Reflections on our Recent Trip to Kabul, Afghanistan

By Sheila Haddad

When I am invited by my friend and fellow AWSDA member, Carol Montoya, to go to Kabul, Afghanistan with her to train women in self-defense, I am honored and readily accept. Women for Afghan Women, an organization she has done training for in New York, has requested training for the women in Afghanistan. The director, Manizha Naderi, is Afghan herself and has been shuttling between New York and Kabul, but she has recently moved back and opened a branch there. A fellow friend and AWSDA member from Belgium, Leni De Goeyse, is accompanying us.

We leave Frankfurt, Germany and stop for a long layover in Dubai. It is fascinating to see every culture passing through, as though it is the gateway to every country in the world. We see everything from bright, colorful clothes to people covered in black from head to toe. As we check in for our flight with Ariana Airlines, I feel distinctly like a foreigner, blonde, light-skinned, and out of place. The Afghan people we talk to on the plane are very friendly and extremely helpful. Many of them make sure we have a place to stay and that someone is meeting us. Their warmth and generosity in welcoming us to their country is overwhelming. These are people who now live in other countries but return to visit relatives still residing here. With clucking sounds and shaking heads, they comment on the sad situation that is Afghanistan today. Descending into Kabul, we put on our headscarves. Looking out the window, seeing the brown of the land below, the dryness is almost palpable. We are not in Kansas any more Toto, I think.

Stepping out of the plane into the bright sun, the dry 100-degree heat engulfing us, it isn’t hard to catch sight of the distant brown mountains with trails of snow still lingering from the winter. The sky is a hazy blue and as I look around I think, these are scenes I see on TV, and now I am here. It is surreal as we walk on the potholed, packed earth ground to the carousel to pick up our luggage. All around are guards and military men with automatic weapons slung across their bodies, carefully scanning the passengers. Our luggage goes through an x-ray machine on our way out, and we head back into the bright light of midmorning. We walk through layers of security until a western-dressed woman meets us. Nationals, or Afghans, are not allowed in the airport or even the general vicinity unless they are flying out. Esther introduces herself to us. She is from New York and on the board of Women for Afghan Women. She tells us she has been there now a month. Constantly finding funding, meeting various people of other organizations, and juggling a variety of jobs, Esther is deeply committed to the project of helping the women of Afghanistan.

Sitting in a van, bouncing along blown-out rutted dirt roads, we make our way to Manizha’s house. I can’t help but notice how dry, how brown, how dusty everything is. There is little vegetation. We pass a river full of garbage, and along the river is the bombed-out rubble of once mud-brick homes. Squatters live there now, hungry and in rags. We wonder how they manage the freezing winters, and we are told they don’t.

Manizha’s house is very nice, and once we are within the tall cement walls and barbed wire that surround the house, we enter the coolness of her living room. I explore a little and take pictures of the roses that are growing in the dirt of her back yard. Everywhere you can see evidence of life reestablishing itself. The young boys are playing ball on the dirt street, and neighbor girls are pushing a wheelbarrow of large yellow plastic containers filled with water for their home. We rest and are given the schedule for our days here.

One thing we learn early on is that events just happen when they do. We may be scheduled for 9 am, but we don’t start until 10 am. We think we end at 3 pm or 4 pm, but when noon comes around, we are told time’s up. We start, and half-hour later it’s time to stop for teatime. I find being flexible, having no expectations, and smiling a lot are the ingredients for less stress.

Saturday morning, we leave the house early. It’s already warm out. People are walking along the rutted dirt road carrying freshly baked bread back home for breakfast. Kids are out tussling and wandering about. As we drive onto the main – and the only paved -- road, the shops lining the roadside are bustling already. They are open-fronted metal or wood squared huts with colorful signs hanging on top, wares stacked up outside, and each right next to the other as if leaning on each other for support. Bicycles crowd the road along with the cars and motorcycles, often with two or more people crammed on them. Pedestrians are everywhere, dodging between cars to cross the street. There is a flow of direction, although there are no lanes as we know them nor, apparently, any traffic rules. Wherever there is an opening, a vehicle will slide in. I feel lucky to sit in the back, my heart jumping into my throat whenever I look forward. It’s as if we are playing a giant game of chicken. Our driver is very good, and I am happy he knows the size of the car so well as I see him slide us within an inch of the one next to us. We stop along the way to pick up our translator, Deeba, who normally works for the Bank of Kabul but will be with us for the next few days. She is all smiles as she climbs in the car, greeting us as though we are all sisters.

