“We will now take a vote on the candidate Ashrafullah Fawzali. Please raise your paddles with your vote on his nomination.”
The parliamentarians each had two paddles, one red and one green, which they raised to vote aye or nay in the assembly. This was the first vote to be taken and Badriya looked nervous.
“Are you going to vote for him?” I whispered.
“Shhh!” she hissed at me, her eyes scouting the room. Paddles were going up, many at a time. Badriya reached for the green paddle and raised it halfway, still unsure.
I followed her eyes to a man sitting toward the front of the room. From our position, we could see his profile. He was a burly man with a heavy beard and thick features. His gray turban sat coiled on his head like a serpent. He held a green paddle.
I saw him look in our direction, giving Badriya a subtle nod. Her green paddle went up and she kept her eyes fixed on the front of the room. I was puzzled. I didn’t recognize this man but it looked like Badriya did.
“Badriya, what are you doing? Who is that?”
“Shut up! Just take notes or whatever it is that you’re doing.”
“But he’s looking over here!”
“Shut up I said!”
I crossed my arms, shut my mouth and watched. That’s how things went for the rest of the session. Each time the director asked the parliament to vote on a candidate, Badriya waited until this man raised his paddle. And each time she would pick the paddle that matched his. Green, green, red, green, red, red. And each time he looked over, his face was smug with approval to see her vote his way.
The ladies looked over at Badriya, seemingly confused. Sufia whispered something to Hamida, who shrugged her shoulders.
Qayoumi. It was time to vote on his nomination. I looked over at Hamida and Sufia. They were shaking their heads as the director prepared to take a vote. A small murmur wove through the assembly as the parliamentarians prepared to decide on one of the most controversial figures in Kabul. Tongues clucked with disapproval even before the paddles went up.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please raise your votes. Raise them high so we can see them!”
The man voted green.
I looked at Badriya. I was sure she could feel my eyes on her but she avoided my gaze.
She watched as the ladies both raised their paddles red. The representatives around them raised their red paddles as well. There were pockets of green here and there, almost all men.
The mumbling got louder as green paddles went up.
Badriya kept her head down and picked up her paddle. I opened my mouth to say something.
Green.
“Badriya! What are you doing? Didn’t you hear what they said about him? Why are you voting for him?”
“Please, Rahima, shut up!”
Hamida and Sufia looked over, eyebrows raised. They looked away and leaned toward each other. I thought of our conversation with Hamida. I couldn’t ignore everything she’d told us.
“But Hamida said—”
“If you can’t shut your mouth, leave then! Just get out!” she snarled. “I don’t need you.”
I stared at her. There was nowhere for me to go. I sat beside her, fuming, even though I had no right to. Maybe I would have done the same if I were her. Maybe I would have aped the votes of the man in the corner.
Abdul Khaliq. He set her up for this. That man must have something to do with that security contract he wanted to land. Just like Hamida talked about.
I was surprised only that my husband’s influence was this far-reaching, into the parliament building of Kabul. And wherever that man was from.
Hamida looked over, her lips pursed.
Maybe I wouldn’t have been like Badriya if I were in parliament. Maybe I could have been more like Hamida. Or Sufia. Or even Zamarud. Maybe I would have sat in that assembly seat and made up my own mind.
But I probably would not have. It wouldn’t be easy to go home to Abdul Khaliq after going against his instructions. Especially in a matter this big.
The session closed for the day. Badriya rose quickly from her seat and gathered her bag. She made her way down the row and out the main aisle without turning around to see if I was following.
We ran into the ladies near the security check. Not even a polite smile. It was obvious they were disappointed in Badriya’s voting. They could tell her reds and greens were decided by outside forces. She was part of the problem.
“I’m glad the day is finally over,” Sufia said neutrally.
“Yes, so am I,” Badriya said, agreeing demurely.
“Interesting day,” Hamida murmured, adjusting her head scarf.
I watched the exchange, wanting to shout out that I wasn’t part of this. I wanted to say that I wouldn’t have voted for Qayoumi. Even though I was almost certain I would have. I was learning that cosmopolitan Kabul was, at least in that way, no different from my obscure village. Many of our decisions were not decisions at all. We were herded into one choice or another, to put it gently. I wondered if the other women representatives truly felt free to make their own judgments.
I sat in the car and leaned back, wishing I was home with Jahangir. He was probably taking a nap now, his mouth half open and his eyelids fluttering with innocent dreams. Thank God Jameela was there to look after him.
Badriya got in from the other side, slid across the seat, turned and slapped my face so hard I fell against the car door.
“Rahima, you question me again and I swear I will go straight to Abdul Khaliq and tell him you’re opening your idiot mouth in the assembly. We’ll see if you’re so eager to wag your tongue then! Learn to control yourself, you bitch.”
Maroof looked into the rearview mirror. An expression of surprise twisted into a smirk. He was entertained. My face stung but I said nothing. I had the rest of our stay to get through and I refused to become a spectacle for our bodyguards.
The following morning, we wove through clusters of foreign soldiers and returned to the parliament building. Late, because of Badriya. But there was no voting today, only discussions. Nothing of importance to her, though she was obligated to make an appearance.
