Life for My Friend in Afghanistan

Much of this blog post about my Afghan friend will be intentionally vague. I will refer to her as Fatima, although that is not her real name.

I’ve changed her name and the circumstances under which we met to protect her identity and safety and ensure the organization’s anonymity that helped facilitate our friendship.

Soon after 9/11, in the capacity of the publisher and chief operating officer of World Press Review Magazine, I was invited to a two-day conference with students and educators from war-torn areas of the world—primarily the Middle East, South Asia, and the Balkans.

I was looking forward to the conference because there would be a delegation from Afghanistan, and I wanted to meet them first hand, hoping for an exclusive interview with one or more of them.

I brought along a spiral notebook hoping to fill it with enough material about my interaction with the Afghan contingent to write a compelling, knock-your-socks-off article for Worldpress.org.

The notebook had the following words on the cover: NOT ALL WHO WANDER ARE LOST.

As I entered the reception room, I saw a handful of young women in pale blue full-body cloaks, otherwise known as burkas. Their faces were completely covered except for a small area around the eyes, camouflaged by heavy netting. As they huddled closely together, I walked over and introduced myself.

When I stuck my hand out in greeting, I realized that their cloaks had no armholes. I awkwardly apologized while they all silently bowed their heads up and down.

The conference organizer informed me that I would be sitting with Fatima, an Afghan teacher, and her students.

As we went around the table offering our names, Fatima quietly prompted her students to introduce themselves. To be honest, if she hadn’t spoken to her students, I wouldn’t have known the difference between student and teacher. With all that material covering Fatima’s face and body, I wouldn’t have known if she was sixteen or sixty.

I made a few quick observations: At first glance, I was unnerved by this hooded creature. The woman looked like a blue ghost, and the semi-transparent mesh fabric covering her eyes made it impossible to garner any sort of emotion from them.

Fatima was eyeless and faceless, and I wasn’t sure where to focus my own eyes. I can usually tell a lot about someone through their eyes. Do they make eye contact? Do their eyes reveal sadness or gladness? Are they happy to see me?

Because the semi-transparent mesh obscured her eyes, the fabric made it impossible for me to size her up. I felt self-conscious as I tried to focus on where her eyes should be, but I forced myself to do so anyway.

Her burka was nylon—you know, the kind of fabric that doesn’t breathe. And as I tried to make small talk, I couldn’t help but imagine how uncomfortably warm she must have felt.

Surprisingly to me, we hit it off right away. I suppose my knowledge of Afghanistan and the cruelty of the Taliban helped to promote easy conversation. Her English was excellent, and we were equally interested in each other’s stories.

The burka served as a roadblock between us, though.  Here I was in my designer dress—hair and makeup accentuating my persona while she sat there visibly invisible. I unfairly imagined what she looked like: Dark eyes, swarthy skin, with teeth in need of an orthodontist.

She asked me about my family background, and I told her about recently finding my paternal family.

I explained to Fatima that until June of 2001, I knew nothing about my father or that side of my family. She listened in fascination as I told her about discovering that my father was a Syrian Christian. And that his mother, my paternal grandmother, was in all likelihood a Syrian Jew and that I had five half brothers and sisters I never knew existed.

I divulged something to her that I had never uttered out loud before: That I had finally found peace and relief, and although I never knew I needed it, I felt almost whole and more complete than ever before. I shared a photo of my daughter and half-sister, and she enthusiastically agreed that they looked eerily alike, although not surprising.

She delighted in the story and the discovery of my heritage and newly found siblings. The woman without a face listened in amazement and peppered me with question after question. I will remember forever what she said to me after I finished telling her my story: “You can’t see it, but I’m smiling.”

And then it was Fatima’s turn to tell me about herself. She was in her early 30’s, and coming to America was a life-long dream.

She, too, had found peace in 2001, when in October, the United States invaded Afghanistan. “Until then, the Taliban treated girls and women worse than animals,” Fatima whispered in her thick accent while furtively looking to the right and left, as though there were spies among us.

Her head hung low as Fatima explained that when the Taliban came to prominence in the fall of 1994, life as she knew it changed for her. “The Taliban imposed strict and oppressive rules and orders based on their misinterpretation of Islamic law. Women had effectively committed the crime of being born a girl.”

Fatima pointed out a student of hers that was old enough to be in the seventh grade, but she had just finished second grade because, under the Taliban, she had not attended school for almost seven years.

