Letters to My Daughters (21 page)

With American president George Bush and Laura Bush.

To my right, Condoleezza Rice, U.S. secretary of state.

With British prime minister Tony Blair.

My two amazing daughters, Shuhra and Shaharzad, accompany me as often as they can. Here we are in the airplane during my electoral campaign.

A tender moment at home.

By the Koof River in my native village.

These days, I'm seen as a politician first, rather than just a woman. For this, I'm extremely proud.

Traditional Afghan closet!

· · THIRTEEN · ·
An End before a Beginning

{
1997
}

MY WEDDING DAY marked the next new chapter of my life—as a wife. But I had no inkling just what a short and tragic chapter it was destined to be.

My husband lived in 4th Makrorian, in a three-bedroom purpose-built apartment. It was simple, solid and functional. He had made a real effort (I suspect with the help of his sisters) to decorate our bedroom nicely, buying new pink curtains, a pink bedcover and even some pink silk flowers in a pink vase by the side of the bed. It was such a thoughtful gesture, but everything looked so very . . . pink. I had to stifle a giggle when I first saw it. By the time my wedding night arrived, I had been awake for twenty-four hours. Thankfully, my husband was also exhausted after such a long day and didn't make any sexual demands on me. We both fell fast asleep.

In the morning I awoke first, and for a second I panicked. My eyes opened, and I saw a pink curtain with hazy sunlight outside. I was in a strange bed with a man beside me. For a split second, I struggled to work out where I was, and then I remembered. I was married to Hamid, to the man sleeping next to me. He snored gently, and I smiled indulgently at him as I stroked his cheek. This was the first day of my new life.

Hamid's sister and her two children were also living with us. She had recently been widowed and had nowhere else to go. I was happy about this, thankful for the comforting presence of another woman about the place. She had been a teacher and was an intelligent, feisty woman. We got on famously. At last, I felt some contentment with my life. Hamid was the kind, warm man I always suspected he was. We basked and glowed in each other's company, laughing and making plans for our future. I hadn't felt a joy like that since the first day I started school at age seven. Life was finally going my way.

A week after our wedding, we had another ceremony called
takht-jami
. The bride and groom sit under decorations, flowers and ribbons, and visitors come and congratulate them and give them gifts. In childhood, my sisters and mother would regale me with stories of all the riches I would receive on my takht-jami, a new car perhaps, or a house in the mountains, or a whole ton of gold. But of course, life during the time of the Taliban was not so ostentatious. Friends and family came, bringing what they could. A tablecloth, some new dishes, fifty dollars.

We said goodbye to our last guests, and Hamid popped into his office for half an hour to check on things. His sister and I were about to make a cup of tea when there was a knock at the door. My sister-in-law went to open it, and there stood bearded men in black turbans. Mullah Omar, the Taliban leader, had heard Mirshakay was back in Kabul and had an arrest warrant for him. They had been searching for my brother for the past three days; he'd already gone into hiding. The family had not informed me of this because they wanted me to enjoy my honeymoon period.

Now here were the Taliban at my door. They barged into my newly married bliss like the battering rams of doom. Without asking, they walked into the living room where I was sitting under flower garlands in all my silly makeup and finery. As they looked at me, the colour drained from my face. I had had enough trouble in my life already to know that their arrival meant the end of this happy chapter. They barked at us to stay where we were and then went into my bedroom. They started tearing the bedsheets off the bed, where so recently Hamid and I had begun our married life together.

It was such an invasion of privacy and of decency and an affront to our culture. But these brutes didn't care about that. They started looking under the bed and pulling things out of cupboards. They said nothing, just turned the house upside down, tearing at the nice furniture with their dirty, unwashed hands.

Then they started yelling at me: “Where is Mirshakay?” “Where is the police general?” They waved an arrest warrant in my face. I felt sick to my stomach as I realized who they wanted. I told them calmly I had no idea. By now, they'd ripped apart my house so they knew I wasn't lying. Then my heart stopped again. Hamid! “Please don't come back from the office yet,” I silently willed my husband. “Stay at work, don't come home yet. Please. Don't come home yet.”

They left, and I listened with bated breath as they walked down the five flights of steps to the door of the main building. With each click-clack of their boots on the stair treads, I breathed a little easier—four floors to go, three floors, two. Then, on the first floor, I heard a door open. I gasped in horror. “No, please, please, don't let that be Hamid.” He was seconds away from danger. He had come back to the house and bounded happily through the front door, carrying a gift of chocolates for me, and walked right into them. If he had only paused to buy some fruit, chat to a neighbour or even bend down to tie his shoelaces he might have missed them.

Angry at their failure to find my brother, they arrested Hamid. He had done nothing. He had committed no crime, but they took him. I ran down the stairs screaming. “We've been married only seven days, he knows nothing. This is my husband's house, we are newlyweds, we are innocent people, leave us alone,” I begged them.

They simply asked me again, “Where is Mirshakay?” Then they handcuffed Hamid. He barely moved or spoke. He was in shock. The flowers he'd been holding for me dropped to the floor. A few neighbours had gathered to watch the scene. Nobody said anything. I grabbed my burka and followed my husband. Hamid knew me better than to tell me to stay at home and wait.

They put Hamid in a red Taliban pick up truck. They pushed me aside, laughing when I tried to get in after him. I flagged down a taxi. The driver wound down the window and said, “I am sorry, ma'am, I am sorry, sister, do you have a
muharram
with you?” I snapped at him. “What? Just let me in. I have to follow that car.” He shook his head. “You need a
muharram
with you, sister. These stupid people, these men you want to follow, if they see you alone with me they will put both of us in prison.” Then he drove away.

I followed the pickup with my eyes as it turned down the street and along the main road; then it took a left towards the new town. I was desperate not to lose sight of it. I hailed another taxi. This time, I spoke before the driver had a chance to. I begged for all I was worth. “Brother, dear brother, please, please help me. Please. They are taking my husband. I need to follow him. I'm alone. Can you please take me?”