The Men of Jowzjan

If the governement is a gathering of war criminals, as many Afghans believe, then Maliha Ahir, by comparison, is not a criminal, at least not by virtue of laws written by such a government.

“Do you understand this rationale?” we ask her.

“Yes. I understand,” acknowledges Maliha. “I am not a criminal. They are the criminals. But I am one, too. I know I am.” She is applying make-up to her bruised eye while cupping a hand mirror.

“Who’s your eldest male relative?” we ask.

“My father.”

“Can’t he help you?”

“Yes, but he is not here. He is in Pakistan.”

“Have you asked him for money?” 

“No, never. He would not. Not for me.”

“How did you bruise your eye?”

“My baby. With his bottle, like this--he hit me. It does not hurt. And it did not look like this when he did it.”

“Your baby is two years old. He doesn’t have the strength to bruise you. Who punched you?”

“I do not know. His name? Why? I . . . What do I know of him? He said I am his favorite. I know his name. That is all, but it is not his real name.”

In Afghanistan, a woman sitting in the front seat of a car has to provide a reason why she is not sitting in the back seat, or, if sitting in the back seat, why she is in the car without a man, and, if the man is elsewhere, who the man escorting her is and where he is, and, of course, if the man is in the car with her and not a relative . . .

“I do not sit in cars,” claims Maliha.

“Where were you when you were punched?”

“Here.” She points to the corner of her shack, and we note that her light blue headscarf is dulled by shadow, her rags flattened, and her face, olive-toned and gaunt, appears as tender as her temples.

“Why’re you wearing rags?” we ask her.

“So I am safe,” she explains. “Out there.” She is pointing over her shoulder now, while her shoulder, so bony, appears to grip its rag. “I am going out,” she tells us.

“Where’re your children?”

“They are here.” She indicates three bundles in corners dark enough to hide feature and gender, but not size and shape. 

“Who’s napping directly in front of you?” we ask.

“Noor.”

“And to your left?”

“Maghfirat. My son, Mateen, is here.”

“Do your children sleep in these corners or lay awake when men come here?”

“Only sometimes. I try not to do that here. Not a lot.”

“Your daughters are seven and eight and know what’s happening, but Mateen, in just a few years, won’t allow it. How, then, will you support your children?” 

“I do not do it here. Only sometimes. But I won’t do it here ever again.”

“Why won’t you use a condom?”

“I have. But I don’t. Not all the time. Because they will not.”

The Health Ministry has a Department of AIDS Control with a five-year $38 million strategy. Afghanistan has sixty-nine HIV-positive cases (mostly male drug addicts), plus three deaths, but health experts argue that the number of cases is much higher--over two hundred; whereas other experts estimate between one and two thousand, and some claim the number is even higher and bound to grow given the return of refugees across the borders of nations with high and rising HIV-positive populations.

“I do not have it,” claims Maliha.

“You have something,” we insist.

“Yes, but not that.”

“How do you know what you have?”

“I go to a doctor.”

“Your doctor can’t help you. There’re no drugs here to combat HIV.”

“My doctor helps me.”

Last year, President Karzai raided Kabul’s Chinese ‘restaurants’ (brothels) and deported forty-seven Chinese prostitutes. Presently, his HIV strategy is centered on containment and prevention, not cure and symptom (and he is a puppet, and his brother, Wali, is an opium trader). “President Karzai will arrest you,” we say, “not help you.”

“Dr. Rasekh helps me,” offers Maliha.

Dr. Rasekh, a blood specialist trained in Germany, is a rarity among Afghan elites, in that she has repatriated. Having done little for Maliha medically, she recently refused to hire her as an assistant. Maliha’s rent is $12 per month. For sexual services, she charges 250 Afghanis (a few dollars) and sometimes more, but often less, particularly when servicing regular clients. When her husband died, she said, “It is from God,” and found work with a madam (then became pregnant and was fired). Thereafter, with three children, she worked alone. Now that she is too used and abused (meaning too old) to meet the demands of Jowzjan’s high-paying clientele, she earns much less money than other prostitutes.

“I did this because of my husband,” she insists; then explains: “He came to me and said, ‘Find my watch.’ I did not know where it was. He said, ‘Find it or I will kill you.’”

While looking for the watch, Maliha asked a watch merchant if he had a similar watch. The merchant invited her into his shop and, in the back, had sex with her in return for a similar watch, but by that time her husband had found his watch. He kept the new watch and beat her for having had sex. The new watch required additional visits to the merchant. He forced her to make those visits so that he could keep the watch, and he beat her again; then he started renting her. 

“That is why,” she concludes.

We ask her: “Who was worse, your husband or the Taliban?”

“My husband.”

“Who is worse now, the Taliban or the police?”

“The police. The Taliban are not here.”

In Afghanistan, women who are raped are not raped; instead, they are being punished for being uncovered or for irritating men; additionally, the rape did not really occur, that is to say, because reporting rape is wrong, reported rapes go unreported.

“How many times were you raped?” we ask.

