Azita
THE PRODUCER ASKED for color, so she added the turquoise scarf to break up her all-black. He is happy with the small concession, nodding in approval as Azita walks back onto the television set. Then he turns to the production assistant right behind him. Something is still not quite right: Azita needs more eyes. The assistant springs into action, and Azita patiently allows her eyes to be lined with even thicker strokes of black kohl while the female sound operator attaches a small microphone at the neckline of her black coat. Azita remains still. She knows it will be faster if a professional does it. They are all waiting for her now.
“Ready?”
Azita nods to the producer. Ready. And the tape rolls again.
Heat is rising quickly on the hillside terrace, but little can dampen her energy today, where she is placed on a small stage in front of three cameras and a local production crew. Her delivery is flawless and moving; she tells the story of how she came from a dirt-floor house in the provinces and took the seat for Badghis in parliament. It’s her success narrative and she doesn’t miss a beat when she ties it to the future of Afghanistan: “Our nation is in trouble, but it will never go anywhere by itself,” she exclaims to the future viewers. “The responsibility for your future lies with you. No one will take care of it for you.”
Azita is still waiting, hoping to be reinstated in parliament. But this is a good diversion, allowing her to play the role of a politician again for few hours.
She is one of three judges on a television program meant to get young Afghans—a majority of the population is under 25—interested in politics. In this American Idol–format, each young contestant will make a speech in front of the panel of experienced politicians, who will offer on-air coaching and finally cast votes on his performance. No young women have signed up, but dozens of young men have gathered for this production funded by one of the American nonprofits aimed at “democracy promotion” abroad. Each participant wears his Friday best, ranging from a traditional shalwar to a camouflage jacket and cowboy boots.
The strong lighting on the set makes Azita’s eyes glimmer and gives her the familiar rush. She has a momentary flashback to the introduction she used to read to her sisters back in Badghis when they played television: “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. This is the news hour.” Today, being a female television anchor would be a far from respectable job. For a woman to expose herself on television is to be seen by many men at once. Azita could not work in television; it would kill her political aspirations for good. Even appearing on this show could seem a little low-class for a woman. She knows it. But it offers her a chance to get out of the house. And for as long as the camera is on, she is on. To her delight, the production crew had even sent a car and a driver to pick her up that morning, as though she was someone important.
The past few weeks have not offered much reprieve from her confinement in Golden City. Her husband is the only one who can drive her now, and he will do so only when he is willing and in a good mood. He no longer allows her to take taxis, and every meeting outside the house needs to be negotiated with him in advance. With Kabul deteriorating, it is for her own safety, he has stated. Because he cares about her. On some days, he decides they will not leave the house at all.
One at a time, the show’s contestants walk out before the judges. Each participant will touch his chest with the right hand and exclaim a respectful “Salam aleikum” greeting before making his political speech about Afghanistan’s future. Most presentations are far from Azita’s upbeat tone: A dominant theme is that foreign troops should leave sooner rather than later. Such statements are usually met with cheering approval by other contestants awaiting their turns, even though they have been asked to be silent.
Azita takes the role of a coach, altering between gentle criticism—“I don’t understand if you even have a political idea”—to praise, suddenly exclaiming “afaim” or “bravo” when she hears something good. When one young man is struck dumb as he faces the judges, Azita slowly talks him out of paralysis: “Breathe. Feel yourself. We are your friends.”
He delivers his three allotted minutes in a rambling stream of words. If he were in power, his first and most urgent priority would be to put an end to the stealing of aid money by officials and make sure it was used better. He gets the highest score from the judges. He has hit on a topic that enrages many Afghans, and he is still in the running to become Afghanistan’s “Hope for the Future.”
FOREIGN AID WORKERS, who can be the most cynical of all about their own difficult field, will sometimes mutter a one-sentence response to why, after a decade of aid to Afghanistan, it still ranks close to the bottom of the Human Development Index: “Too much money.” And too many cooks.
Afghanistan has historically been called “the Graveyard of Empires” in war memoirs. In our time, it may also be called “the Playground of Foreign Aid Experimentation.”
