Afghanistan: Memory and Tragedy

Photo by Steve McCurry  www.stevemccurry.com

 

I am very deeply saddened by the fall of Kabul, and of the country of Afghanistan, this past week to the Taliban, a violent, feudal, fundamentalist regime.  While it was probably  inevitable that it would happen, as Afghanstan is a country that has been devastated with war ever since the coup of 1973,  I do not speak to that here, or try to analyze the sad desolation of the country since that time.  And while debate and blame rages on the internet about the U.S. withdrawal, leaving the people of Afghanistan  to their fate, while internet voices loudly blame the Bush presidency and the military complex for invading in the first  place,  and equally, while voices on the internet condemn Biden's presidency for withdrawing from Afghanistan after 20 years.............I don't chose to speak to that either in this post.  

I just grieve for the people of Afghanistan, some of whom I knew long ago in my youth.  I grieve especially for the women and girls, who will now be utterly oppressed by a patriarchal religion and regime that regards women as, in essence, slaves.  And affords them virtually no freedom. They will have no sovereignty any longer, and many will be punished or killed for whatever freedoms they briefly enjoyed during the American occupation.   I grieve for the hope so many Afghans had when they were liberated, at least in the urban centers, in the early 2000's.  I grieve for the intellectuals, the doctors and teachers and artists and writers and scientists, who will now be forced to flee, if they can, from a feudal oppressive religious regime that will allow no free thought or freedom of speech.  I grieve for the genocide that will now come, indeed, is no doubt going on as I write, as people who are accused of being associated with the Americans are killed by the "rightous warriors" of Allah.

Or "God", or "Mohammed" or "Yaweh" or even, sadly "Jesus"  -  all the womanless, merciless   gods of authoritarian Patriarchy, concretized into religions that their enlightened Prophets of long ago would no doubt be horrified by.  All the suffering, all the endless violence in the name of these "gods", whether it is the burning of witches at the Inquisition, or the  enslavement of the women of Kabul.

I GRIEVE FOR THEM ALL, AND PRAY, EVERY DAY, FOR THE RETURN OF THE GODDESS TO OUR BROKEN WORLD. 

Photo by Steve McCurry  www.stevemccurry.com

 

1966:  A Memory 

Photo of Istalif area

Istalif, outside of Kabul, was famous for its blue glass artisans, and its beautiful blue pottery.  Maybe it still is. I don’t know – my memories are of bulky azure glasses, and thick strands of cerulean beads that jingled on the camel harnesses, and occasionally the wrists, of nomadic Kootchi women passing through Kabul, where I lived as a teenager, as they made their seasonal routes  in caravans.  Probably they no longer do this journey through Afghanistan, which has been war torn for so very long.  I don't know, but I remember the Kootchis,  and I remember the camels.  

My father worked for U.S. A.I.D., and I attended an international school in Kabul.  This was during the very hopeful and prosperous days of the Sorbonne educated King Mohammed Zahir Shah  who was dedicated to modernizing the country, and brought into Kabul embassies and aid from countries aroundt he world.  The American Compound and community in Kabul was extensive, and included my father, who worked with the Teacher's College at the University of Kabul.   It was an exciting time for the country - in Kabul women were becoming educated, taking off the veil, western technologies and medicine were flooding into the urban centers and being dispersed into the more rural areas, and even the arts flourished in Kabul. 

And I was just another "embassy brat", finishing up my last high school  year at A.I.S.K. (the American International School of Kabul).  I was 16,  and like all 16 year olds, I thought mostly about romance, adventure, and what was "new and happening", which at the time was  the Beatles, mini skirts, and Swinging London. 

Just before I left Afghanistan, my family went for an excursion to Istalif,  a village not too far from Kabul.  It was late spring, and waters rushed down in cold, lively streams from fierce mountains still snow-clad.  Many  westerners went to Istalif to sight-see, and there was a rather  exclusive restaurant that catered to foreigners there - it offered a good view, and  coffee and pastries.

Shop in Istalif with famous turquoise wares

Debbie Simon (my best friend) and I were, like all 16 year olds, eager to get away from the boring conversations of our elders. Dressed in our French coats, our high black boots and mod turtlenecks, with adolescent stealth we escaped the tabled terraces for a while, to walk below on  granite boulders that overlooked a stream.  We were young, fashionable, and elated with the prospect of leaving Afghanistan.  Debbie was headed home to New York, and I was going to London to attend a secretarial college.  