As we drive to our destination, I am absorbed with life outside the windows of our van. There are still women wearing burkas, walking alongside their husbands who are carrying a child or two. Some women are wearing nice, loose slacks and blouses, but mostly I see skirts or dresses and always a headscarf. The men are in traditional loose white pants and long shirts, some turbaned, some not, some turbans white, some blue. Some are in suits carrying briefcases, going to work. Armed guards are everywhere, outside buildings and on street corners. Many businesses and homeowners hire guards from the Afghan army to protect their property. It’s early, but life is bustling.

We arrive at the headquarters of the Afghanistan Women Council, and a guard lets us through the walled compound to the inner courtyard. We are greeted by warmly smiling women. The women in the class are the staff of AWC. We have a general idea of what we plan to cover but soon discover they have other interests.

They want to know more verbal strategies; the biggest problem they face is dealing with the mother-in-law. The mother-in-law is verbally and emotionally abusive. She is denigrating, humiliating, and domineering. A daughter-in-law can do nothing right. And she can say nothing either. The mother-in-law may tell her son, the husband, her version of the daily events, and there is no possibility of defense or explanation on the wife’s part. In some cases, the husband will beat the wife, depending on his mood. The situation with the mother-in-law is one in which, which they insist the woman can not physically fight, and they request other tools we might bbe able to teach them. We include in our plan some verbal strategies and work on psychological concepts with some physical techniques. Shortly after beginning, it’s teatime. Two hours later the director, also in the class, tells us it is time to end -- it is Saturday and they close now. She is very sorry there is no more time. They would love for us to come back, and they thank us very much. Although shy at first, the women opened up and now are more enthusiastic. We would like to spend more time with them, and thank them for the honor.

That afternoon we go with Esther on a shopping excursion. We are driven to a well known shopping area called Chicken Street, where many nonnationals shop. It is still a narrow dirt-rutted street, and in some of the places we walk around we can see and smell raw sewage running down the side of the road. Our scarves come in handy at this point for covering our noses to keep out dust and smells. It is also an up-close and personal experience with the locals. We notice many of the men are very demonstrative with each other.

We see them holding hands, kissing, and showing behavior we associate with being lovers, although they may not be. We see women arm in arm, but they are not as physically close as the men. Religion dictates they are segregated until marriage. We find they are close and comfortable with their own gender but completely unknowing of the opposite sex aside from the traditions and roles they keep.

Sunday we are scheduled to teach at a safe house in Kabul. No one knows where it is exactly, but the driver gets us there through the morning rush hour traffic, onto dirt roads, and away from the hustle and bustle of street vendors, beggars, and people making their way to work. After picking up our translator again, we arrive at a very large walled-in compound. A guard escorts us to a beautiful garden area with trees and flowers and grass surrounding a large, well-kept house. Again we are greeting warmly by the director, whose English is perfect. She shows us to a wonderfully carpeted room with large cushions on the floor.

Seated around the walls and windows of the room are about 18 women, some with children on their lap, some with eyes downcast, and those who look at us look with empty glassy eyes. There is heaviness in the air as the director talks to the women, introducing us. She explains to us that the women in the room range in age from 16 up. They come to the house by referral, and they are there because their lives are in danger. They have been there anywhere from six months to three years. Some are waiting for court judgments. What they all have in common is they cannot walk outside the compound for fear of being killed. They have run away from their husbands.

Afghan women are allowed to file for divorce. They can go to the Ministry of Women and be referred to a safe house if they are abused and it is determined they are in imminent danger. But there are very few safe houses in Kabul and even fewer in the country as a whole. Most women do not experience even this much protection. A judge rarely rules in favor of the woman. In Afghanistan, when a woman marries, she is taken from her family to live with her husband’s family. And that includes the mother-in-law and any uncles, sisters, cousins, siblings, etc. that her husband may have. She is the lowest of the low in the household. Polygamy is still practiced, so in some cases, she is also there with other wives.

