The Underground Girls of Kabul Read Online Free PDF

its nature requires some degree of visibility.
    In the eyes of conservatives, if an Afghan woman must work, she should, at most, be a teacher in an all-female class. Any profession in which a woman interacts with or can be observed by other men is more problematic, as it risks tarnishing her family’s reputation. Women who work with foreigners, with their different customs, are even more suspect. Sitting on the national assembly, in the burning glare of the public eye, Azita provokes reactions on many levels.
    Her work uniform consists of an Iranian-style full-length black
abaya
with a thin black head scarf, meant to exude authority and dignity. She hopes to display a sense of refinement as well as deep conservatism; no contour of her body must be evident as she moves. Theblack garment features a small gold trim; any further display of color would be out of the question. In another universe, in another life, Azita’s color of choice would be bright red–but that is an impossible color in Afghanistan. The color of fire is considered to be overtly sexual, meant to arrest the eyes of men. It is for someone who means to be flamboyant. Admired. Brightly colored dress was outright banned by the Taliban, but it still would be unthinkable, potentially even dangerous, in Afghanistan’s conservative culture. No respectable Kabul woman wears red outside the house, and Azita owns no red clothing.
    It takes her seconds to draw thick lines with black kohl around her eyes and dust herself with a beige powder. There are usually cameras in parliament, and she knows by now that matte skin photographs better. As she leaves the house, she puts on a pair of gold-ornamented dark sunglasses. A friend bought them for her in Dubai. She allows herself a few more special effects: two Arabic rose-gold rings and a knockoff designer handbag. Gold is not so much decoration as a display of portable cash, signifying a woman’s status as a good wife and mother. He who has a good, respectable, and fertile wife will honor her with gold for all to see. Azita has paid for her own rings, but this no one needs to know.
    A FTER SHE IS settled in the backseat, her car is soon absorbed into Kabul’s dense morning mash of wheels and dented bumpers. The usual fifteen-minute drive to the national assembly in Karte Seh takes at least one hour in the mornings. White Toyota Corollas patiently pop in and out of large potholes, navigating labyrinths of roadblocks and stretches of no road at all. Spring, or the beginning of
fighting season
, as it’s called here—when Taliban and “insurgents” will spring into more aggressive battle—is still a few months away. The hard, icy ground is not yet covered with dust, and red pomegranates from Kandahar are still being cracked open in stalls by the roadside.
    Azita’s driver avoids getting too close to Afghan police transports,the green Ford Ranger pickup trucks crammed with blue-clad police officers, their assault rifles poking out in every direction.Afghan police are among the most popular targets for suicide bombers and improvised explosive devices known as IEDs. Officers patrolling Kabul are killed at twice the rate of military men, who are harder to get close to. In the eyes of insurgents, both are considered traitors working for the foreign-backed government. Early mornings—whenthe conviction of martyrdom and the prospect of virgins waiting in paradise is still fresh—are a favorite time for suicide bombers to attack, since dense traffic promises the reward of a high death count.
    Azita subscribes to the regular Afghan argument: When your time is up, it’s up. God decides when that may be. She cannot spend every morning ride to work thinking of whether the moment has arrived. Azita and her driver have missed explosions by seconds before. Each day, she takes a risk just by stepping out of her house. She logs about two anonymous death threats a week at her office or at home, when she is warned to quit parliament.