Letters to My Daughters (24 page)

When the man finally appeared, he looked as rough and dishevelled as the rest of his family, not the man of power and authority I had expected. I explained how Hamid and my brother had come to be in jail. The man was not unpleasant and told me he remembered my brother well. He listened patiently and assured me that he would get them released. He asked me if I would wait while he made some phone calls in private, then excused himself. I made myself as comfortable as I could on the dirty floor and sat back to wait. The smell had gone now. My nose must have become accustomed to it.

When the man eventually returned, the news was not good. With a sigh he looked at his filthy hands and told me it would take time to get them out. He promised he would keep monitoring the situation and would contact me with any news. His tone had the half-baked sincerity of someone who felt reluctantly obliged to help but who would certainly not go to any great lengths to do so. This worried me. I walked home dejected. Hamid was still very weak. He'd only just begun to recover from his first incarceration. The air was getting cold and crisp now. We were well into autumn, and the winter snow was already settling in the mountains around the city. Soon Kabul itself would be covered with snow and temperatures would drop as low as minus fifteen degrees Celsius. I could imagine Hamid and my brother huddling together for warmth in the freezing prison courtyard, wearing only the clothes they were arrested in. No warm jackets, no thermal vests, no woolly socks. I bit my lip hard to stop the tears flowing as I thought of Hamid's toes freezing and turning blue. I didn't know how much more my husband's fragile body could take. His mind was a fortress of strength and intelligence and could sustain whatever tortures they threw at him. But everyone has a physical breaking point. In the freezing grip of the night breeze, when the air becomes so cold it hurts to catch your breath, I knew Hamid's breaking point was fast approaching.

Early the next morning, I was in my usual position—doubled over the toilet being violently ill. But today, my morning sickness seemed to have another cause. It had snowed in the night. As I dashed from my bed to the bathroom I glanced out a window to see the rooftops below covered in a fresh blanket of sparkling white. Had Hamid and my brother stood all night in the snow? Or were there two more dead bodies in the prison yard, fused together by the layer of ice that now covered them?

I dressed and hurried to the Talib's house, this time accompanied by Khadija, Hamid's sister. We went slipping and skidding along the icy streets that had turned to treacherous skating rinks. My burka provided an extra layer of warmth, but it also prevented me from making out the frozen contours of the road and limited my agility, so that each time my feet took off in a direction of their own choosing, I would throw one arm out in front of me to balance myself and break my fall, while the other went low around my waist to protect my unborn child in case I hit the ground.

Something had changed at the house when I arrived. The smell was still there, but I could see somebody had made an effort to sweep the floor, and the children's faces were smeared where a dirty cloth had been rubbed over them in an attempt at cleaning. The man was different too. He smiled widely at me, showing blackened teeth.

“I want you to teach my children English,” he said. It was a request, not an order. But not a request I could refuse. “Of course,” I answered. “Perhaps they could come to my house. There is room for them to play, and I can teach them better there.”

Thankfully, this seemed to please him. I really didn't want to spend any longer in that home than was absolutely necessary. I needed to keep him happy, but part of me was also encouraged; if I could teach children such as these even a little of life beyond these grubby walls, then perhaps there was hope for my country after all. I had no idea what was happening in my life from one day to the next or whether I'd ever be able to make good my promise to teach them, but it made me see that children, all children, have value. With the correct help and learning, any child can grow up to change the fate of a nation.

I left the house feeling optimistic. The man had spoken little of my beloved prisoners, but the talk of English lessons and the changes I saw in the house were encouraging signs that he intended to help us.

Later that night, a fist banged on my apartment door. I cautiously inched it open. Hairy knuckles shoved it back hard into my forehead, and I reeled backwards. Two dark eyes beneath heavy brows and a black turban stared hard at me. But I felt no fear. In fact I barely noticed the Talib's face, because standing next to him were Hamid and Mirshakay. He shoved them both hard through the doorway, like a spoiled child who had been forced to share his toys. He muttered some impotent threats as I closed the door in his face and launched myself into Hamid's arms. My sister-in-law squealed her way across the living room and flung herself against her own husband. The former Communist general turned Talib had in fact been as good as his word.

