I Am Beautiful: A Celebration of Women in Their Own Words

CHKSLKR (continuedfrom page 7)my escape plans, my father-in-law choseto obtain an Afghan passport for me; andso, I left Afghanistan for the UnitedStates. When my U.S. visa expired, theU.S. State department told me I had toleave New York, my birthplace. I said I'dchain myself to the Statue of Libertybefore I'd return to Afghanistan—but I had to have my marriage annulledin order to receive a newAmerican passport. The old one isstill somewhere in Kabul.My so-called "Western" feminismwas certainly forged in that beautifuland treacherous country. Foreverafter, I was able to "see" genderapartheid anywhere, even in America.Although I appreciated my relativefreedom as an Americanwoman back on American soil, I nolonger believed that Americanwomen were free—only privileged—orthat Western male adultery,serial polygamy and the impoverishmentof mothers upondivorce were a vast categorical improvementover what I had observed in Iranand Afghanistan.BY 1967, I HAD JOINED THE NATIONALOrganization for Women. I said: Aslong as women are enslaved anywhere,women everywhere, even if privileged,are endangered too. As feminists, wehave to do more than analyze woman'scondition: We need to provide sovereign,physical asylum to women in flight fromslavery.I tried to take two female servants outwith me when I left but failed in this endeavor.Kamar and Madar Kamar: whereveryou are, forgive me. Know that I'venever forgotten you, your numerous kindnessesand sweet and playful dispositions.I will never forget how kind my sisters-inlawwere to me, or my young nephews,who tried so hard to cheer me up.Nor am I likely to forget certain heartstopping,eerily familiar sights, sounds,tastes, smells that, at the time, movedme so: flocks of sheep, camel caravans,fierce, tender, rurbaned men armed withrifles, stars so thick and close-clusteredyou'd think you could touch them(Afghanistan is more than 5,000 feetabove the sea), ancient bazaars, awesomemountains (I could see the foothills of theHimalayans from my bedroom window),minarets, the muezzin's hoarse call, cookingoutdoors on an open fire, delicious,too-sweet candies flavored with roses (!),exquisite, salted pistachios, communalsandalis (to warm one's feet on freezingnights), turquoise-colored ceramichookahs (also known as hubble-bubbles),in which one smoked tobacco or hashish.Every time Afghanistan is in the news,I reach for the phone, call Karim, whoalso eventually had to flee. When I firstMy so-called Western feminismwas forged in that beautiful andtreacherous country, whichafterward allowed me to see genderapartheid everywhere in America.met him he had lustrous black hair, dark,melting eyes, long, feminine lashes—hecould easily have passed for an illustrationin my much-thumbed copy ofScheherazade's The Arabian Nights.When I left the country, Karim wasabout to become a government minister.In 1979, after the Russian invasion,Karim himself escaped by crossing theKhyber Pass into Pakistan, disguised asa nomad. Since 1980, he and his familyhave been living in America.Karim's hair is white now and hishealth is impaired. I do not ask him howhe earns his money. I go to his home for along evening of delicious Afghan food,memories, emotions. Karim's wife Halide,a former diplomat, is warm and charming.She has blue eyes and blond hair and oncetooled around Kabul in her own sportscar. She and Karim are the parents of twomost extraordinary and beautiful children,Iskandar and Rabiah, who are now intheir late twenties. Invariably, when thetwo of them have me alone, they ask:"Why did you come to Afghanistan?What were you looking for?"Thirty-nine years have passed since Ifirst met Isakandar's and Rabiah's father,and I still don't have one "right" answer.Some say that Afghans constitute the losttribes of Israel; others say that a legendaryband of Amazons (warriorwomen)was last seen there. Perhaps,unconsciously, I felt drawn to Karim becausealthough male, and wealthy, hewas an outsider, marginal: like a womanin her own country. Perhaps I simplycould not resist the call of a truly GreatAdventure.These were my prefeminist, heterosexualheydays. I did not know that, unlikeSir Richard Burton or Lawrence of Arabia,Western women abroad were not acceptedas "brothers" simply becausethey, too, were enamored of Araband Moslem places—and men; orbecause they, too, were weary ofmodern, Western, secular societyand romanticized the far and "primitive"shore.Many of the male Victorians andtheir anthropologist successors weretime travelers in search of Biblicalhuman hospitality. They were menwho wished to test themselvesagainst formidable natural challenges,e.g., extremes of temperatureon the brigand road, malaria, parasites,gangrene, amputation, withoutWestern medicine or technology. Ah,but unless a woman was the cousinof the English queen or travelingunder a pasha or sheik's personal protection,long before she could test herselfagainst the world's harshest terrain shewould be stalked, raped, kidnapped, impregnated,locked up behind high mudwalls either in marriage, a seraglio, or abrothel. Dead in childbirth. Or murdered.I had no idea that some Westernwomen had adventured to and/or survivedtheir captivity in Egypt, SaudiArabia, Syria, Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan,Morocco, Tunisia, Siam: the 18th centuryFrench/Martiniquan, Aimee Dubucq deRivery, whose son became the Sultan ofTurkey; the Victorian-era Lady Sale,whom the Afghans imprisoned and laterreleased (they killed her husband for attemptingto conquer the country for theBritish crown); the Britons, Harriet Martineau,Lucie Duff Gordon, Isabel ArundellBurton (Sir Richard's wife), the HonorableJane Digby el Mezrab, AnnaLeeowens of The King and I—and myown all-time personal favorite: thehaunting Russian-Swiss Isabelle Eberhardt,who, in the early twentieth century,dressed like an Arab boy, convertedto Islam, married a French Legionnaire,wrote stoned, mystic poetry (under thename Si Mahmoud), and died in a flashfloodin the Sahara before she was 30years old.For years, I have wanted to write afeminist Passage to Islam and I may do soyet. Maybe that's why I went toAfghanistan. •Spring 1997 • ON THE ISSUES53