctor in town. Eight people in two cars accompany me. Their presence, however well meaning, does not allow the doctor to see me privately.

By now I am paranoid. It feels as if my family is openly spying on me. (In retrospect my paranoia was justified.) Their presence is meant to intimidate me into saying only positive things about my Afghan family to the foreign doctor.

The American doctor understands this and engineers a way to take me to the far corner of the room where we can whisper to each other.
He tells me that I might be the only foreigner who is still alive with this strain of the disease this winter and that I ought to get myself on a plane and go home. But he also tells me that he can “set up an intravenous line” for me at home for a week in order to stop my too-rapid weight loss and to get some nutrients into me.

He sends a nurse over who inserts the tubing. Suddenly, half-asleep, half-awake, as if I’m dreaming, I feel that someone is tugging on my IV line. It is Bebegul and she is trying to pull it out.

I am afraid she is trying to kill me.

I cry out. Fawziya, Hassan’s wife, is just passing by. She hears me, comes in, and sees what is going on. She sees that I am terrified. That gentle soul offers to stay with me until Abdul-Kareem comes home. This is a bold thing for her to do.

Fawziya: Wherever you are now, thank you.

When Abdul-Kareem comes home, he does not believe that Bebegul has tried to hurt me. He says that I must have had a hallucination.

Abdul-Kareem knows that if I don’t die, I am going to leave. But in Afghanistan wives are not allowed to leave husbands. Even husbands don’t necessarily leave wives—they simply marry a younger woman or two if they can.

Abdul-Kareem may have made a love match and brought a Jewish American back as his bride. But he has no intention of allowing his wife to shame him before his entire family and country.

So Abdul-Kareem has contrived a way to keep me there against my will.

I am his wife; we both believe he has the right to have sex with me and that I do not have the right to say no. He is desperate that I stay and so—without words and in anger—Abdul-Kareem embarks on a campaign to impregnate me. He does not stop, even though he knows I am ill and weak.

I am too fatigued to even get out of bed. I can barely hold myself upright. I have to crawl down the hallway to go to the bathroom. What kind of pregnancy could I maintain?

But if I leave, how could Abdul-Kareem be trusted with an important position? An Afghan man must be able to control his own wife.

If I am carrying Abdul-Kareem’s child, I will never be allowed to leave Afghanistan. I will have to go through with the pregnancy even if it kills me, even if this possible future child would be born disabled. The husband who presumably loves me is willing to risk my death and the
possibility of a deformed child—rather than risk losing his power over me or his honor.

These are not things we ever discuss. These are my conclusions now, many years later.

I may have loved Abdul-Kareem but I am now in a life-or-death situation. I discover that I love my life more than I love my husband.

One never forgets such lessons, especially when one is privileged to learn them at a relatively young age.

Abdul-Kareem begins to stay away from our bedroom until late at night. As the systematic attacks continue, Abdul-Kareem’s oldest sister, also named Fawziya, mercifully offers to sleep in our bedroom to help me during the night. She understands what is happening. I will never forget her simple act of kindness.

Fawziya: Wherever you are, thank you, thank you. Call me, please, come to me, anytime.

I am a hopeless invalid. I am muddy yellow. I am constantly nauseous. I dream of food—but I can’t eat anything. When I crawl into the bathroom to throw up, I see that a new
National Geographic
has been added to my pile of magazines. This one has a cover story about the Hunzas, who live nearby and whose diet of yoghurt, nuts, tea, and apricots has led to long lives. The magazine features many photos of the region’s mountains. I look out the bathroom window and see a similar view.

I laugh. Then I cry.

I must be getting better. I am strong enough to crawl down the stairs in search of something, anything, to eat. I think I am hysterical with hunger. The house is quiet, deserted, no one seems to be around. Suddenly Reza, my English-speaking brother-in-law, appears. He is wearing an overcoat and is on his way out to visit his fiancée and her family. I beg him for some edible food. A plain cooked potato or some bread?

Slowly Reza puts on his leather gloves.

“I have no time right now, I’m already late.” Reza pauses. He says: “I don’t understand how Abdul-Kareem could have brought you here. I’ve told him that many times.”

And he walks out, leaving me in a huddled heap on the carpeted floor.

I
have missed my period. True, I am ill. But I might be pregnant. This could be a death sentence for me in every way.

I have to get out and it has to be now. I have only one card to play: the royal card. I must appeal to the king, not King Zahir Shah but my father-in-law, Ismail Mohammed, who alone has the power to return me safely to my home.

Why would he want a dead American daughter-in-law on his hands—or even a permanently sickly one? Why would he want someone living under his roof who keeps trying to escape?

I do not know it at the time, but Abdul-Kareem is engaged in a monstrous power struggle with his father, who has not really approved of his son’s love marriage. Ismail Mohammed’s opinion has nothing to do with me personally. It has everything to do with his ambitions for his third son—the son whose education in Europe and America was part of a vow Ismail Mohammed had made to Allah.