We wasted no time. A taxi was arranged to pick us up the following morning. We had to get to Pakistan. The men were free, but it was not enough to rely on the whims or good graces of the Taliban. They could change their minds in a heartbeat and rearrest them. That was a risk we couldn't take.

The next morning, Hamid, I, my brother and his wife and their baby all squeezed into the waiting vehicle. Hamid sat on one side of the back seat, I was crushed next to him in my burka, my brother tucked in the middle, where we hoped no one would recognize him, and his wife next to the other window. A family friend sat in the front passenger seat—yet another retired general, an ethnic Pashtun who had kindly offered to help us. If we ran into problems, we hoped his stature as a general could help us. Failing that, his ethnicity would also lend weight both at the Taliban checkpoints and once we got closer to the border, as most of the Taliban were also Pashtun. For him to travel with us was an act of pure generosity. It still amazes me when I think of all the friends and neighbours over the years who risked themselves helping us. It's one of the reasons my door is never closed to those who need my help today. My Islamic faith teaches that each good turn done to us must be repaid by doing another good turn for someone else.

The taxi driver chatted nervously, trying to assure us his taxi was sturdy and reliable. I wasn't convinced, but Mirshakay had been insistent that we all go to Pakistan with him this time. And I agreed. After all the tensions of the previous weeks, I felt I needed to get out of the country, even if just for a week. It was also a good opportunity for Hamid to get some medical attention. This second spell in prison had left him even weaker. I could almost see his health deteriorating before my eyes. I was still suffering morning sickness, and for most of the journey I carried a bowl beneath my burka to vomit into. It was a terrible journey. We were squashed and uncomfortable, and all of us were on edge, expecting at any moment to be stopped and detained at a Taliban checkpoint. The general was unflappable, keeping up a steady banter with the gunmen each time we encountered them. Most of the Talibs relaxed when they heard their mother tongue being spoken in the familiar Pashtun accent. His natural authority demanded respect, and even the bravado of the young Talibs wilted in the glare of the general's old-soldier demeanour.

“You may pass, Uncle.” My heart heaved a sigh of relief each time I heard those words, but when we crossed the border at Torkham my spirits soared. The car erupted into laughter as we entered Pakistan. You could feel the freedom. The fearful oppression of the Taliban had been lifted. And with it, a huge weight was taken from each of us.

By 4 o'clock that afternoon, we were in the southern Pakistani city of Peshawar. From there, we boarded an overnight bus to Lahore, the ancient city of kings. There, we went to my brother's house, where we were met with a warm welcome from his first wife and her parents, who were living there. That night, we ate chappali kabab, a wonderful local dish of ground beef mixed with pomegranates and red chili, washed down with Coca-Cola. It tasted as divine as any meal I had ever eaten, all the more so for being the first meal I had eaten in months that was not tainted by the poisonous coating of Taliban rule.

It was wonderful to be in Lahore. For the first time since our wedding, Hamid and I were able to go out and relax and enjoy ourselves as a perfectly normal young married couple. Lahore is a truly beautiful place of centuries-old tiled mosques and winding bazaars. Hamid and I walked around for hours sightseeing. We picnicked in a beautiful park reserved for women and families. He had fought to marry me for years, and since our wedding we had hardly had even a few seconds like this, just sitting and relaxing together, enjoying breathing the same air.

The city was so functional and clean after the turmoil of Kabul. Many of my city's great buildings had been destroyed in the civil war, and I marvelled at the historic architecture of Lahore. Between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries, the city had been ruled by the Mughals, an Islamic Indian dynasty of emperors who controlled much of the Asian subcontinent. The Mughals were famous builders; the Taj Mahal, for example, was built by the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan. In Lahore, they created many of the city's most notable landmarks, including the spectacular Lahore Fort and the Shalimar Gardens, both of which are now unesco World Heritage Sites.