In 1994, the Taliban’s assault on women began immediately. They barred women from attending classes or working at Kabul University. The Taliban forced nearly all women to quit their jobs, which had a devastating impact on household incomes, especially widow-headed households, which, according to Fatima, was common in Afghanistan.

They drastically restricted women’s access to medical care, brutally enforced a burka dress code, and made the ability of women to move about Kabul impossible. The Taliban forced them to quit their jobs as teachers, doctors, nurses, journalists, government officials, and clerical workers.

She further explained that domestic violence had become rampant in Afghanistan—the physical evidence conveniently hidden under the burka.

“Under the Taliban regime, there was a complete ban on women working outside of the home, which made it impossible for me to teach,” Fatima explained. “And there were no schools for girls anyway, so my profession was useless,” she continued, barely audible between her whispering and all that material covering her mouth. When I told her it was hard to hear her, she apologized, saying that as a veiled woman, it was also hard for her to hear and that the burka was claustrophobic and unbearably warm.

Her depiction of the Taliban was haunting.

The Taliban banned movies, music, dancing, clapping during sports events, beard trimming, shaving, card and board games, cameras, children’s toys including stuffed animals and dolls, television, and paper bags. They outlawed hanging pictures in homes, pet parakeets, satellite dishes, chess, cigarettes, alcohol, magazines, newspapers, most books, anything made from human hair, nail polish, statues, pictures, paintings, or photos of any living thing.  Children were forbidden to fly kites or sing songs.

“They even forbid applause, although the ban was a moot point since, as a woman, there was absolutely nothing left to applaud. We used to describe ourselves as the living dead.”

The only public transportation permitted for women were special buses, which were rarely available, and all of their windows, except the driver’s, was covered with thick, filthy blankets.

The Taliban indiscriminately beat Afghans with heavy clubs and long sticks daily. They publicly stoned adulterers to death and amputated the hands of thieves. They banned films with women, and images of females in newspapers, books, shops, or the home. Every visual depiction of a woman was forbidden.

When paying any merchant, a woman’s hand could never be exposed when handing over money or receiving their purchase. Makeup and nail polish were illegal, as well as white socks and white shoes. The Taliban frequently cut off fingers with nail polish.

While the burka existed before the Taliban, its wearing was not a requirement. It was only when the Taliban came into power that the burka became mandatory. Even girls as young as eight or nine years old had to wear a burka. They enforced the wearing of the burka with threats, fines, and severe punishments. And even the accidental showing of a foot or ankle resulted in brutal on-the-spot beatings or, in some unfortunate situations, amputation.

Fatima explained that a burka is expensive and can cost the equivalent of five month’s Afghan salary. And any woman unable to afford a burka faced house arrest. In some neighborhoods, women would share a single garment, many of them waiting days and weeks for their turn to go out, despite their lack of food and medical needs. Fatima described women and girls as wingless birds.

She quoted me an often-used Taliban phrase: “There are only two places for Afghan women. In her husband’s house and the graveyard.”

When I asked her why she was still wearing a burka, she answered that even after the fall of the Taliban regime, many women felt that there was still no safe alternative. “The majority of women who don’t wear a burka face the possibility of being single for the rest of their lives,” said Fatima. She emphasized that it was still a struggle for a woman to gain employment, so they had no choice but to continue relying on men for money. “Men don’t want to marry women who do not abide by hijab.”

She looked around to see if anyone was listening before she continued. “We had to paint our windows black so that no one could see inside, and I could not see outside. So, you see, for seven years, my world was dark.” She paused then, and I imagined that perhaps she was holding back tears. I tried especially hard to see her eyes but to no avail. And yet, I didn’t need to see her face to feel her pain as she continued.

“Yes, my world was dark for seven years because there was a complete ban on women’s activities outside the home. Unless a close male relative could accompany me, the Taliban forced me to spend most of my life in my house. So, when the Americans arrived, I was silently hoping that the worst was over for us. And that my seven years of misery were over.”

We spent hours talking about the horrific life of an Afghan woman. From eight years old, girls were not allowed direct contact with males other than a close blood relative, husband, or in-law. Women and girls were not allowed to be treated by male doctors unless accompanied by a male chaperone, which caused many illnesses to go untreated. Women faced public flogging and execution if they violated Taliban laws.

The Taliban perpetrated egregious and unending violence against women, including rape, abduction, and forced marriages.

Women were not allowed to speak, laugh, or make any sound in public because it was deemed improper for a stranger to hear their voices. Women were also barred from being involved in politics or speaking publicly and could not appear in the streets without wearing a burka. And they could not wear high-heeled shoes because if a man would hear a woman’s footsteps, it might excite him.