“I have been raped,” Maliha acknowledges.

Outside, boys leer at an exposed ankle or spiked heel (all the women here wear burkas except Maliha, who passes for a ragged beggar). She scurries to the market, hoping to service three clients before returning home, meeting the eyes of no man, begging and bowing, surveying charitable targets from a safe distance, blessing and being blessed. She has enough money to pay off the police if they stop her. 

“How far are you going?” we ask.

“To that supermarket over there.” She points to a supermarket that is closing. Inside, pastries and sweet breads are stacked as if brickwork within display cases. Down the aisle, flattened cardboard boxes track mud and protect beige tiles. A frosted glass central light is fringed about its dead bulbs and winged overall, parallel to a naked bulb hanging from its cord, in turn parallel to a octopus-like sprinkler, the contraption dividing the ceiling, which itself is segmented by molding. The merchandise is stacked by kind and size: packages and cans: red with yellow lettering, green with blue lettering, lime with yellow lettering beneath black lettering, blue packages, blue-and-white packages. Maliha could feed her family for an entire year with such a stock.

The owner of the supermarket is Shah Nasim. Stationed behind the counter, slight and neat in a blue shirt and gray coat, he resembles a lab technician, jotting prices and quantities while delivering directives, checking merchandise and monitoring customers. His sole employee is a boy who is presently unloading boxes: American ketchup and coffee, instant coffee, tea. 

“Maliha,” we say, “you can do this work. Have you asked Shah for a job?” 

“He will have something for me soon,” she claims.

“What will he have for you?”

“Clients,” she whispers; then enters the store and scampers behind a tall refrigeration case, exchanges her rags for perfumed clothes bundled behind packages and applies make-up to the rest of her face. In this space, she will service her clients.

Two years ago a foreign contractor completed the Shiberghan Highway. Today, the highway’s hazards include potholes created by trucks leaking oil and jumbo gravel shot back by tires cracking windshields. Additionally, a berm prevents drainage, such that storm water threatens bordering mud homes (villagers were arrested recently for digging ditches to save their homes). Culverts, and a second series of culverts, constructed in response to grass roots protests, fail to improve on initial planning errors. Even changing tires creates potholes: the jacks invariably sink into the gravel.

Maliha met Basir during the construction of the highway and has sexually serviced him ever since. He is her favorite.

“Yes. And I am his favorite,” she claims.

Basir is much older than Maliha, with white whiskers and dark eyes, a curved nose that lends sly insight to his affection, and--

“I do not love him,” she utters.

“You’re lying,” we say. “You can’t help but love him. And you’ve never really loved any other man. Have you ever been loved?”

“Yes, I have been loved.”

“Men have said they love you, even your husband, but the only one who ever made you feel loved is Basir. When is he coming to see you?”

“He does not tell me.”

“In your daydreams, he tells you, and he is always true to his word. How big is his family?”

“I don’t know.”

“How many wives does he have?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Everything matters regarding Basir. How far away does he live?”

“I do not know.”

“He works at the Topping Plant processing crude oil. The highway is crucial to the plan’s success. You met him while washing clothes beside the highway. You know where he lives.”

“I don’t.”

“He’s taught you how to be a good companion. He gives you gifts for your children and always food. This is the most any man has ever given you.”

“I’m happy to have Basir.”

“You always meet in the same place.”

“Yes.”

“Sometimes you meet after you service a man.”

“That has happened.”

“And, after he leaves, sometimes you service another man.”

“Sometimes I have to.”

“Perhaps you’ll have his child.”

“No.”

“Or another man’s child.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“You can’t have Basir’s child because he always wears a condom. Why’re you crying?”

“I’m not.” 

But she is, and she still has dinner to serve; then she and her daughters will clean their shack. Bedtime is early for the girls due to their mother’s night work and their consequent early awakening routinely taxes Maliha. Notwithstanding, throughout their time together, the girls are angels and Mateen is well behaved, except when hungry.

“Is Mateen hungry right now or is he simply mimicking your tears?” we ask Maliha.

“He doesn’t know why I’m crying,” she claims, wiping her cheeks and washing her hands. She would love to bathe in the canal irrigating Basir’s village. Basir lives atop a hill where long houses with many windows face one way or the other in a V-configuation pointed toward approachers and backed against a mountain. A terrace of trees leads to a higher road and upwards from here steeply to the baked mud fortification. Highest of all is a brick rondo with a small open-air window for snipers and machinegunners. The lowest road has a chiaroscuro berm and runs parallel to the canal and public road, the latter broader and finer, across a barren field. 

“Have you ever been to Basir’s village?” we ask her.

“No.”

“For any reason--any reason whatsoever?”

“No.”

“Yet you know what his village looks like.”

“I have passed it.”

“How many times have you passed it?”

“Many times.”

“Often for no other reason than just to pass it. And you’ve hidden behind the white boulder marking his village.”

“I will not go there again.”

“He’s never come here--never seen you feed Mateen. Strangers have come here and will come again, but somehow not Basir, not even to see the children to whom he’s given such lovely gifts--gifts of praticality, but also of particularity.”