The ambitious project, much like what the Russians set out to do, of turning around a country where many still perform daily tasks according to hundred-year-old traditions and where infrastructure is virtually nonexistent has prompted disillusioned aid workers to routinely trade stories of engendering epic chaos: when dozens of “projects” and millions of dollars converge on a single province, as each nationality and each organization attempts to execute its own version of democracy and development—usually without ever speaking to one another. Add to that confused and increasingly frustrated Afghans caught in the middle.
Countries wanting to remain in good diplomatic standing with Washington, D.C., after 2001 contributed not only troops but also generous offerings of foreign aid. Between 2006 and 2011, a total of more than $30 billion was spent on development aid to Afghanistan by about thirty countries and a few large multilateral organizations such as the European Union, the United Nations, and the World Bank. The single biggest contribution came from the United States, which also had the biggest staff and the most fanciful projects. Plus the more than one thousand nongovernmental organizations registered to operate in Afghanistan—all with different agendas and ideas of what works best.
A fundamental quandary for all those entities is that they need to demonstrate some progress for the money to keep flowing from donors. Just not too much, as abundant optimism could risk that same flow of money. Delivering foreign aid to a weak, war-torn country with few functioning institutions, where war still rages in many places, raises the bar even higher. In that state, Afghanistan was simply unable to absorb much of the money that was pushed into the country. Instead, the massive, well-meaning funds fueled mismanagement and corruption.
Norwegian political scientist Astri Suhrke offers a scathing review in her 2011 book When More Is Less: The International Project in Afghanistan. With twenty-five years of experience in Afghanistan, she describes the “very modest results” of foreign aid there as a direct consequence of overly confident organizations setting out to entirely rebuild Afghanistan, aided by a very powerful foreign aid lobby that reacts to every visible failure by appealing for more funds to rectify them. Together, these entities have not only largely failed to help Afghanistan, but also caused irrevocable harm by creating “a rentier state unparalleled in Afghan history and nearly unique in the world of international assistance,” she writes, with a complete dependency on foreign aid and little accountability toward its own citizens.
Afghanistan holds a spot at the very bottom of Transparency International’s corruption index, and as the war is drawing to a close, Afghan officials are openly trying to cash in as much as possible before most troops—and money—leave for good. Of the aid contributed by U.S. taxpayers, for instance, as little as ten cents on the dollar may at times have reached its intended recipients, according to an auditor at the Office of the Special Inspector General for Afghanistan Reconstruction. Much of the rest has fueled a fragile and corrupt economy where a select few—both Afghans and foreigners—have been made extraordinarily wealthy.
The strong urge by Western donors to help, in particular, Afghan women has also proved fraught with failures and strange priorities.
One of the most heralded achievements—education, and especially of girls—touts impressive official numbers: close to ten million students registered, compared with around fifty thousand under the Taliban. But half of Afghanistan’s newly created schools have no actual buildings, many lack teachers, most students never graduate, and one-fifth of the registered students are permanently absent.
Many students also find that the foreigners’ interest in schooling does not extend to higher studies. Mostly located in urban areas, universities have limited slots available and charge fees too high for most. As 40 percent of Afghan girls will marry before the age of eighteen, when childbearing and managing a household will take precedence over education, it is hard to understand why more slots and scholarships have not been offered to those young women who have the ability and permission to get higher educations.
In a single year, more than seven hundred “projects” related to gender and improving the lives of women and girls in Afghanistan were also sponsored by foreign donors. A report by Norwegian political scientist Torunn Wimpelmann explains that despite some progress, especially in the urban centers, “gains are on the whole modest and reversible.” But more notably, “the emergence of a jet-setting strata of English-speaking women activists” in Kabul, focusing mainly on an international audience, has managed to create an even larger gap between urban and rural women and those separated by class, wealth, and education. One consequence of this, Wimpelmann writes, is that women’s rights have increasingly become viewed as an elite and Western-backed issue by many in Afghanistan. Now, taking a conservative stand on women’s rights has therefore become the necessary norm for many politicians or influential power brokers who want to demonstrate their nationalist and Islamic credentials. That will be the unfortunate legacy of “women’s issues” in Afghanistan for some time to come, similar to the Russian experience. A long-term investment in a strengthened justice system and a functioning parliament would have benefited women and girls more, Wimpelmann contends, echoing the words of Azita.