Fatima further explained that the light blue burka was commonly worn in Kabul and was native to Afghanistan. The cutwork by her eyes pricked her skin, leaving bloody marks and very little room to breathe and rendered her unable to eat. The small mesh panel allowed such limited vision that even safely crossing the street was difficult. And wearing the burka regularly often led to headaches, poor eyesight, hearing loss, asthma, and other severe disorders.

But worse than all of it was that Fatima longed to feel the sun on her skin.

I shocked her when I suggested that she take off the burka. I tried to assure her that no one in Afghanistan would ever know. After all, we were safe and sound in New York. She silently shook her head no.

We said goodnight, and I gently hugged her. She couldn’t hug me back because the burka constricted her arms. As I awkwardly patted her back, she leaned her head on my shoulder, and we stayed that way for a good while.

I awoke very early the next day, having had a fitful and sleepless night. I walked to the dining room, where I sat in quiet solitude at one of the many long tables. I ordered a coffee and mentally played back all I had learned and heard from my Afghan friend.

As I feverishly wrote in my notebook, a beautiful light-haired brunette woman sat across from me.

Let’s just say she had me at “good morning” because it was my burka-less friend!

Through my tears, I gazed into her piercing hazel eyes and attempted to speak, but I had to pause for fear of crying. She had the whitest of skin, probably because it had barely seen the light of day. I was finding it difficult to breathe. But she was calm.

Her smile was radiant. She had an endearing space between her two front teeth. It was a tiny gap but adorable and unforgettable.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her burka-less students.  They were visibly unsure of themselves and wary as their eyes darted around the room. The girls clustered together and hunched over each other.  Fatima looked over at the girls and gave them a head bow which they all respectfully returned.

When Fatima looked back at me, she said, “The girls are quiet because they’re used to being voiceless. Most of them have been kept inside and unable to go to school. Some of us women ran underground schools in our homes for girls and women under the guise of sewing and knitting classes. Many of my student’s parents were arrested and lost their jobs. They have seen teachers shot and executed for secretly schooling girls like them. My students have witnessed atrocities that children should never know or see. And I fear that even with the American presence in my country, their voices will never be heard.”

During one of our conference breaks, we walked outside, and Fatima tilted her pale face up toward the sky and basked in the sun, her hazel eyes closed.

As she turned away, with her back to me, the sun revealed the shiny red highlights in her hair. Her head no longer hung low; she was walking tall and strong. Her mighty shadow towered larger than life alongside her.

Why September 18 for the far-Right Rally?

When I heard about the far-right extremist pro-Trump rally, my first thought was if September 18, 2021 was chosen for a particular reason.

I have my theory about the date, although maybe it’s a coincidence that on September 18, 1850, the U.S. Congress passed the Fugitive Slave Act, which required that people who had escaped from slavery be captured and returned.

Former Donald Trump campaign official Matt Braynard who is spearheading the far-right extremist rally, recently told HuffPost that “protestors would be discouraged from holding election or candidate-related signs or wearing MAGA gear.”

His request sounds unconstitutional to me. And anyway, why not put it all out there? Is Braynard afraid of something?

I suggest you read the entire Fugitive Slave Act because A) I hope it will disgust you, and B) It eerily mirrors the recent Texas abortion law.

Is it possible that Texas lawmakers used the Fugitive Slave Act as a boilerplate for their draconian abortion restrictions? I say yes.

The Fugitive Slave Act essentially gave every American citizen the authority to hunt and roundup fugitive slaves.

Section 6 in the Fugitive Slave Act made it shockingly clear that captured slaves could not testify on their behalf or defense: “In no trial or hearing under this act shall the testimony of such alleged fugitive be admitted in evidence. . .”

Section 7 warned that anyone assisting or harboring slaves would be subject to a fine up to $1,000 (equivalent to $35,000 today) and imprisonment of up to six months.

Ironically, the harsh, brutal, and oppressive measures in the Fugitive Slave Act caused such outrage among abolitionists that its existence served as a vehicle to fight even harder against slavery.

The law also incentivized and spurred the continued operation of the Underground Railroad, a network of over 3,000 secret routes and safe houses used by slaves to escape from the slave-holding southern states to the free northern states and Canada. In 1850 alone, an estimated 100,000 slaves escaped via the network.

Many historians believe that the reversal of the Fugitive Slave Act in June of 1864 (14 years after its enactment), contributed to the country’s growing polarization over slavery and is considered one of the causes of the Civil War, which began in 1865.

