When you listen to rock music and daydream over sentimental Indian novels, like lots of boys his age? The Taliban are all bearded. Their edict specifies that men must wear beards as long as a man's hand. They never wear the pakol, the traditional Afghan cap that has become an emblem of the resistance.
Besides, we know they're not all Pashtuns, or even Afghans: They're supported by Pakistan, and they recruit followers abroad.
Footage on television and eyewitnesses from the provinces they control prove that their ranks include many Pakistanis, as well as Arabs from Muslim countries, most of whom don't even speak our language. My father checks the street from the balcony of our apartment. The neighborhood is rather quiet; the Taliban flag still waves atop the mosque. But our minds are reeling. We look at one another, dumbfounded. Farad gulps down a glass of hot tea. Papa comes in from the balcony, shaking his head: He simply cannot believe the Taliban have hanged Najibullah.
This morning, my father and I will not be going jogging with Bingo, our dog. This morning, my father is silently wondering about a thousand things he keeps to himself so as not to distress our mother any further. She has already been sorely tried by seventeen years of war. War, fighting — that's all I've ever known since I was born on March 20, , the first day of spring. But even under the Soviets, even under the rocket fire of the feuding military factions, even in the ruins, we were still living in relative freedom in Kabul.
What kind of life will our father be able to offer his loved ones? What will happen to his children? I was lucky to be born into a united and affectionate family, one both liberal and religious. My oldest brother, Wahid, lives in Russia. My oldest sister, Shakila, is married and lives with her in-laws, following the custom of our people.
She's in Pakistan, waiting to join her husband in the United States. Soraya, who is twenty, is unmarried and has been a flight attendant for Aryana Afghan Airlines for three years now. She came home two days ago from a routine trip to Dubai and was to have left again this morning.
Daoud is studying economics. I just passed the first part of a university entrance examination to study journalism. That has always been my dream. My father and everyone else in my family hope to see me complete my studies and become a reporter, traveling around the country, earning my living.
Will all this come to an end in a single moment? I need to see what's going on in Aryana Square, and so does my sister. We want to convince ourselves that the Taliban are really here, that they've really hanged Najibullah and his brother, that the catastrophe I refused to believe in only yesterday has actually happened to us.
My brother Wahid, who was a soldier during the Soviet occupation and then a resistance fighter under General Massoud, always used to say about the Taliban, who were moving up from the south, "You can't imagine the kind of foreign support they have.
No one in Kabul has the slightest clue: They're powerful, they've got modern equipment — the government will never be able to stand up to those people. At the time, we thought he was being too pessimistic. Now we realize that he was right. So to convince myself of this new reality, I want to see these Taliban soldiers with my own eyes.
My father has the same idea. Daoud will stay with Mama, who is too fragile to see such things, and the rest of us will drive to Aryana Square. Before taking off on his bike, a sturdy Chinese model, Farad warns my father once again:"You should stay home! It would be safer. But we must see this incredible sight. If I were already a reporter, it would be my duty to go to the square. I've never seen Najibullah, except for a few times on television, and I was so young then.
People had been saying lately that he was writing an autobiography, which I was eager to read. Even those who betrayed our country, who supported the Soviets, are part of our recent history.
Anyone who wants to be a journalist must learn everything, understand everything, know everything. I usually wear sweatpants, a polo shirt or a pullover, and running shoes, but today Soraya and I dress prudently in long dresses and chadors, which we wear at home when we pray. Papa goes to get the car, which is parked near the local mosque. Carrying his bicycle on his shoulder, Farad follows us downstairs, where we wait for Papa, who soon drives up.
A neighbor calls to us. It seems they've hanged Najibullah on Aryana Square. What do you think of that? My father signals us discreetly to be cautious. In Kabul, and even in our neighborhood of Mikrorayan, you never know with whom you're dealing.
The four modern housing complexes that make up this eastern section of the capital were built by the Soviets and form a kind of concrete village, with its big numbered apartment blocks, its business sector, its school. Many important officials in the Afghan Communist Party lived there, in what were considered luxurious quarters that were more comfortable than traditional houses.
Most of the residents are acquainted with one another, and we recognize this neighbor, of course, but who knows what side he's on this morning? Farad has younger sisters and a sense of responsibility. The girl pleads with us to take her along, but the answer is no. We drive off toward Aryana Square.
Sitting in the back with Soraya, I think about the wedding we will not be attending. A few minutes ago, when I mentioned the dresses we were supposed to go get from the seamstress today, Mama snapped at me. And you're talking about picking up dresses! School, college, Sundays at the swimming pool, expeditions with my girlfriends in search of music tapes, film videos, novels to read avidly in bed in the evening How I hope the resistance forces haven't abandoned us to our fate.