When he was quite young, Abdul-Kareem had nearly died of spinal meningitis. He had endured a difficult and painful recovery; Abdul-Kareem had to learn how to walk all over again. At that time his father vowed that if this son managed to prevail against all odds, he would have a world-class education.

I send word through a servant that I want to see Ismail Mohammed. He comes almost immediately. Once the household knows that we are in my bedroom together, Bebegul and her servants barge right in. Someone sends for Abdul-Kareem.

It is time for the afternoon prayer. Ismail Mohammed prostrates himself on the bedroom floor; afterward he tells me that he has prayed to Allah for my recovery. Then he asks the servants, Fawziya, and Bebegul to leave. He totally surprises me when he takes out a hidden cup of milk custard and proceeds to tenderly spoon-feed me.

I do not even have to raise the issue. He knows exactly why I’ve asked for him. Softly he opens the conversation.

“I know about your little plan with the German woman. I think it will be best if you leave with our approval on an Afghan passport, which I have obtained for you. You have been granted a six-month visa for reasons of health.”

And he gave it to me on the spot: passport #17384. I have it still. The Kingdom of Afghanistan passport has retained its bright orange color, just as the nargileh, the “hubble-bubble,” or water pipe, that I brought out with me has retained its turquoise glaze.

Ismail Mohammed also handed me a plane ticket. “We will see you off. It is better this way.”

Abdul-Kareem curses me. Then he orders me to stay—after which he makes wild operatic promises: We will live alone. We will move right into the only hotel in town. He will allow me to get a job—and if I want to live in the country, he will become a farmer and work from dawn to dusk to support us.

My mind is made up. I want to live. I want no more of his promises and lies. I want my own life back.

By now Kabul is buried in snow. I fall asleep every night with my feet under the
sandali
—a low bench covered by a thick blanket under which a brazier keeps you warm, often all night.

I have missed another period. I will take any flight out, going anywhere.

The next plane out is an Aeroflot—the Russian airline which is returning Russian engineers from Cairo to Moscow with a stop in Tashkent, the capital of the Uzbek Republic.

I weigh about ninety-five pounds and have to hide my jaundiced eyes with dark glasses. As weak as I am, I am excited about seeing Moscow. I have only one hundred dollars with me. I am obviously expected to return straight home on a flight from Moscow to Copenhagen and from Copenhagen to New York City. Clearly, I am expected to return to my parents who are, in turn, expected to support me.

Abdul-Kareem calls me a bitch and a whore. He hits me—and then he hits me again—but I calmly continue to pack my clothes. He orders me to return. He says that he will be held accountable if I do not return; I am an Afghan citizen, traveling on an Afghan passport.

“I demand that you return as soon as you are well. You may finish your damn last semester at college, but that’s it. You have responsibilities here.”

For the next three years Abdul-Kareem will continue to make this demand. I do not yet understand that his government will actually hold him liable for my escape and will expect him to return my actual physical passport to the authorities.

Afghan officials never return my American passport. I do not return my Afghan passport.

I am sorry if Abdul-Kareem’s government held him accountable for my nonreturn—and for the nonreturn of my Afghan passport. But it was either my life or his way of life. I allowed my culture and my family to have their way, just as he allowed his culture and family to have their way. We both chose survival on our own culture’s terms rather than a tragic Romeo and Juliet ending.

A ridiculously large crowd of relatives dutifully accompanies me to the Kabul airport. Abdul-Kareem behaves solicitously, but he is only acting. In reality he is furious. He has been defeated. He feels defeated by his father more than by me.

The plane takes off. At first my feelings are as frozen as the temperature, as cold as the mountain air and the frozen fields of ice over which we fly.

Then I am filled with more fierce joy than my body can contain. I feel incredibly light, I am free, I have a second chance, I am going to live, I will be able to start over.

I get out. And I never return.

1959–1960. And so it began, Abdul-Kareem and I are two college students, very much in love.

1959–1960. Here is a rather romantic photo of the two of us in the American countryside.

1959–1960. That same day, long ago.

1961. Abdul-Kareem photographed me aboard the ship
Le Flandre
as we began our voyage to Europe.

This is the Afghan passport that allowed me to reenter the United States on a six-month visa. It has retained its bright orange cover.

Here is my Afghan passport, given to me after my American passport was taken from me. Please note: My nationality is listed here as “Afghan.”

1961. I purchased this photo as I stood looking at this lovely little mosque, known as the Blue Mosque, on the Kabul River.

This photo depicts musicians who were hired for a celebration in Kabul. The image was on a postcard, which caught my fancy in the bazaar. I have kept these genial gentlemen nearby ever since.

A young Kuchi girl—clearly one who posed for the photographer. “Kuchi” means “those who move” and refers to the Afghan nomads.

Two bare-faced Kuchi women and a girl posing on camels. Nomad women usually walk.