We learn that there is a high rate illiteracy in the country. The poorer the family is, the more chance the woman has of being married off early or bought. Some are still married off as early as 12 years old. The situation for women outside of Kabul in the other provinces and the countryside is far worse. The women run away from their husband’s family back to their family, which is a huge risk for everyone. If her family protects her, chances are the husband will come and beat or kill her mother, sister, or other female in the family. The whole female population is at risk. If the woman requests a divorce, she can go to a judge, but she is there with hundreds of others sitting in a large room, waiting for days and days until she can sit before the judge at his table in the center of the room to plead her case. Sometimes her family is with her, sometimes her husband or one of his family. The majority of the time when the judge makes his decision, she is told to return to her husband’s family, where life is then made even worse. In some cases, she refuses and is put in jail. Although the constitution provides for women’s rights, we are told over and over that the women are not protected by the law. No one upholds them. No one protects them. They are hopeless, and the despair they feel sends many of them to suicide. The only available means of suicide for them is setting themselves on fire. The have access to fuel for cooking, and they use it on their bodies. This is the only area they feel they have any control over -- their own death.

Although some progress is being made in building schools and making education available for girls, there are still so many who cannot attend. They are simply too poor, they are begging, they are barely -- and sometimes not even -- surviving. The situation is indescribable. It is a reality we in the west cannot begin to fathom.

All of this is what we see in the faces of these girls and women. As we start our talk, the first timid words spoken are the question: How can you help us when the law won’t protect us? What can you teach us that won’t get us killed somehow? No matter our answer, no matter what we share, they cannot get out of their heads the idea that anything they do will get them killed or put in jail. They argue against everything we say. Again our plan is altered. We ask them to please just go along with us, that we have no answers, but let’s see what develops. They agree with the idea of what do we have to lose anyway, and as the day progresses, we see life spark in their eyes again.

When they first hit a kick pad, they are very timid. It’s just a tap really, then a giggle into their scarf. They are extremely shy and beginning to tap into a power in themselves they have never experienced. By the end of the day, they are animated, full of life and hope. They say they feel they are warriors on the front line of the battle for other women in their country. They feel if they die fighting, die making a statement that could possibly send a message of hope to other women, it was a better life than anything they possibly had up to now.

What was living in hiding with no chance of being free, living in despair and hopelessness, only waiting for the end to come? No, they choose the fight, to be free inside, maybe not yet outside, but they would fight for their sisters, fight on the front lines of this war.

We are moved beyond words at the end of the day. We are in tears ourselves as they hug us, hold our hands, and lay their heads on our shoulders. Many are still very child like, even the older women. They seem to have stopped developing emotionally, staying at the age they were when they were forced to leave their families. Although in adult bodies, they are girl warriors willing to fight for life. We return to Manizha’s with so much to talk over, so much to think about. We are realizing how changed our perceptions of living, dying, and being free are and asking ourselves the question: What are we willing to die for? It has been an intense day.

Monday morning, we are up early again and ready to go. This time we are having the courses at the Women for Afghan Women office. We arrive, get set up, and wait for the women to arrive. Some of the staff of Women for Afghan Women will participate, and some women from a couple other organizations will be there also. They arrive, and we begin. They are psychologists and social workers. They train women who come to their offices in life skills and work with them on self-esteem and confidence. Once again we are confronted with the same issue, dealing with the mother-in-law and the need for verbal skills. Our translator Deeba, by this point, has a good working knowledge of the concepts we have been sharing and can communicate them even before we get to them. She herself is very excited with what she is learning. It is becoming clear after all this teaching that the way for the women to integrate any concepts is through experiencing their physical power. The psychologists and social workers are extremely attentive, already very confident, educated, and self-contained women. They experience their own physical power for the first time. They really throw themselves into the training. As we end our session with them, they are all smiles. They share that they now know how to work with the girls who come to them. They see the value in this training in regards to the confidence and self-worth they have been trying to teach the girls and women they work with. They understand now that these concepts remain mere mental constructs unless the body can experience the truth of it. They can then own it. It is very rewarding.

After lunch, we are asked to train the male staff of Women for Afghan Women. There are two social workers, two guards, and two drivers. They accompany the women counselors to the homes where violence has been reported. They are shocked and in disbelief that women have something to teach them. They enter the room sheepishly, smiling coyly, and with a sense of doubt yet also curiosity. We ask them what are some situations they would like to learn to deal with. They share what they have been confronted with, and we dive right in.

After the first technique and explanation, they are all eyes and ears. They love it, want more, and have a ton of questions. They practice knowing that their lives depend on it. After a couple of intense hours, it is time. They are disappointed and tell us they want more, not to stop. But it is time to end, and we thank them very much for their attention. We see them later practicing in the yard still, sweating and grunting, laughing and happy.