Along the way, Papa stops the car when one of our friends, a pharmacist, waves to him in recognition. The pharmacist's brother holds an important position in the government. To Aryana Square? I'd advise against it. Be careful! The faces I glimpse in passing are strained: People seem to be in shock. Everything seems calm, however.
In fifteen minutes we reach the avenue that runs from the airport to Aryana Square, which is already clogged with cars. This great square is the modern center of the city.
My father warns us that he's going to make a quick tour of the square and park farther along. We drive past the American Embassy, the television building, the headquarters of Aryana Afghan Airlines. None of their doors are open. Soraya has tears in her eyes. Maybe I'll never be able to come here again. Even the television building is closed The car turns a corner of the square by Peace Avenue, the site of the UN compound.
Facing us is the Ministry of Defense, where General Massoud had his office. And there, across from the Hotel Aryana, the most luxurious in Kabul, reserved primarily for tourists and Western journalists, stands a kind of watchtower ordinarily used by the police guards on duty to keep an eye on the ministry.
Two corpses are hanging from this improvised gallows. Papa advises us to look quickly because he's not going to drive around the square again. The first one hanging from a length of plastic tubing wrapped around his chest under his arms, the other strung up by the neck. Najibullah's face is recognizable, but blue, mottled with bruises: He must have been beaten before he was hanged. His brother's face, untouched, has a waxen pallor.
The Taliban have stuffed cigarettes into the ex-president's mouth and crammed his pockets full of paper money, letting the bills stick out on purpose to advertise his greed. Najibullah seems to be vomiting cigarettes. It's a vile spectacle, so ghastly that my sister and I start sobbing, but I can't tear my eyes away. Papa parks the car some distance from the square, to avoid the crowd. Whatever you do, stay in the car! I saw the pharmacist, he wound up coming here too, so I'm going to go speak with him.
Farad was telling the truth: The Taliban are brandishing whips-or rather, some sort of wire cables-with which they lash out fiercely at passersby, forcing them to look at the grotesquely dangling bodies. I can't see these whips clearly; Soraya claims they have lead weights at the tips, but I'm not sure about that.
That one's beating a boy; you see how it's hurting him? A simple cable wouldn't make him suffer that much. Ten minutes go by. Alone in the car, slumped in the backseat, hiding under our chadors, we both sit in silence, thinking about the disaster that has befallen us and anxiously wondering what lies ahead.
So many rumors are flying around. I won't be going to my classes anymore. And Mama? She studied at Zarghuna High School, where she didn't wear the veil; her father had bought her a bicycle, like mine, to ride to school.
She knew a time when girls wore their skirts hemmed at the knee, like mine; she received her nurse's diploma, worked in a hospital, earned a degree in gynecology. Even today, at forty-eight, although she has retired, worn out from raising five children and working all her life to provide medical services for women, she still sees patients for free in her home two or three times a week. Our country needs its women.
For years, women have held jobs in the civil service, education, and health care. There are so many widows, so many children, so many preventive measures to be taken, so many medical emergencies to cope with, so many daily battles with people's ignorance of modern medicine.
Mama has lived through difficult times, and the Taliban's entry into Kabul will weaken her even more. In the distance, we see Papa coming back, his shoulders hunched; he opens the car door and slips behind the wheel, shaking his head without a word. We do not disturb his silence. Then he starts the car, pulls away from the curb, and begins to speak. His brother says that just before Massoud's troops left the city, someone close to the general went to the UN building to warn Najibullah and offer to take him along with them.
Najibullah turned the man down. Perhaps I'll be prime minister. I'm staying! And now he's hanging in Aryana Square. The man also wanted him to reveal the whereabouts of all the arms and munitions depots left behind in Kabul by the Soviets. Najibullah wouldn't sign. They beat and killed him, then strung him up on Aryana Square.
It's his fault if he died like that. It's his fault. He didn't believe the Taliban would dare invade a building belonging to the United Nations. Well, they dared.
God knows what else they're capable of after that. We believe what Papa has told us, because he knows the pharmacist well, they often play chess together, and each considers the other a trustworthy friend.
The man's brother left the city sometime this morning. Describe the connection issue. Toggle navigation Back to results. My forbidden face : growing up under the Taliban-a young woman's story. Imprint London : Virago, Physical description x, p. Available online. Full view. Green Library. L Unknown. More options. Find it at other libraries via WorldCat Limited preview. Summary Latifa was born into an educated middle-class Afghan family in Kabul in She dreamed of one day becoming a journalist, she was interested in fashion, movies and friends.
Then in September , Taliban soldiers seized power in Kabul. First Person is an archived program which is no longer broadcast. In this Series Monday 16 May My forbidden face. More This [series episode segment] has. Tuesday 17 May My forbidden face. Latifa describes daily life for her and her family under the Taliban regime. Wednesday 18 May My forbidden face.
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