Rep. Eric Swalwell (D-CA) has vehemently condemned preparations for the September 18 far-right rally. “We just have to make sure that if they are ready to get violent, that we’re ready again in a better way than on January 6 to defend the Capitol,” Swalwell said.”

With Trump out of office, defending the Capitol should be a breeze.

House Speaker Nancy Pelosi (D-CA) also condemned the far-right extremist rally. “And now these people are coming back to praise the people who were out to kill, out to kill members of Congress, successfully causing the deaths — ‘successfully’ is not the word, but that’s the word, because it’s what they set out to do — of our law enforcement, Pelosi said.”

According to a January 29 letter Braynard sent to the Department of Justice and FBI, the mob who stormed the Capitol on January 6 looking to hang Mike Pence, and resulted in the deaths of five people,  were nonviolent and “reasonably believed they had permission” to enter the Capitol.

Permission by Dear Leader Trump?

Former FBI Deputy Director Andrew McCabe said Monday evening that “it looks like, from all indications, our law enforcement partners are well prepared for this one. They seem to be taking the intelligence very seriously, which raises a question as to whether or not they did on January 6, but that’s another issue.”

Another issue, indeed.

My Stolen Diaries – Chapter 7: A New School with a Side of Baptism

CHAPTER 7

A NEW SCHOOL WITH A SIDE OF BAPTISM

January 1961

Mem, Mom, and Mere Germaine huddled around the kitchen table, whispering to each other. I was supposed to be asleep, but I snuck out of bed to try to hear what they were saying. Mom was doing all the talking, and it was mainly in French. I tried my best to figure out what was going on, but I was confused.

Mom was telling Mem and Mere that for me to go to St. Ambrose Elementary School after Easter break, I needed to get baptized.

Wait. Was I going to a new school? Nobody told me that. And I had no idea what a baptized was.

Mom went on to tell Mem that she would have to pretend to be my mother because the Catholic school wouldn’t accept anyone from an excommunicated family. Mere said that she didn’t want Mem to lie, but she had to agree with Mom that the only way I would get into St. Ambrose was if they pretended that I was Mem’s daughter and Mom was my sister!

Then Mem piped in that it was about time they baptized me Catholic anyway and that there was no reason I should be Greek Orthodox and risk going to Limbo. She blamed my dad for that.

Wherever Limbo was, it didn’t sound like a place I wanted to go. And no way did I want to go there with my father.

Then Mom said that if anyone at St. Ambrose asked, she would tell them that she was married to an oil rig worker stationed out of state and that Mem and Mere were widows. Mem and Mere bobbed their heads up and down like Mom was the boss of both of them.

They had always taught me that lying was a sin, so why was it okay for them?

The next day Mom sat me down and told me that because of Barbara Titone, I was going to a new school.

I was thinking about all the ways I could punch Tit out for causing me so much trouble. Mom scolded me for not paying attention.

Then Mom said that I had to tell everyone at St. Ambrose that I was Mem’s daughter. When I reminded Mom that lying was a sin, she told me to “shut it.”

It was Mem who told me that right before Easter, I was getting baptized. I wasn’t crazy about getting a pile of water dumped on my head, but what could I do? Mem promised me that she would take me to Howard Johnson’s for a banana split afterward, so I was excited.

Every time I saw Tit at school, I gave her the rat face, so she stayed far away from me, but so did everyone else because they thought I wasn’t right in my head.

While I waited to get baptized, I focused my attention on the top outside corner of our back porch, where two small birds were busily making a nest using dried leaves and twigs.

Soon, the birds had a baby! Mem called them Oiseaux, which means birds in French. The mommy bird peeked her head out of the nest while the daddy bird watched their wobbly baby hop around on our rotting rail. I knew which one was the mom because she was smaller than the dad. I asked Mem if she thought their tummies growled like mine when they were hungry. She said she didn’t know. My belly was always growling from hunger, and I was afraid that they were hungry too.

But mostly, I was afraid the hungry rats would eat my new friends. I asked Mem if rats ate birds, but she didn’t know that either.

There was a window in our kitchen, close enough to the nest for me to watch them. I put a small pot of water on the rail and laughed with delight when the birds took turns dunking their tiny heads in it. But Mem took the water away, explaining that it would bring other things, and I knew exactly what she meant by that. Every time I pressed my face against the windowpane, I prayed to God to make sure the rats didn’t eat my birds.