“Now I am crying.”

“You can’t control your crying. Do you want to control Basir?”

“No.”

“Do you want him to control you? To take care of you?”

. . .

“What’re gifts and kisses and gazes of sincerity, and pledges of love, to a man as powerful as Basir?”

“Powerful? But . . . he is not a tribal leader. He is just a man.”

“A man with connections, foreign contracts and skills. Why do you often follow him home, if not to know something more about him?”

“I know about him. But . . .” 

She wants to know more about herself: to see his home (where she should live), his children (with whom her children should be raised) and his wives (whom she envies, but would compete with), so that she can assess his status among his people and place herself among them. This will transform her, or so she believes--and, thereafter, by his side, she will speak on his behalf and be respected--a healthy wife and mother, no longer hungry, tired and lonely.

Tonight, she works at Shah Nasim’s supermarket. Basir does not show up. For two successive nights, he does not show up; then, in the afternoon, she goes to Basir’s village. Usually she goes after work, hides behind the white boulder and fantasizes about love and acceptance. Now, dressed as a begger, she crosses the barren field and plans to wait on the road for Basir to come home from work. She will not speak to him; just let him see her, so that tonight he will come.

“Why didn’t he come the other nights?” we ask her.

“I will not ask him today.”

“Will you ask him later tonight?”

“Yes.”

A funeral procession surprises her: descending from the village and heading away. Only men accompany the deceased. 

“Who died?” we ask her.

“I don’t see Basir.”

“Perhaps he’s at work.”

“No, they’re all here.”

“Then where’s Basir?”

“I don’t see him.”

The deceased hoped for the best from Allah, and uttered, just prior to expiring, “I bear witness that there is no god but Allah.” The deceased’s family washed the deceased’s body in a clean, secluded place, with clean water, soap and cloth, as many times as was necessary, the last time with perfumed water; then they tied the deceased’s lower jaw to the head to prevent sagging. The family wrapped the deceased’s body in three white sheets (kafan), fastened by tie ropes; or perhaps the deceased was a martyr, in which case the body was buried in its bloody clothes.

“Did Basir die?” we ask Maliha. 

“It is not him,” she claims.

“Does he owe you any money?”

“Where is Basir?” she demands.

During burial, the ties will be loosened and stones placed over the deceased’s body, then dirt and sand. The grave will remain unmarked. Three days of mourning will follow, but four months and ten days for widows. Basir, if he is dead, will either be taken to paradise by angels, who will say, “Salaamun Alikum,” or he will be kept in his grave by angels as ugly as Maliha, bearing a rough cloth, striking his face and back, saying, “Taste the punishment of the fire. That is for what your own hands have put forth.” He will stay in his grave--a narrow grave--remote and lonely, amid dirt and worms, accompanied by his wicked deeds. 

“Basir is not dead,” insists Maliha, now following the funeral procession.

“Why’re you muttering?” we ask.

“I am not muttering,” she contends. “I have nothing but love in my heart.”

“You have selfishness, too.”

“No one knows me. No one cares about me.”

“Basir cares. Your children care.”

“Basir is not dead, and my children are alive because of him.” 

She waits until nightfall. Basir does not return to his village, either as part of the funeral procession or from work. When she visits his grave, she believes that he can hear her footsteps; and when she cries, she believes that he can feel her tears falling on the dirt. She rubs her hands over his grave. She kisses his grave, offering words of endearment and the same pledges that they have offered to one another previously.

We ask: “What does Islam say about rubbing one’s hands over a grave and kissing the grave?” 

“Nothing,” cries Maliha. “I have nothing.” She claws the grave, believing she is doing nothing wrong, but a villager in the rondo concludes otherwise. From that distance, the villager shoots her dead (later claiming she is a grave robber). Basir learns of Maliha’s death the following morning (he was with another prostitute the night before) and sees to her burial.

Many funerals accompany the funeral of Maliha Ashir. In Jabal-us-Siraj, Zakia Zaki is shot seven times in bed while sleeping beside her ten-month-old baby. The mother of six and director of a radio program called Voice of Peace (Sadays Solh), Zakia was threatened for advocating women’s rights; and this assassination occurs just days after the assassination of Shekiba Sanga Amaaj, a reporter shot dead while walking home.

In Kabul, the Taliban bomb a police academy bus, murdering twenty-two instructors and two civilians and wounding over fifty bystanders. In Zarghun Shah, a U.S. air strike kills seven children (the target is Abu Laith al Libi, a high value al Qaeda leader). In De Adam Khan, near Grishk, another U.S. air strike kills twenty-five civilians, including women and children. The following week, in Hyderabad (also near Grishk), another U.S. air strike kills thirty-five, or sixty, or one-hundred-and-twenty, or one-hundred-and-seventy civilians (accounts differ). In Shewan Village in Farah Province, U.S. air strikes kill one-hundred-and-eight civilians, including eleven policemen, but NATO disputes this account.

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