Sylvia's Journal

To catch a 7 AM plane I had to get up in the middle of the night. I had set my alarm for 3:30, was picked up an hour later and from then on it was endless waiting. Waiting at checkpoints, or waiting for my male colleagues who had their bodies and luggage checked at various points, all in the dark because the electricity was out.

At this early hour female guards cannot be on the job because it would require that they travel in the dark and that is not allowed. Between the electricity outage and the absence of females at the checkpoints, the security arrangements were like Swiss cheese: full of holes.

I killed the hours of waiting by working on my Dari homework and learning some new words. I learned among other things that a wise old man, someone with much gravitas as we would call him, is called a cooked man in Dari. IN return, my Afghan colleagues thought that the expression ‘he travels light,’ referring to our guard, was odd – languages are funny that way.

By the time we had inched our way to the beginning of the runway, about three quarters of a regular workday had passed and our 7 o’clock plane finally took to the skies at 10 AM. We flew the Afghan version of the now defunct People’s Express, a no frills airline company called Pamir Airways. To fly this carrier, as opposed to the UN flight, you have to have an enormous dose of patience and you get nothing to eat, just a cup of water.

We spent nearly an hour on the taxiway, moving a little and then standing still for 15 minutes. There is only 1 runway at Kabul International Airport and between the many military and unmarked planes there is much coming and going, at a ratio of at least 3 coming for every one going.

During out one hour on the taxiway the passengers, nearly all men, started to get a little unruly; and here, unruly bearded and turbaned men are a little scary – luckily there are no arms allowed on the plane. People were talking on their cell phones and walking back and forth as if we were boarding and the flight attendants did not seem to care much.

Occasionally people pushed their call buttons and some heated discussions would ensue while everyone and their brother would get in on the conversation, interrupting my cat naps. I could understand a word here and there but it wasn’t difficult to figure out what they were talking about. It was a rather lively ride up to the start of the runway. Luckily there was also much laughing and that put my mind at rest.

I sat next to a young female lawyer who works with an NGO that has taken on the impossible task of defending the rights of women in Kandahar. She spoke to me in her best English and told me the most incredible stories about life of a 20-year old, unmarried Afghan lawyer who defends the underdog in one of Afghanistan’s most conservative areas.

I soon learned that she had never lost a case of her 258 taken on so far. She is independent, that is, not living with her father or brothers and has no husband, and might never get one as she probably scares the shit out of bearded men who beat or cheat on their wives. I gather from her stories that she is quickly becoming the bane of existence of men who abuse, rape, abduct, cheat or otherwise treat women badly. I asked her how she could live in a place where men so despise women and where her life is all the time in danger. She gave me a big smile and said, if they want to kill me, let them, I am here to help the women and I will never give up.

She pleads her cases in court from the anonymity of the burka. Still, I wondered, with such a dangerous profession, “don’t people know who you are?” They do of course and she knows that if there are people who want to get rid of her they can easily do this but she is unfazed. She is careful tough and does not have a business card or an email address. Everything is done by phone, the gadget practically attached to her ear. I am thinking of Sita and Tessa at 20 – such a different life.

Shabbana’s biggest wish is to go to the bazaar and buy herself some new shoes but she can’t do this, not even in relative free Herat or Kabul, not without her mother or father. She sighed, “I have so many wishes,” but then she smiled and said, “may be one day they will come true,” followed by the predictable Incha’allah.

I asked her if she voted and will vote again, something that is, for a woman in Kandahar, an act of unimaginable bravery. But she is not afraid. After she tells me about men who got their inked fingers hacked off I ask how she manages that. She wore gloves for a week, she said matter-of-factly and will do so again.

I had so many questions, I would have liked to fly for hours more. Being a mother myself of young women I wondered what her mother thought about her dangerous vocation and place of residence. “She cried each time I would visit,’” Shabanna told me. But the mother is also proud of her : in primary school at 2, secondary school at 13 and university at 16, becoming a lawyer at 19, I can see why her mother is proud. The whole country should be proud. How’s that for a natural resource for Afghanistan?