Debbie’s father worked for the Embassy, and both our fathers had completed their assignments.  We were going back to the states at last!   Back to  the Rolling Stones and boys and beaches and college sooner or later.   As we talked excitedly, not so far away was a familiar sight – a group of local women doing laundry by the stream. Seeing us approach, they had dropped their chadoris over their faces, and now resembled a collection of multi-colored tents huddled among the  rocks.  We paid no attention to them, and they returned to their work.

I didn’t notice when one “tent” disengaged from the rest and quietly approached us.   But we grew silent as she came to stand,  silently, about fifteen feet before us, her face hidden under layers of pleated cloth, an opaque net before her eyes.   As we watched in surprise, her hands emerged from the chador to lift it above her face.  

Before us stood a girl of 16 or 17.  Black eyes lined in kohl shone with humor.   She smiled shyly at each of us as she lifted her veil,  and then she dropped it before her face again, turned and walked back to the group of veiled women as Debbie and I stood  silently on our rock by the stream.

I don't know why she approached us. Perhaps she just wanted to let us know that she also was young and pretty, reminding us of our common youth, and yet living in worlds so far apart.   I never forgot that moment - it was a gift.  

I also never have forgotten the enormous privilege my life has been.

Photo by Steve McCurry  www.stevemccurry.com

Photos by Steve McCurry  www.stevemccurry.com

The Afghan Women's Writing Project & New Documentary

Writing began for me as an escape from my burqa,

 an escape from my most painful moments. – Pari

Last week I attended a benefit screening of FRAME BY FRAME, a new film by Alexandria Bombach and Mo Scarpelli.  It was such a moving and well made film, that deeply revealed the courage of four Afghani photo journalists, one a woman, another an artist who won a Pulitzer prize.  It tell so poignantly not only the story of these artists, dedicated to telling the stories of those who cannot speak, very often at danger to their own lives, but also the healing vitality of the arts in the face of repression and tyranny.  I highly recommend this film, and highly recommend checking out and supporting if one can the organization it was screened for, the AFGHAN WOMEN'S WRITING PROJECT.  

I went to high school in Afghanistan, as my father worked for USAID, in the days before the deposition of the King, good days of prosperity and modernization  for that war torn country.  It is hard for us, especially for women, to imagine what has happened there under the tyranny of the Taliban - the Afghan Women's Writing Project is an Internet based group of volunteer teachers and networkers who assist women in the country to share and develop their writings - to tell their stories through poetry and fiction. For many of these women it is a vital lifeline, and their words are beautiful and heart-rending.

Photo by Lorenzo Tomada

Live Today

What if I die tomorrow?
Nothing is so easy.
I don’t live in yesterday
because it is gone.
I don’t live in the future
because it is not here yet.
It will come, whether I am alive or not 
I live today. It is the moment!
Live today,
Not the regrets of yesterday,
Not the worries of tomorrow…
Enjoy the moment,
The smile, the tea, the food,
The dance, the song, the walk
Enjoy the love and existence.
Live in today
Forget yesterday and tomorrow.
They are gone or not here yet. 

By Raha

http://awwproject.org/

"When the Taliban ruled Afghanistan, taking a photo was a crime. After the regime fell from power in 2001, a fledgling free press emerged and a photography revolution was born. Now, as foreign troops and media withdraw, Afghanistan is left to stand on its own, and so are its journalists. Set in a modern Afghanistan bursting with color and character, FRAME BY FRAME follows four Afghan photojournalists as they navigate an emerging and dangerous media landscape—reframing Afghanistan for the world, and for themselves. Through cinema vérité, intimate interviews, powerful photojournalism, and never-before-seen archival footage shot in secret during the Taliban regime, the film connects audiences with four humans in the pursuit of the truth."

“A piercing, poignant and—as befits its subject—beautifully composed exploration of the challenges and responsIbilities faced by photojournalists in Afghanistan’s post-Taliban free press.” –Variety

https://youtu.be/w6dkvb4_ZlQ

A Five Kilometer Walk to School

by AWWP | April 14, 2016 

Last December, my family held a graduation party for me and my siblings. Alia and I had graduated high school and my elder sister, Gullafroz, and my elder brother, Arif, graduated from university.

At the end of the party, as I was serving tea to everyone, my auntie called me to talk. She began, “Look you are graduated now, for example, you learned everything and you are smart now.” She said “for example” to make fun of me. Every time my auntie came to our home, she always said school was not a good option and advised my sisters and me to get married rather than go to school.

I was searching for my sisters from the corner of my eye; they were at a side of the room talking to each other. They smiled back and rolled their eyes—meaning they had already heard the lecture.

