In My Father's Country: An Afghan Woman Defies Her Fate Read online

  Soldiers didn’t realize the importance of relationship building in the success of U.S. reconstruction efforts. This is not to say that villagers would be able to stand up to the insurgents directly just because they were supportive of the U.S. mission, but if they felt that the company commander was a friend, they might find a way to pass on crucial information that could potentially save the lives of his soldiers.

  Once established, these relationships could be passed on to the incoming units, because one of the characteristics of being in uniform is that you become interchangeable with the soldier who replaces you. If one company commander stresses the importance of good neighborly behavior to newly arrived troops and introduces them to local villagers, he creates a foundation that can be built on when the next unit arrives, and so on. The result is trust, and a long-term relationship, principles that are a big part of Pashtun culture.

  This picnic felt like the beginning of a new type of relationship between Afghans and Americans, and the beginning of the idea that led General Petraeus to encourage his soldiers to mingle more, to drink more cups of the world-famous Afghan green tea.

  SEVERAL DAYS LATER Judy and I arrived at Sherzai’s palace to find him in the grip of a new idea. It had come to him in the middle of the night, and by 10:00 A.M., he was busy implementing it. Inspired by the success of the park-opening celebration, he’d invited five hundred mullahyaan—the Pashtu plural of mullah—to his compound for an impromptu meeting, in the hopes of endearing himself and his government to them and showing them that he was approachable. This was pure Sherzai, who was all about scoring points—with the mullahyaan, Karzai and the central government, Judy and the PRT, even me. When he learned that I’d admired the beautiful white embroidered Kandahari kameez he wore to the park opening, he immediately sent me two, one in white, the other in beige. When I told Sherzai that my fiancé, Eric, had always wanted one and would love it, Sherzai said, “Well, Miriam, if I had known that you were going to be marrying a non-Pashtun, I wouldn’t have given you those; I don’t want to be giving a gift to a non-Pashtun who is marrying a Pashtun woman!”

  The meeting with the mullahyaan was news to Judy and me. I’d arrived wearing what had become my uniform, a pair of Express jeans and a plain, short-sleeved T-shirt. Judy was in her standard fatigues. Sherzai stood by the window, grinning and rubbing his hands together like a movie villain.

  “We’ve been waiting for you,” he said, nodding out the window.

  A hastily erected tent stood in the courtyard. Mullahyaan were arriving in twos and threes, prayer beads dangling between their fingers. I stared down at the tops of their white turbans.

  “Wali Sahib, why didn’t you tell us about this? We didn’t bring our scarves.” I used his title in Pashtu, which I did when I wanted him to remember that I was there as an American.

  “Didn’t you tell me you refuse to wear the scarf, Miriam? Or has the sight of these mullahyaan finally put the fear of God in you?” He grinned at me.

  “It’s a matter of respect. I’m not going into a tent full of mullahs without a scarf.” I didn’t want to offend these men unnecessarily. It was one thing to make a point with the average Afghan man by not wearing a scarf, but there was no need to rub the mullahyaan’s noses in it.

  Sherzai collared one of his assistants and sent him searching for a pair of scarves for Judy and me. I stood at the window, watching the mullahyaan file into the tent. The day was overcast, a uniform ho-hum Portland gray. Judy and I would be the only women in the tent. I looked at her. She was glancing at her watch, unconcerned. As a woman in the army she was used to being the only female in a room full of men. My situation was considerably different. To be the only female Pashtun in a room full of religious men meant that I was going to be judged, and judged harshly.

  The assistant returned empty-handed, unable to locate the nonexistent secret trove of scarves Sherzai seemed to feel existed somewhere in the compound.

  “Take this.” Sherzai pulled his black-and-white-checked scarf from around his neck.

  “Are you joking? They’ll know it belonged to you. That would be even worse.”

  “You know, Miriam, you are more trouble than all the mullahyaan, all five hundred of them combined.”