I wasn’t speaking to her, just answering her questions and keeping out of the way. I was beginning to reconsider if being in Kabul was worth putting up with her attitude. As bad as she was at the compound, she was worse here. There was only me to take all her attention and the pressure of following our husband’s plan was getting to her.
I took notes for her and filled out a survey distributed by some international organization looking to improve the parliament, and then we broke for lunch. I gravitated toward Hamida and Sufia. Badriya reluctantly followed with her tray.
“How are you two doing?” Hamida said. They looked at us differently now. Yesterday had changed things.
“Fine, thanks. You?” Badriya was curt. It wasn’t helping the situation.
“Still surprised from yesterday. We were hoping to block more of those nominations. But I guess it was their naseeb to get approved.”
Naseeb. Did Sufia really believe that? If she did, why bother voting?
“Maybe so,” Badriya said in agreement.
I searched for something to say that would tell the ladies I was on their side but without riling Badriya’s nerves.
“Sometimes people surprise you, don’t they?” I said. “Maybe something good will come of it.”
“An optimist—there’s something we don’t see often.”
I had no reason to think Qayoumi was anything but the bastard they said he was. I had almost no reason to believe anyone would do anything good, really. My “optimism” was just words, strung together in hopes of making me look neutral. I wanted to be friendly with these women. They were independent and happy, something I’d tasted only as a young boy.
“Sufia and I are going to the resource center this evening. Maybe you would want to join us?”
“Thank you but I can’t,” said Badriya. “I’m going to my cousin’s home tonight. I haven’t seen her in over two years.”
I looked at her, surprised. Was she telling the truth? She spoke up, seeing the look on my face. “My mother’s cousin lives here in Kabul. I haven’t seen them in so long and my aunt is getting older. They’ve insisted that I come by and visit them. They live on the other side of the river, by the women’s hospital.”
“Well, if you ladies are going there tonight then maybe another—”
Badriya looked startled. “Us? Oh, no. I’m going alone. Since it’s my cousin, you know,” she said, fumbling her words as she tried to undo my accompanying her. “And Rahima-jan said she didn’t want to go anyway.”
Eyes on me for confirmation.
“Well, you kept saying they were such nice people. Maybe I should go after all, huh?”
Badriya’s eyes widened. “Really? You want to go? Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” she said. Her glare told me the answer she expected.
“No,” I said. “You know what? I think I’ve changed my mind. You should go and see your aunt and cousins. Maybe I’ll go to the resource center instead. It would be great to see what they offer. I wouldn’t mind taking some lessons while we’re here.”
Hamida’s eyes lit up. It was as if she saw me in a new light.
“That’s a great idea! That’s what we’ll do. While Badriya visits her aunt, we’ll go to the resource center. We can go meet directly after the session closes today and then head over to their office. You’ll be ready to go then, right?”
I agreed, satisfied that I’d gotten my way, even if Badriya had gotten hers as well. We parted ways when the session closed and I followed Hamida and Sufia. Badriya had taken Maroof and the guard. I was left with no one, which made me feel more free than alone. We picked up some dinner from the cafeteria and carried the plastic bags with us.
“Do they have these classes all the time? Is it like a school?” I asked. I was getting more and more excited at the thought of returning to a classroom. Even if nothing came from the lessons.
“They have different instructors. Haven’t you heard Sufia speak English? Where do you think she learned to say so nicely, ‘Hello, how are you?’ ” Hamida mimicked cheerfully.
I had no idea what she’d said but I was impressed that they were learning English. Even more than that, I wanted to learn how to use the computers I’d seen in the parliament’s library. The library was a small room in the basement level with three bookcases, two of which were empty. The book collection was sparse but the woman in charge was determined to amass a collection with works on politics, law and history. I thumbed through the books and realized how much there was to learn about government. It was not as simple as raising paddles.
The computers caught my eye. There were three of them but more were coming, we were told. The three were all being used by men whom I recognized from the assembly. I tried not to stare over their shoulders but I wanted to know what they were looking at on those screens. I watched from the corner of my eye as they punched slowly and carefully at the keyboard, piecing letters together in a way I’d never before seen.
The women took me to a small, newly constructed building with small windows and a sign out front in both English and Dari.
Women’s Training Center, it read.
“This is really just for women?” I asked. “The men can’t come here?”
“Absolutely not, just like the hammam.” Sufia chuckled. “Thank God, someone finally took our involvement seriously. You know, Rahima-jan, international organizations send teachers and computers. All of it is available. We just have to use it.”
“Do many of the women from the parliament come here?”
“Hardly!” Hamida said. “So many of those women have no idea what they’re doing. I had no idea what I was doing either but now it’s my second term and I am just starting to realize how much we still have to learn before this assembly is really functional. We’re like babies, just learning to crawl.”
An image of Jahangir, his knees rough and dark from crawling about, his palms slapping against the floor with excitement. I missed my son.
Sufia must have read my face.
“You have children?”
I nodded. “I have a son.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Almost three years.”
“Hm. You were how old when you married?”
“Thirteen,” I answered quietly, my mind still on my little boy’s face. I wondered what he was doing.