“When I was your age,” she said, coming close to look straight into my eyes as if she was telling the world’s biggest secret, “I was married and had a child. My in-laws were so happy to have me as their son’s bride. You have to marry soon because you are young and quick. I was young once too, and I could finish my house chores faster than anyone else.”

I said to myself, “I can do math faster than those house chores.”

She continued talking about her early life. But I was not listening. My mind was on a memory from Kandahar.

After I finished third grade at school in Kabul, my father found a job in Kandahar and the whole family had to move there. It was mid-December when we arrived. We had to live in a small apartment with two tiny square rooms and a square yard. A tiny bathroom was on one side and it shared a wall with the kitchen, which only had room for one person to cook while standing.

There was a girls’ school about three blocks away from our home, which my sisters and I attended. I really liked my school. I wore a long black dress down to my knees and black pants that I pulled high so that my ankles could be seen. My ankles were whiter than those of the Pashtun girls I saw. I really wanted them to see my ankles. I thought they would be jealous of my white feet; instead they looked at us as if looking at something dirty. And of course, we had to wear the white headscarves. Gulafroz was covered in black from head to toe since she was older. I ironed my uniform every night before going to sleep and polished my black sandals.

One summer morning, I got dressed and took my pink umbrella to shield my head from the sun although it was only 6:30 a.m. and the sun had not risen yet. When my sisters and I arrived in front of the school gate, there were two men standing there. They looked like tall, long birds with wide eyes. To see them, I had to raise my head high and move my umbrella to the side. They were frowning.

One of them asked, “Almond-eyed people, where are you going?” The other one spoke in a Pashto accent. I could not understand all the things he said, but I understood this: “Go back. School is closed. Go back home. Never again, no female school.” The two men exchanged some words in Pashtu and then burst out laughing.

One of the men was dressed in a dark brown pirhan tumban, the traditional dress for men. He had dark eyes, a steadfast gaze, and thick eyebrows. He looked down at me and frowned so that his thick eyebrows almost came together.

He shrieked at me, “I said go home, stupid Hazaras!”

“I want to go to my school,” I said.

They stepped forward and pushed the three of us to the ground. Our black uniforms filled with dust. They shouted and told us to go home and never come back again.

We were scared and ran back home. Two weeks passed but still the school was locked. My sisters and I were so depressed being at home that my father started taking us with him to the hospital where he was working twice a week.

One day it was too hot to play outside so I sat in the waiting room observing the patients and the doctors doing their work. A Korean doctor entered the room. She wore a white coat and she looked fascinating to me. For a moment, I saw myself instead of that woman. The desire to be proud of myself and make my father proud of me rushed into my heart and cut it so deep that I had to leave the room.

I sat outside in the harsh sunlight and cried. There was something I was longing for and it was hurting me. A woman, Khala Majan, who was cleaning the hospital, came to me. She asked, “What on earth caused my child to cry this innocently?”

“I want to go to school.” I said. When I said this out loud I realized all I wanted was to be able to return to school in my black uniform and carry my pink umbrella above my head.

Khala sat down beside me and wiped my tears. “You want to go to school? Then go,” she said. “Why you are crying? Your tears won’t change anything. Remember your dreams won’t come to you; you have to walk to them. And to walk to your dreams you need feet and eyes. If your faith in going to school is still strong, then nothing on earth can prevent you from going.”

Then Khala suggested I attend a school that was three miles away from the hospital, about a two-hour walk from our home. After three days of begging, my father finally agreed to let us go. After six weeks of no school, we began walking to our new school.

We had to walk about three to four hours to get to school and home again. It was a very long way but it was fun for us. So we would not get lost we remembered the shops along the way: a music store that played Indian classic music, a vegetable store with all my favorite fruits, a mosque painted white with a door we always kissed as our mother told us to do and finally, a bookstore. I liked to stand outside this bookstore to look at the books they put out on display.

I recognized that bad won over good when two men pointed their guns to my father’s forehead and shouted to him to get out of Kandahar because he worked with foreigners. I do not blame those men. If we put pens and pencils in empty hands of men and make them busy with writing about the beauty of their life, then murderers and enemies of peace won’t have the chance to put guns in their hands and teach them to point their guns toward us.

Today I am happy that I have continued school and finished high school. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we had not returned to school, although the answer is simple: we would believe all the things our auntie said to us. Gulafroz would get married, then me and then Alia. We would miss the future we dreamed of. We would not work in the office we dreamed about. I would never get the house with the library in it that I want. I would miss the woman I wanted to become.

By Arifa, age 17

This piece has also been published by Women’s eNews. Photo by Global Partnership for Education.