  He called over one of the guards and sent him to the bazaar. The guard returned with identical pale-green scarves, the hems stitched with pale green thread. They were prettier than anything in my duffel bag at the PRT. Sherzai escorted Judy and me into the tent, where we sat in folding chairs near the front and listened to two and a half hours’ worth of speeches. Regardless of their tribal affiliations, mullahyaan love to make speeches and are true politicians at heart.

  Afterward, Judy and I wandered outside into a warm drizzle. One mullah, a frail old man with black eyebrows, white hair, and only two upper teeth, said, “Daughter, I feel it’s my Muslim duty to tell you that you will go to hell for what you are doing here.”

  “I’m thankful for your concern, Baba.” I used the title of grandfather in hopes of reminding him that he was supposed to be kind. “I will make sure that when God is sending me to hell He knows you did your Muslim job, telling me the error of my ways. I am hopeful that He will be merciful and not hold you responsible for my sins.” There is a belief of most Muslims, especially the more conservative ones, that if they see another Muslim doing un-Islamic things, it is their duty to point out the error, and if they don’t, God will send them to hell with the one committing those crimes. This puzzles me, as I’ve read the Koran and know that there are many restrictions on one Muslim’s duty to question another Muslim’s faith and intentions. I would never understand how a Muslim could justify questioning my faith, but it has happened a hundred times to me, not just in Afghanistan but even in a convention center in Portland.

  Sherzai invited us to his office for tea, eager to hear us reassure him that the afternoon had been a success. I told him about the old mullah who’d told me I was going to hell. Sherzai narrowed his eyes, something he did before he lost his temper, and went to the window, as if the offending mullah was still out there.

  “Who said this to you? Show me who insulted my guest.”

  According to the strict interpretation of Pashtunwali, Sherzai had every right to kill this mullah. He would receive no punishment for murder; in fact, he would be viewed as a good and honorable Pashtun for defending the honor of a guest. I suddenly felt tired from my long nights of little sleep.

  “I don’t think that’s the point, Wali Sahib. It was a fine event. They were all happy. But the bigger point is that these mullahyaan are not ready to mix with Western females. So next time, don’t invite us, please.”

  “These mullahyaan need to adjust, Miriam. They must accept the realities of the modern Afghanistan.”

  “And we want to be accepted by them, Wali Sahib, but this makes it seem as if we are invading their space and disrespecting the culture. We’ll never be accepted under those circumstances.”

  “I suppose this means you’re not going to tell me which mullah showed me disrespect by insulting my guest?”

  “The American in me won’t let me tell you, especially if you’re going to beat him up. You have to let it go.”

  “He told you you were going to hell, Miriam. It’s hard for me to let that go.”

  “It wasn’t the first time I have been told that,” I said. “And I am sure it won’t be the last.”

  TWENTY

  At night the CAT I interpreters who worked next door, at Jalalabad Airfield, came over for tea, television, and conversation. The CAT II interpreters at the PRT had a tearoom for sitting and talking. It was furnished with a TV, a table, some chairs, a hot plate, and a mini-fridge. Because it was at one time someone’s quarters, there was also a set of metal-framed bunk beds. There was a maroon-and-black, machine-made rug from Iran on the floor. Interpreters and U.S. soldiers (invited by interpreters they worked with) all hung out here before and after dinner. Sometimes we’d bring food from the chow hall and eat t
here. It was the first place where I really saw U.S. soldiers and interpreters socializing during off-hours. The soldiers loved laughing at the local TV shows, where if any female was wearing short sleeves, her bare arms would be blurred out. Or they would see some woman on TV and say, “Hey, look, we can see Afghan women during our deployment.” The interpreters would reply, “Yes, but they are not Pashtun women. They are the Kabuli women, and it is not the same. Real Pashtun women are not allowed to be seen by men!” They would argue back and forth, and I would sit there in my jeans and T-shirt, watching the interpreters telling the soldiers the difference between a Pashtun woman and a Kabuli woman. Were they trying to insult me by having this discussion in front of me? I honestly didn’t think so. Like myself, they didn’t see me as belonging to either group; for that moment I was an American.