On the day of my baptism, Mem dressed me in all white. Mom couldn’t come because she had to work, so she sent one of her friends who came as my godparent, and Mere was a witness. Mem lied to the priest and told him she was my mother. Mere kept quiet and didn’t say one word. The priest was rough, and the water he poured all over my head and face was ice cold. Some of the water went up through my nose, and I started to choke. The priest forced me to keep my head back even though I was having trouble breathing. He told me to be strong for Jesus and that the Holy water would save me.

On the bus to Howard Johnson’s, Mem told me that Catholics were against divorced people. She explained that both she and Mom were divorced because they both married bad men. She made me promise not to tell anyone about their divorces, or I would have to go back to school with Barbara Titone. I told Mem I never wanted to see Tit again, but I also didn’t want to lie. She responded that I shouldn’t give her any trouble and just do what I was told.

On the first day of school at St. Ambrose, the kids were friendly, but the nuns were strict and grumpy. I made it my business to lie, lie, lie, and told everyone I met that my dad was a famous oil rig worker who worked far away and that I lived with my mom and older sister, even though nobody asked.

When I got home that day, daddy bird was lying limp on the porch. I poked him, but he didn’t move. Then I noticed the empty bowl of rat poison in the corner. I dragged a kitchen chair outside and climbed up to the nest, where I found the baby and mommy dead.

I took them out and laid them next to the dad. Then I poured water on their heads to baptize and save them, but it didn’t work. I gently placed my bird family into the bowl of poison, hid them underneath the bottom level of the porch, and prayed to God for Him to make the rats eat them and croak.

Click here for Chapter 8: What a Difference a Mother’s Day Makes

Say His Name

This past Sunday, Kat O’Brien, a former journalist and baseball writer for The Fort Worth Star-Telegram and Newsday, broke her silence about a major league baseball player who raped her eighteen years ago, when she was 22 years old.

Kat’s words cut through me, and it was a tough essay to read.

I wanted to reach out to her, but I wasn’t sure how, so this blog post is the best I can do. I hope Kat reads it one day.

What I found most heartbreaking about her trauma was that she didn’t name the player because she felt it “would only open me up to the possibility of having dirt thrown on my reputation.”

Eighteen years later, she’s still afraid to say his name. For good reason.

And so, eighteen years later, this unnamed despicable rapist still has her under his powerful thumb.

I get it.

I’ve been afraid to say his name for 54 years.

After this MLB player raped Kat, she went back to her apartment and drank a bottle of red wine in a desperate attempt to numb her sadness and rage.

I can’t even begin to count the number of bottles of wine I drank to numb myself. I’m still numbing myself.

As I read Kat’s heartbreaking essay, I wondered if she had ever said his name to anyone close to her. I hope she did because it does help somewhat.

I only know that because I’ve said my abuser’s name to a select group of people over the past 54 years. “Select,” being the operative word.  And what I discovered is “select” doesn’t mean I always chose the right people to tell.

When Kat was finally able to talk about “it,” she was asked, “But you really couldn’t get away?”

More than twenty years ago, when I finally mustered up the courage to elaborate on the unspeakable gory details to someone I thought was the closest to me, she  asked: “Are you still talking about that?”

My heart throbbed out of my chest as I read Kat’s words. It was beating so hard that my shirt was moving. I warily looked around at my family gathered together by the pool for fear that one of them would notice.

The rape followed Kat for the rest of her life. She didn’t trust intimacy. She felt unsafe. And she quietly and courageously dealt with the small daily assaults that came and went.

Since Mid-January, Kat’s been having nightmares. She’s been crying on and off every day. She hyperventilates, and her chest pounds in fight or flight.

I feel like I know Kat.

I get her, and I feel her pain.

Because she’s me. She’s a lot of us. Too damn many of us.

She also wrote that her fear of losing her job in sports journalism is long gone and that she’s found her voice.

But in my opinion, Kat’s voice is infinitesimal compared to what it could be—because she still can’t say his name.

And I disagree with Kat that being a rape survivor is only a tiny part of her story. I don’t see how that can be true, given everything she has had to endure.

At the end of her essay, Kat writes that she has finally found the sunlight. I sure hope that she has. She deserves some light, some respite.

Since reading Kat’s essay on Sunday, I can’t stop thinking about her.

And I’m thinking about her rapist too, because maybe—just maybe, he’s afraid.

Because maybe—just maybe, Kat’s the one with all the power.

And if she ever reads this blog post, I only have one thing to say to Kat:

SAY HIS NAME.