We have been invited to Deeba’s house to meet her family. They are warm, generous, and so friendly as are all the Afghan people we have met so far. We sit on the cushions lining the wall, eating a wonderful meal which is traditionally served on the floor. Deeba tells us about her sister’s wedding party where it is customary for the men and women to stay in separate rooms. She tells us her father had the party planned for all the guests to celebrate in one room. Some men said they wouldn’t allow their wives to be in the company of other men. He told them, “Then don’t come!” How refreshing. What a great story. As we are leaving, we are each given a scarf as a gift.

It is our last night. Back at Manizha’s, we are busy, quietly writing in our journals. We have been keeping record of our experiences. We talk, process, and share what we have learned, our frustrations, and small victories. We are tired, but it is a good tired.

Tuesday morning, we wait in Manizha’s office until it is time to head for the airport.

A young woman of 17 is brought into the building, in dire need of help. At the age of 12 she was given to a man who already had a wife. She was abused, beaten, tortured, tied up like a dog, and made to do things that I can’t write about here. She is scarred in more ways than one. She left her husband and ran back to her family. Her family is extremely poor, living in the mud huts up on the hillsides where they have no water, walking up and down every day to get it in the heat and the snow. She has eight younger brothers and sisters, and they do not even have food for the evening. This young woman cannot go back to her family because the husband threatens them. He already has beaten her mother when he came to the home supposedly to return divorce papers. Everyone in the office is making donations to buy clothes, food, and necessary items for her and her family.

This is the start of an emergency fund. Plans are made regarding her care. She will stay there to learn to cook, clean, sew, and do simple things. There is no escaping the despair, the outrage, the anger, and the helpless feelings we all are experiencing. This is just one of thousands of similar stories of treatment of women and girls.

But on the other side of this is another story we hear that warms our hearts. Manizha picks up a boy everyday at a prearranged stop on the road to the office.

He is one of thousands who try to earn money to help his family survive. His father is dead, and he lives with his mother and 8-year-old brother in a mud hut on the mountain next to the city. One day Manizha stopped in traffic, and he washed her windshield. She told him she didn’t have any money that day to pay him, but if he was there tomorrow at the same time she would give it to him. She did see him the next day and gave him several AFS (Afghan money), more than he had asked for. The day after that she passed by again, and he cleaned her windshield but wouldn’t take any money for it, telling her she had paid him too much the day before.

Manizha was so impressed that she contacted his mother and told her she would pay for the family’s food and clothes and send him to school but with one requirement: that he never work the dangerous streets again. It was agreed, and now everyday Manizha picks him up on her way to the office. He sits there all morning and does his homework and goes to school in the afternoon. He is so sweet, very sensitive, and thoughtful. It’s amazing that he has such a sense of integrity despite his desperate situation.

Now it is time to leave for the Kabul International Airport. We go through the layers of security, including extensive “pat downs.” As we sit in the crowded waiting room, we watch the construction workers outside. The posters of the renovated Kabul International Airport are hanging on the walls. This new airport is quite beautiful and very modern. When I look from the poster to outside, to the ruts, the dust, the dry desert and brown mountains, the tanks, the military posted everywhere, I only hope this new Kabul will be realized.

A dust storm picks up, the sky is clouded over, and the bright of day diminishes to dusk. I hear coughing, and I start coughing. I realize my eyes sting and lungs burn from breathing in fine particles of dust that have found their way into the building. I cover my mouth and nose with the headscarf and relax. After an hour, it passes. Our delay stretches into hours. I am glad I have a book with me. It is hard to read, though, as scenes from the last several days continue to appear in my mind, as if watching a movie.

I am now back home. I have had time to do a lot of reflecting. I have an interest and connection to a country that previously was only something I heard about on the news. I am reading books that give me a greater understanding of historical patterns that have shaped the country and its people.

I understand just a bit better religious beliefs and tribal differences. I don’t know if I will go back, I do know that I would like to. The men who support the equality of women and work to better their lives have touched my heart.

My soul feels a kinship with the women who are so loving, so giving, and so brave. The problems the country faces as a whole are deep and complex. There are no simple solutions, and nothing will be done overnight.

I do know, however, that those of us outside Afghanistan cannot give up.