NOT UNTIL ELECTRICITY on the television set goes out for the third time does Azita relinquish her chair on the set and walk back to the shade inside, as taping for the show breaks by midday. The producer has arranged for a lunch of meat stew and Mountain Dew. Azita declines the bread. She explains to the two fellow male judges that she is trying to lose weight.
They are also politicians, about twice her age. She wants to use the opportunity to secure their support for her reinstatement in parliament, and the men politely ask after the health of her father, who they know from his “political days.” How is he?
Azita is equally polite in her response: He is doing well. Not so political these days. His old age and all.
But they persist. He must have inspired her to take up a career in politics?
Azita smiles. It was all so long ago. She really doesn’t want to talk about her father. He is retired now.
A better topic, she suggests, is how they can support her in the struggle to claim her rightful seat. “Being at home is not restful. It’s depressing. It’s not who I am. I feel useless there. It’s when I am outside the house that I feel valuable,” she tells them.
They seem to understand. They know she is more than a housewife—that she is her father’s daughter. She beams at their affirmation.
But when Azita returns home this afternoon, she will find Mehran in tears again, refusing to speak or eat. Her stepmother has invented her most efficient line so far, and she has been hammering it all day, while Azita has been out of the house: “You are not Mehran. You are Mahnoush. You are Mahnoush-Mahnoush-Mahnoush.”
IN THE HOUR after dinner, Azita will pay even more dearly for her outing, when her husband prompts her on when his regular monthly allowance will be reinstated. It is a conversation they have had several times now, and at first, Azita just listens to him.
In his opinion, the fact that Azita no longer receives a salary from parliament is no excuse. Their agreement from years ago stills stands: He allows her to work on the condition of a marital kickback. She cannot change those terms now, just because she is temporarily unemployed. Her husband makes his case again: He agreed to move to Kabul and live there once she got into parliament. He agreed to stay for these additional months as she continues to try to get her seat back—and he should be compensated accordingly. He has stood by her side and acted as her “house husband,” as his only job. And it has not been without effort. So she cannot just stop paying him. Their deal was always the same—part of what she brings in is handed over to him, in cash. What she keeps is for food, school fees, and rent.
Even so, he argues, the money he got was rarely enough for the sacrifice he has made: suffering questions and humiliation from others over how he could allow his wife such freedom—to work outside the house and to mingle with other men.
Most of his money is invested now, in a relative’s nut business, and that money is his alone and she is never to question him about it. Over the years, his compensation has gradually increased, and rightfully so. What’s more, the relocation of the family to Kabul is saving Azita money, he points out. His bimonthly trips to the province to see his first wife and eldest girl were costly. But now, for her to just end those payments? It’s unacceptable, he tells her, and he will have none of her excuses.
Perhaps she is lying about the lack of money? She is hiding it, right? At first, it’s a question, but he soon says that he is actually sure of it: She has money saved somewhere. All parliamentarians do—he has seen how they live. Azita’s new washing machine shrinks next to their cars, villas, and vacations abroad. It must be that she prefers to keep the extra profits to herself instead of making good on their agreement. She can keep denying it, but he won’t be fooled. He may lack an education, but he knows her.
Azita finally protests, offended at the suggestion of deception. If she had the money, she truly would hand it over, she tells him. What he accuses her of—having money stashed away somewhere—is particularly insulting. She is not one of those corrupt politicians who takes kickbacks and bribes for passing on suggestions of who should get contracts, or what minister to support with a vote of confidence. Were she that person, Azita retorts, surely they, too, could have owned a house in Dubai by now, or even in a European capital? At least they could have owned something in Kabul. But they are renters. She worked for one of the poorest provinces in the country, so how dare he compare her to those who pillage and steal?
But the more Azita speaks, the more she infuriates her husband.
“Shut your mouth or I will make it silent,” he warns her. He will not hear of any more. He reminds her of how simple it would be for him to shame her, ending any of her political ambitions for good: “I will go to people and say you are not a good wife and that you have relations with other men.”
