Copyright © 2013 by Éditions Michel Lafon Translation copyright © 2014 by Skyhorse Publishing, Inc. Previously published as Je suis une bacha posh in 2013 by Éditions Michel Lafon All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018. Skyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected]. Skyhorse® and Skyhorse Publishing® are registered trademarks of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation. Visit our website at www.skyhorsepublishing.com. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file. Cover design by Laura Klynstra Cover photo credit Thinkstock Print ISBN: 978-1-62914-681-2 Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63220001-3 Printed in the United States of America CONTENTS FOREWORD 1. FROM KABUL TO NEW YORK 2. “YOU WILL BE A BOY, MY GIRL” 3. IN THE FLESH OF A MAN 4. BEING SIXTEEN YEARS OLD IN THE JIHAD 5. THE TIME OF HEROES 6. PRISONER UNDER THE TALIBAN 7. THE FIRST VOTE 8. ALONE BEFORE ALLAH 9. CANDIDATE TO SERVE WOMEN 10. THE HAND OF PRESIDENT KARZAI 11. WITH THE AMERICAN TROOPS 12. BADGAI, THE SACRIFICE OF THE LIFE OF A WOMAN EPILOGUE FOREWORD T hey are called bacha posh, literally “girls dressed as boys.” At birth, their parents decided this: that their daughter will change appearance, name, and identity. She becomes, in the eyes of everyone, the son of the family. It’s an old Afghan tradition that effectively permits families without a son to cross-dress one of their daughters to preserve the honor of the family. In this society, dominated by masculine values, it is frowned upon not to have a son and is overall impractical: a girl cannot work, cannot go out alone to provide for the home, cannot help with manual labor; a girl is a burden. All you need to do is cut her hair short, and she can perform tasks reserved for men. A bacha posh, according to Afghan superstition, may also help ward off bad luck and favor the birth of a boy in the family. In Afghanistan, thousands of girls must cross-dress starting at a young age. There are no reliable statistics, however. This practice is ongoing and discreet. The parents do not say loud and strong, “This is my daughter—she’s a bacha posh!” but rather, “This is my son!” In the villages, they wear the traditional dress of men, the shalwar kameez, pants and a long shirt. In Kabul, the capital, they are dressed in jeans and hooded sweatshirts, they play soccer and tennis, they go with their mothers to the bazaar, they defend their little sisters on the playground, they are the men of the family when the fathers are not there. However, who is fooled? Who forgets that underneath the shalwar kameez is a little girl’s heart that beats? Close relatives and neighbors play along, too—even religious officials. They do not condemn the parents who make this choice—they even encourage it sometimes—and they do not see any offense to Islam, up to a certain point . . . At puberty, there is no more question of playing along; at this time, the problem is serious and must be adjusted in a much simpler way: go back to the original plan. Girls must forget the shalwar kameez, wear a niqab, go back home, learn the domestic tasks, get ready for marriage and maternity . . . in short, embrace the role intended for women. The mullah keeps close watch on the recalcitrant who would like to live in sin, those who lie about their identity. The recalcitrant? The rebels? Those who refuse to become women in the eyes of society because they have had a taste of the men’s freedom cannot be renounced. How many of them exist? Still, no statistics, but the subject is taboo. We want to talk about these women. From the age of twelve, when their families tell them they must wear a dress and a veil, they suffocate just to imagine themselves dressed as such. They grew up as boys, they played with them, went to school, went shopping, they were free like them. And then one day their parents, the district mullah, their relatives, all tell them it’s over, all of it. No more tennis training, even if you are the champion of Afghanistan, no more school, even if you had planned on continuing your studies, no more friends, even if you have known them your whole life, no more short hair, no more life without constraints; you will become a woman. For many of these young girls, it is already too late. Imagine: you are raised as a boy, you grew up with this plan, and then tomorrow someone tells you to dress, move, compose yourself, think, and act like a girl. For some, it is simply impossible. So they cling to this lie they have been living since birth. They go out alone, without a veil, work at their own free will, go to school, and play sports . . . They resist their transforming bodies; they hide their chests. To be a bacha posh is, for them, a way of surviving in a society marked by a conservatism that makes women second-class citizens: deprivation of freedom, violence, and unjust laws. Today, 80 percent of Afghans are still illiterate. At sixteen years old, the social pressure of the emotional blackmailing becomes too much: “You are offending Allah in cheating your own identity; you bring the shame onto your family.” Many give up at this point and abandon with