I was now three months pregnant and still not feeling very well. Hamid was also fragile from his two bouts of brutal treatment by the Taliban. For a few short days, however, we drew emotional and physical strength from the tranquility of Lahore. “Tranquil” is perhaps an odd word to use to describe a bustling Pakistani city of almost five million people, but that is how it felt after all we had been through.

After a week in Lahore, we got word that Afghan president Rabbani was in Peshawar. He had been deposed by the Taliban, but as far as we and the rest of the world were concerned he was still Afghanistan's legitimate leader. Rabbani's ambassador still represented Afghanistan in the United Nations General Assembly. Only Saudi Arabia and Pakistan had recognized the Taliban as the official government. My brother had once worked for Rabbani at the Interior Ministry and knew him well. He made contact with the president, and he and Hamid were invited to meet him. They readily went to pay their respects and to hear our president's plans for regaining control of our country.

Burhanuddin Rabbani, like my family, was from Badakhshan. He and my father had been friends and occasional rivals, and we respected him deeply. He had been a key voice against the rise of Communism in Afghanistan during the 1950s and '60s, and during the Soviet occupation he had organized military and political resistance from Pakistan.

When President Najibullah fell from power after the Communists lost power, Rabbani was selected to replace him. But the Mujahideen government of the time was very factional, and these divisions pitted Rabbani and Ahmad Shah Massoud's forces against those of Generals Dostum and Hekmatyar and launched the civil war.

There were a lot of people at Rabbani's compound, and both men returned from their meeting very excited. They were convinced Rabbani was the key to a stable Afghanistan—although with the Taliban firmly in control, it was hard for even Rabbani himself to envisage how that might happen. Their sense of optimism was infectious, and from the calm and safety of Lahore I found myself entertaining thoughts that perhaps all was not lost for Afghanistan.

We were all so excited by the prospect of Rabbani regaining his rightful role of president that Hamid and I decided, almost on the spot, that we should return to Kabul immediately. Apart from our newfound sense of optimism, Hamid's widowed sister was alone in Kabul with her children, and Hamid and I wanted to be there to support her. My brother decided it was too risky to return and that he would stay in Pakistan, switching between his houses in Peshawar and Lahore. Leaving my brother and his wives was awful because I had no idea when or if I might see them again. But I was a married woman now, and my rightful place was with my husband.

Winter was closing in, and the snow was getting heavier. As we retraced our steps back to Kabul, the landscape through the high mountains of the Khyber Pass had become white and crisp. Perhaps the jagged rocks were like the Taliban and the fresh snow was a new beginning for Afghanistan—covering their hard, unforgiving ways. I certainly hoped so.

Hamid and I crossed back into Afghanistan without incident and were soon back in our apartment in Kabul. A week away had refreshed me enough to give me a new sense of enjoyment at being in my homeland again. Even under Taliban rule, I never lost my patriotism. This was my Kabul and my Afghanistan.

It was the beginning of Ramadan, and like all observant Muslims we fasted between sunrise and sunset. We were up before dawn for sahaar, the substantial breakfast eaten while it was still dark to sustain us through the day's fasting until we were allowed to eat again after sunset. Typically, we would eat early and then go back to sleep for a while before morning prayers.

Hamid and I had just returned to bed when there was knocking at the door. Hamid went to answer; we thought it was a neighbour coming to ask a favour or something similar. I heard voices, then Hamid's footsteps on the floor as he came back to the bedroom. His face was ashen grey and he looked like he was going to be sick. He asked me for his coat. The Taliban were at our door. They had a car waiting for him outside. Hamid had no choice but to go with them. I wanted to rush to the door with him, to beg the Talibs to leave him alone, to leave us alone. We had come back to Kabul in the hope we might have an ordinary peaceful existence. And now here they were taking him away again.