Azita has received variations on that threat before.
In the past, the solution was always straightforward: more money. She would give him an even larger chunk of her salary. If she was planning a trip abroad, she would also give him an extra wad of cash to compensate for the time she would be gone.
Those trips always caused arguments—like the time her flight from Dubai was delayed and she was forced to spend a night at the airport. He had gone on for weeks about it. Sometimes accusations were combined: She is having an affair and she is hiding money from him. Or she is giving the money to the man she is having an affair with. With a mix of apologies, flattery, and, in the end, more money, Azita has usually managed to appease him. But now, when she has no money to offer, their argument cannot be easily resolved. What little she kept for herself she has already spent. There is no money, she tells him again.
Being accused of having an affair also disturbs her more than usual. After thirteen years, he should know better than that. When would she even have time for an affair? When she is not arguing with election officials, she is trying to find a job. Or cooking. Or taking care of the children.
How about if he offered some support, instead of repeating these same insulting accusations, she tosses back at her husband. As the mother of his children, she should at least be treated with some respect. Using veiled ways of saying she is a prostitute should be beneath him.
It’s not like he is perfect, either, Azita blurts out, suddenly losing her forced cool: “According to the Koran, a wife can leave her husband if he does not support her. I am still supporting you.”
She looks at him before she goes for what is meant to be the final line of their argument: “There is no husband here.”
He seems surprised when she says it. It is a graver insult than most things she has launched at him before: to call him something other than a man and a husband. When he responds, he parses each word: “You are nothing. I made you an MP.”
“So do it,” she tells him, still defiant. “I do not care. Destroy me if you want. Because it was never you. It was all me.”
That is when her face hits the wall.
Her eyes close as her knees fold. Covering her head with her arms and hands, she crouches on the floor below him, turning toward the wall, with only her neck exposed. It is where the blows fall next.
Now she has a choice: Beg him to stop. Or just stay silent until he tires. She tries to calculate where the children might be, and how much they can hear. They will see her later; there is nothing she can do about that. But it is better that they do not see or hear them in this exact moment.
Her husband’s voice from above is almost soothing. “I will support my family. In the village. In Badghis. When we go back there I will support you all. We will not have to worry about money.”
She knows what he means. He has mentioned it before: the bride price for their daughters. It will secure the family for years. If war returns, the girls will need to be married off sooner anyway. It’s not good for a family to have five daughters in the house. And, as he is fond of saying, she keeps forgetting that he is a simple man—all the luxuries of this Kabul existence are not for him anyway. They would all be better off in the province where a man can provide for his family. And get some respect at home.
“MAYBE I SHOULD just end this stupid life.”
It is a strange thing for Azita to say, even after spending another night with the wet towel on her forehead.
Her style has always been different from both Afghan men and women in this regard—she does not tell her stories with exaggerated dramatic flair, involving elements of potential death at each turn.
We are at a small Kabul café. With the turmoil at the house, I am no longer invited to visit, but we have carved out some time after another meeting for which she gained permission from her husband to attend. We are the only guests outside, in a dusty garden full of plastic chairs. Wearing “big makeup”—her code for covering bruises—has become a regular occurrence now.
Over the past two years, despite both her own and the country’s setbacks, Azita has been the constant optimist. But today she cries, slowly, without much sound. Embarrassed, she turns her head away each time her eyes fill up with tears and she quickly wipes them away.
As always, when I don’t know what else to do, I try to sound matter-of-fact: “It is only a turn of phrase for you, right? ‘This stupid life’?”
She says nothing, which usually indicates there’s something she’s not saying—something contrary to the confident image she wants to project. It is hard enough to admit that domestic violence has returned to her family.
“Have you ever tried to kill yourself?” I ask.
Her eyes flicker and turn down to the table.
It was early in her marriage, in Badghis. She had panic attacks that developed into seizures, when she would go catatonic. They usually lasted only minutes, but sometimes longer. The first such episode came right after the wedding. It began with sharp chest pain, followed by shortness of breath. After that, her hands and feet would go cold, and she could not move them. Nor could she speak or move her head. With time, she found the attacks would subside when her feet and hands were rubbed. A doctor also gave her phenobarbital, an antiseizure medicine. She was newly pregnant with the twins, and, following instructions, she took two a day.