regret their shalwar kameez, their jeans and their tee shirts; they learn to polish their nails, wear makeup and dresses and put on the veil, and sometimes to disappear beneath a burqa. But they will never be women like the other women: they will live in the nostalgia of an ideal past; more so than the other women, they will know of the gap that separates the women from the men in Afghanistan since they once lived on the other side. Some also say the trauma will help them in the end: Azita Rafat, a former bacha posh who became a political leader, says that during her childhood as a boy, she developed the strength and independence of mind to dare to put herself forward as a candidate in the elections. And so there are others, those who do not give it up—they persist, refusing to let go of their men’s clothing and way of life. They commit the sin to stay disobedient women. They are rare and keep quiet, because they risk their lives. They are driven by their mental strength to transform, to give themselves appearances so masculine that they pass by unnoticed: they become men among men. And in their men’s disguise, they defy the authorities. Ukmina is one of these people. She was born in the mountains of southern Afghanistan, in the vicinity of Khost, near the border of Pakistan—in a Pashtun region where an ethnic group strongly upholds their traditions and codes and where women live closed off beneath their burqas. At her birth, her father decided she would be the son of the family. She grew up playing boys’ games with the responsibility to look after her mother and her sister. At puberty, she refused to obey, against her father’s will and that of the religious authorities. She thus opened the door to an extraordinary fate. She lived through the war against the Soviets; she ran away into the mountains and helped the Mujahideen. She acquired the name Ukmina the Warrior and the eternal respect from the men of her village. At the end of the conflict, it was too late to turn back. Under the Taliban regime, she had to hide herself, but she did not abandon her men’s clothing. At the reinstatement of democracy, she took her pilgrim stick and knocked on every door in the villages of her district to convince the women to vindicate their rights. Some years later, drenched in triumph at the Council of the Province of Khost, she shook the hand of President Karzai. Ukmina, illiterate and penniless, tread the soil of New York in March 2012, invited to participate in the presentation of a prestigious award in the presence of Michelle Obama and Hillary Clinton. The story of Ukmina the Warrior is that of a rebel with a big heart. Thirty years of Afghan history are seen on the face of a woman who wanted to be as free as a man. It is also homage to the courageous, strong, exemplary, and admirable women. Women who refused to be invisible, to carry on behind the walls of their burqas, to submit themselves into the slavery of marriage, to accept the principle of their inferiority. They took the appearance of men to better fight for women’s rights. And for that, they pay a high price. — Stéphanie Lebrun, January 2013 1 FROM KABUL TO NEW YORK I never liked mirrors. The elevator doors opened, and I couldn’t escape seeing my own reflection in front of me; it was impossible to avoid. Fifty-fourth floor. My eyes met those of a man without a beard, of a woman without charm. Large stature, powerful jaw line. Me. A pointed nose, thin lips. I moved forward, smiling to reveal my false gold tooth. Its original luster was well tarnished. I needed to change it. My eyes. I never really knew the color of them. Neither blue, nor green, nor brown. Zarze, as it is called in the language of my people, Pashto. Forty-seventh floor. I stepped back. Age had altered my strength as a man. My lumberjack arms remained, my shepherd legs, the stoutness of a healthy Afghan. What would they think of me, down below? I was intimidated. This rich hotel, this conference filled with important people. It was said that Michelle and Hillary would be there. Mrs. Obama and Mrs. Clinton. It made me laugh, anyway. What was I doing there? Thirty-fifth floor. I was wearing a black turban with thin white stripes on my head, and some locks of gray hair had escaped. A beige shalwar kameez, a jacket without sleeves made of gray wool: my men’s uniform. Masculine shoes, those of a stranger, of a Westerner. I have dressed this way for nearly forty years, since I decided to be a bacha posh, a woman dressed as a man. Thirty-first floor. Was it this outfit that had led me there, to the heart of the US Department of State? Among women from all over the world chosen to receive the award for Most Courageous Women of the World? And to think that three months ago, I had never heard of March 8, Women’s Day. This was all because of Shakila. She came to find me during a seminar at Kabul: “We thought of you, Ukmina. You were chosen to represent Afghanistan. If you want, you can join the delegation that will go to New York for March eighth.” This was in January. I thought about it and agreed. Anything that talks about my people is better than nothing. I had the right to be accompanied, to bring