  Most of the interpreters were like me, Afghans who’d been forced to flee to Pakistan, where they’d grown up to become men and women who belonged to no one culture completely. Haaroon was my favorite. He was around twenty-two, long-faced and serious, the youngest child and only son in his family. He had long, slim fingers, like a musician. He was careful with his words and spent most of the time sitting quietly, observing his surroundings. I immediately thought of him for my sister. Unlike me, Najiba said she would not marry an American, and wanted to be with someone of similar background.

  I’m sure they had a TV-watching room at the airfield, but Haaroon and a few others, all Afghans with heavy brows, white teeth, and a slight smirk always playing on their faces, liked to come to the PRT and hang out with the other PRT interpreters.

  Most days I wouldn’t show up at the tearoom until long after dinner. I would have had a meeting with Judy after dinner, or I’d find myself in a conversation with some soldiers at the chow hall, or Eric would have called me. I’d arrive to find them slouched in front of the TV like a bunch of retirees. It looked as if they’d been sitting in those chairs, or reclining on that slim mattress, for many years, bored and unmoving. I couldn’t keep myself from laughing. If there’s one thing an Afghan is good at, it’s sitting and waiting, a must-have quality in a U.S. soldier. The similarities between Afghan culture and U.S. Army culture baffle my mind.

  When I finally showed up, one of them named Ahmad, who had bright black eyes and a fat black mustache, would say, “Oh, good, now the talking can start. When it’s just us guys it’s so boring.”

  “That’s your own fault,” I’d reply. “If you allowed your women to be CAT I’s, they could be here talking to you, like I do.”

  “Ah, no,” they’d say. “Our women are not like you.”

  Whenever I could wrestle the conversation around to the topic of their women, I did. So much attention is paid to building schools for girls, but their men refuse to allow them to go. In a culture where women are so dependent on the goodwill of the men, how can we expect to move women’s rights forward without getting the men to bring them to the new age of liberty and democracy? Without my realizing it, this had become a personal mission of mine, to keep a running conversation about Afghan women.

  Haaroon seemed to be more interested in the subject than the others were.

  “Women need some freedom,” I’d insist. “You need to let them go to school, to support them in their studies.”

  “They don’t want to go to school,” Haaroon would say. “They’re not like you.”

  “Perhaps they need a little encouragement.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, doubtful.

  Some nights Haaroon showed up by himself. I think the other men had wives back in their villages, but Haaroon was alone. On those nights we’d discuss philosophy, politics, and Bollywood, for which Haaroon had a secret passion. Other nights, the group would discuss issues of the day, but gradually everyone but Haaroon would leave, and he and I would sit drinking tea and talking. He could talk for hours, his soft voice never seeming to tire.

  “Do you ever speak with your sisters about the things we talk about?” I asked one evening.

  “They’re only interested in women stuff,” he replied. “Not the rest of the world.”

  “Explain to me this woman stuff. What do you mean? Am I not a woman?”

  “Once I tried to talk to my sister about Karzai, and she couldn’t figure out what was going on. It made her nervous and stressed out, so I stopped.”

  “You stressed her out, trying to talk about politics.”

  He frowned, confused, as if I’d asked him to solve a difficult math problem. I thought he was cute. I told him I would love to have met his sisters and to be there while he talked to them.

  “I know it’s strange for me to be saying this, Haaroon, but I think you would be a good match for my sister.” As a Pashtun female, I was not supposed to offer up my sister like that because his family was supposed to beg for her hand—in fact, I wasn’t even supposed to acknowledge the fact that I had a sister of marriageable age. Still, there was an American matchmaker in me. Najiba had begun getting to know (since it was not dating in the true American sense) a young Nepalese man named Kabir, but I didn’t know at the time that it was serious, and found Haaroon to be handsome and earnest. As soon as the words left my mouth I realized my cultural blunder and wanted to explain.

  “My sister is very Pashtun. She’s not like me. She has no idea I’m saying these things.”