“Your husband must be much older, judging by Badriya’s age,” Hamida said, pausing before she opened the door to the training center.
I nodded. I realized they both were trying not to look as curious as they were.
“Your husband . . . what does he do?”
I drew a blank. I wasn’t quite certain what he did and I was even less certain how to avoid explaining it.
“I don’t know,” I said. I blushed when I saw the way they looked at me.
“You don’t know? How can you not know?”
“I never asked him.”
“Never asked him? But you live there! You must have some idea what he does.”
This outing was not as innocent as it appeared. They were interested—probably after seeing Badriya’s bizarre voting trend. But talking too much would come back to haunt me.
“He has some land. And he provides security for some foreigners, some people who are trying to build something in our province. I don’t really know the details. I keep out of his business.”
“I see,” Sufia said in a way that made me feel like I had just given everything away.
I needed to stop talking.
“Did Badriya talk to you about the candidates? The people she voted for?” Hamida tried to sound casual.
“No,” I said, reaching for the door. This conversation had to end. “We don’t really discuss the parliament issues. I’m just here to help her with paperwork and reading the documents.”
“Can she not read?”
From the first day, I’d liked these women. I really had. But they were making me very uncomfortable right now, hitting every nerve. I was certain I was going to pay for this later.
“Let’s go in, please. I can’t wait to see what they have inside.”
They relented. I followed them into the center, where an American woman was sitting at a computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard. She looked up and smiled brightly to see us, the first visitors she’d had all week.
She came over and hugged us, greeted us warmly. Sufia, her confidence growing, practiced her English and asked her how she was doing, how her family was getting along.
“Why isn’t anyone else here?” I whispered.
“Not interested. They just show up to the sessions and then go home. No one cares to learn anything new. They think they know what they’re doing, even though they’ve never done it before. Born experts!” Hamida laughed.
The ladies introduced me to Ms. Franklin and explained to her that I was an assistant to another parliamentarian. She seemed thrilled to have me there. I stared at her light brown hair, soft bangs peeking out from under her head scarf. She looked to be in her thirties, with a brightness in her eyes that made me think she’d never experienced sadness.
If that’s true, lucky her, I thought.
“Salaam-alaikum, Rahima-jan,” she said, her accent so thick it made me giggle. “Chotoor asteen?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I answered, and looked at Hamida. I’d never before seen an American. I was amazed to hear her speak our language. My reaction looked familiar to Hamida.
“Her Dari is good, isn’t it?” she laughed. “Now, dear teacher, what can you show us today?”
We spent almost two hours there, Ms. Franklin patiently guiding us through the basics of using a computer, guiding the mouse across a table to move a pointer on the screen. I was thrilled, feeling an excitement I hadn’t felt since my days as a bacha posh.
Imagine if I learned to use this machine. Imagine if I could work like this woman, Ms. Franklin. To know so much that I could teach it to others!
I felt privileged. A new feeling! I doubted even Hashmat had ever seen a computer, much less received personalized instruction on how to use it. I would have loved to see the look on his face if he ever learned what I was doing in Kabul.
But it was going to get dark soon and it was time to leave. The women had promised Badriya that one of them would escort me back to the hotel with her guard and driver. I hugged Ms. Franklin before we left, making her laugh out loud, her blue eyes twinkling with kindness.
“I want to come back here, please! I like it very much!”
If only our day had ended with that sentiment.
Sufia had a hand on the door when a large explosion startled us all. We dropped to the ground, out of the way of windows. Nervous stares.
“What was that?”
“Something. Couldn’t have been too far. But it didn’t sound like a rocket.”
We were a people of war; explosions were familiar to our senses. But not for Ms. Franklin. Her face drained of color and she was shaking. Hamida put an arm around her young teacher, trying to reassure her. Sufia squeezed my hand. No other sounds came. Sufia got up cautiously and went to the door. People in the street were yelling, pointing. Her driver and guard jogged over to the door. They looked frustrated. They were panting.
“What is it? What’s happened?” she asked.
“Some kind of bomb. Looks like it was right by the parliament building. Stay here. We’re going to find out what happened.”
We were huddled by the window, trying to read the faces of the pedestrians. Hamida called out into the street.
“What’s going on? Was that a bomb?”
The street was chaotic. Either no one heard her or no one bothered to answer.
We inched out the door, our curiosity overwhelming. I was nervous. Although my father and my husband had been in the throes of battle, the war had always been at least one village away from me. I wondered if Badriya was anywhere near here.
Sufia’s driver came back, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath. Hamida’s guard stopped him, wanting to know what he’d found out.
“It was two blocks from the parliament building. A bomb in a car. Looks like they were trying to get Zamarud.”
My stomach lurched. I pictured her storming out of the building, remembered the hateful leers she’d drawn from some of the men. Even some of the women had shaken their heads as she walked by. People thought she was out of line, and the punishment for being out of line was severe in our world. It always had been.
“Zamarud! Not surprised, with the finger-pointing she’s been doing. This isn’t good. Is she all right?”
“I don’t know. Someone said she was killed. They took her away. I didn’t see her there, or her guards. We’d better get out of here.”