One day, she took twelve.
It was a watermelon that pushed her over the edge, or more accurately, the fantasy of one. She was locked inside the house, thinking of the watermelons in the field outside in the family’s plot. She could not stand most foods, but she craved that cool, crisp melon. But they were outside the locked door where she could not go. And none were for her, anyway; they were to be sold at the market.
The twelve tablets put her in a deep sleep for two hours.
When she woke up again she immediately apologized to everyone for mistakenly taking too much medicine. How stupid of her. She is still not sure why she took them; maybe it was indeed a mistake. But she never wants to revisit that low again. It was the weakest her spirit had ever been. That she was so close to abandoning her daughters before they had even been born is her greatest shame.
She looks up at me and apologizes for her initial remark—of course she does not want to end her life. She really does not. But it does feel as though there is something wrong with her mind these days. Where she used to be able to think of solutions, she now feels blocked. With the increased insecurity in Kabul, with the foreigners leaving, the parliament still in chaos: She always saw a way before, but it feels harder now. Or maybe she is getting older? The thought of Afghanistan descending into chaos after foreign troops leave is something she cannot even contemplate.
“I think maybe I should have left,” she suddenly says.
She has never said that before. Hardly even thought it, in a real way. Divorce was just never an option. Just like Shukria, Azita knows seeking a divorce would not be in her favor—especially not with the accusations of infidelity, which could land her in prison. And she would most likely lose her children.
But the “leaving” Azita refers to is of a different kind. Unlike for many of her colleagues in politics, the thought of living life abroad after the foreign troop withdrawal has never held much allure for her. The concept was almost unspeakable for an idealist who always swore she would stick by her country and its future.
“When I was an MP I had lots of friends and contacts. Visas were never a problem. I could have gone anywhere. The children could travel on my passport, even. Now I just have a tourist passport. I was so busy with my work. I feel so guilty for them now. I was so selfish. I was thinking of my country and its future. And my work. I should have only taken care of my family.”
In wanting to create a better future for her daughters she had always imagined it would be in an Afghanistan she had helped reform. Trying to teach her daughters resilience, strength, and pride for their country, she also wanted them to be proud of her for the effort. To then plan for a comfortable exit abroad like several of her colleagues seemed so … hypocritical.
Before leaving for campaign training in the United States a few years ago, she had joked with the twins about seeking asylum there. It was already a popular topic among her colleagues, back then. Several of the other MPs had sent their children to study, or to apply for asylum in Europe, so they could eventually travel back and forth and get better educations. But Azita assured her daughters that she would, of course, always return to them, to Kabul and to their family. Besides, she had no dreams of America. Her dreams included only Afghanistan. She had felt pleased with herself after giving her daughters that speech, thinking she had taught them a little something about character and national pride.
But on one recent evening, Benafsha, the quieter of the twins, had suddenly spoken up after another suicide bombing not far from their house. She reminded Azita of the conversation about foreign countries and how she had said they would always stay in Afghanistan. “You made your choice, Mother,” Benafsha said. Now, none of them would ever leave.
It was in that moment when Azita’s image of herself as a selfless patriot began to shift, replacing it with that of a selfish careerist. A sense of shame came over her. She was someone who would choose her country over her daughters, and they had always known it. She had not seen it herself until it was too late. She had taken a chance on Afghanistan with the new foreigners and had believed that it could get better. She had reached for something impossible, and she had been a fool to do it. Maybe it had always been unrealistic that Afghanistan would change much in her lifetime, and she had gambled away the lives of her daughters on it.
“Are you still thinking of leaving?”
“No. Never. I could never leave them,” Azita says. “But maybe I was very stupid before.”
She must carry on for the sake of her parents, too. Her father’s decision to marry her off will stand in war or peace, whether she is in parliament or not, and regardless of her relationship with her husband.
“I would like to meet him,” I say. “The man who holds all this power, always and from the beginning. Do you think he would speak to me?”
“Probably no.”