  At that moment Ahmad came back with a couple of soldiers from his unit. They wanted some tea. One of them turned on the hot plate and set about making it. A plate of green grapes sat on the table. Haaroon stared at it and was silent. What had I done? Clearly, he was upset. Before he could open his mouth, another CAT I appeared in the doorway. He was one of the regulars. He loved to tease me about being a rich American.

  “What about you, Miriam? Don’t you want to marry a nice Pashtun?”

  “I’m already engaged,” I answered without thinking. I could have gone all deployment without saying a word: I’d shipped Eric’s beautiful gold-and-ruby ring back home, for fear it would be stolen, and as far as anyone knew, when I took personal phone calls they were all from my family in Oregon.

  Miriam is engaged! This was breaking news. I rarely shared anything personal about myself. By the next evening word was out that I was not simply engaged but engaged to an American soldier. Pointing out to them that he was an officer and not a soldier was going to be irrelevant. In the tearoom, there were shouts of Woo-hoo! and fist pumping from the Americans, as if they’d scored one for their team. The CAT I’s were dumbfounded. How could I do this to Pashtun men? How could I betray them so? Our evening gatherings became combative. For Pashtuns, arguing is like a sport. The interpreters argued with me mercilessly, and I argued right back, all in good sport. Don’t take it personally, I assured them. You’re all great, but even if I wasn’t already engaged, I would never marry any of you; you’re too controlling. You can’t help it; look at how you’re trying to control me right now! We were arguing in English, for the benefit of the soldiers, who were watching, mesmerized.

  Once, while we were going back and forth, my cell phone rang. A smile must have crept onto my face as I looked at the caller ID, because Ahamd cried, “It’s him, it’s him!” And the others chimed in, “We are your people! You belong with us. He’s a foreigner. He doesn’t understand you. Don’t talk to him!”

  I excused myself and took the call from Eric. He wanted to know if I’d given any thought to our guest list. It took me a minute to figure out what he was talking about. The guest list? The interpreters were just teasing me about Eric, but they were right. He was so different, which was part of his enormous appeal, part of why I couldn’t help but love him. He had lived a life totally different from that of the men from my country. True, he had lived amid missions and bombs and tanks, just like the Afghan men, but he had chosen to join the army and to be in that environment. The Afghan men were forced to live there in war. Having had no choice about that had made them bitter and angry to a degree that frightened me. Eric could separate the violen
ce around him from within him; the Afghan men’s violence became them; you could see it hovering behind their dark eyes.

  Once I returned to the party the other interpreters cried, “Did you break up with him?”

  “Not today. Ask me again tomorrow.”

  Haaroon never joked about my engagement, nor did we ever mention my sister again.

  Judy already knew I was engaged to a soldier, although I hadn’t divulged that he was a fellow PRT commander. Shortly after I’d arrived, when I saw she wasn’t going to fire me, I had told her, to explain all the time I was spending on the computer and the phone in the evening.

  She was married to a fellow commander, and she cautioned me that it wasn’t easy. I think she was genuinely concerned. One day not long after, I was sitting on a bench beneath the narange trees, and an older U.S. Army officer I’d never seen before sat down beside me. He was tall, slender, and blue-eyed. His hair was completely gray. I thought he was just a nice officer out for a walk, but he turned out to be the army chaplain. He said that he heard I was engaged to marry an American.

  “Is he Christian?”

  “Catholic,” I said.

  He asked if there was anything he could explain to me, anything he could help me understand.

  “To be honest, I’m not very religious, and my fiancé respects my religion enough. We both pretty much feel the same, that it’s important to be good and to do good, and if you don’t, there are consequences.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” he said. Then he told me that he’d done several tours in Iraq and studied Islam; he felt it was important to know the religion of the host country. He said he deeply admired my faith and certainly wasn’t going to encourage me to convert; it sounded as if I was going into my marriage with my eyes open. Then he asked about Eric’s ethnic heritage. I told him he was half Italian and half Argentinean.