Free Letters to My Daughters by Fawzia Koofi Page A

schools were open and girls were able to attend. But in reality, parents were reluctant to send their daughters to class because they didn’t think it was safe.
    And I could see the changes on television. The beautiful, intelligent female news presenters suddenly disappeared from the screens. In their places, dowdy old women in scarves stumbled their way through the news.
    Afghanistan had had some highly respected women presenting the evening news. They were smart and glamorous and executed their jobs with utter professionalism. They were important role models for me and girls like me. I loved following their changing hairstyles as much as I loved listening to them report the international news. They were living proof that Afghan women could be attractive, educated and successful. But their sudden disappearance from the screens made me very worried.
    I went to my mother in tears one day, upset, scared and frustrated by all that was happening. She just listened to me as I poured my heart out. When I finished, she announced that we would find temporary admission to a school in Faizabad.
    I missed Kabul and the heady glamour of my friends’ houses terribly. But I was pleased to be back at school, even though the school in Faizabad—which had once seemed so large and overwhelming—now seemed tiny and parochial.
    I was stuck with the burka, though. I began to get used to the feeling of being enclosed, but I couldn’t get used to the heat. There was no bus service in Faizabad, so I would walk to school in the sun, the sweat running down my body. I sweated so badly that my skin developed black spots from the perspiration and lack of air.
    Despite my discomfort, I made lots of friends. I was enjoying being back in the classroom and the opportunities that came with it. My teachers invited me to take part in some gardening classes after school, where we could learn about plants, propagation and soil care. This was Badakhshan, where despite the farming culture even today the understanding of biology and farming science is very basic. This class interested me, but my mother wouldn’t let me continue with it. Even with my burka, she was scared that her teenage daughter might attract the roaming eye of a Mujahideen fighter. Every minute I was outside the house was another minute that might lead to an unwelcome marriage proposal—and a Mujahideen marriage proposal is not one you turn down without serious consequences. To do so would almost certainly invite them to take what they wanted by force. As far as my mother was concerned, going to school was an essential risk she would allow me to take; learning about plants after school hours was a luxury her beautiful daughter could live without.
    The arrival of the Mujahideen had changed many aspects of my world outside the house. But it also changed my home life in unexpected ways. I had been back at school for a month when my half brother Nadir appeared at our door one day. I hadn’t seen him for fifteen years, since he had disappeared as a boy to fight the Russians. The man who stood in our living room was now a Mujahideen commander. He and his men were responsible for the supply routes into Koof, ensuring that the fighters there had enough arms and ammunition. It was a very important role for a Mujahideen fighter and not one the generals handed out often.
    My mother was glad to see her stepson, of course, but she wasn’t shy about venting her displeasure at his job and at his apparent lack of support for the family at a time of crisis. My brother would have been, at least as far as the Mujahideen were concerned, within his rights to beat her or maybe even kill her for such insolence. But he didn’t. So great was the respect my mother commanded within our family that he apologized to her. He was a man now, he said, and he knew right from wrong. His priority was no longer fighting. It was now doing what was best for the family.
    He wanted to take me to his