Lucky Ladies

Veiled women with voices

“It is that time of year again”. Not original at all. Which explains why I have not been able to write for the past few weeks. Stopping and starting and sometimes not starting at all. Some young and elderly serious followers of my posts have dropped hints asking when can we expect the next one. And this makes me cringe. I say to them “There is something called writer’s block”. And then I tell myself “My my! You just called yourself a writer! A writer – this big category of people you admire – Joan Didion, Mary Oliver and Virginia Woolf.” My confidence knows no limits. But I read just the other day "The highest form of self-confidence is believing in your ability to learn." It made a lot of sense to me. I am prepared to be forever learning – atleast enrolled to learn. A privilege to be a student always. As I write privilege, I think of the numerous other privileges I have, have had and been born into. Let us not call it privilege – it was just a Lucky Strike! No, I am not referring to the cigarette that was marketed and taste modified to attract women – now of course many women are smoking all that the men smoke -nothing special needed – we are equals – in all ways – we can/ cannot/choose not to read the statutory warnings. I knew women were the wiser of the race. Wasted wisdom! Gyan Paapi as the Bengalis say. Like the Cliff Richard song which assures the man of a woman “cos he has Lucky Lips”. But now again I am veering off in tangents and will abandon this piece too. I tell myself – “You stay put woman! The ploy of retreating into the past will work – the past always has presents to give.” I go back to my journal – I read something I wrote way back in 2008 and I am not disappointed. I finally have something to share – in my last piece I introduced you all to a few of my friends. Meet two women I met in the course of my work this time.

End of 2007 I went to Cairo for a workshop which was attended by colleagues from all the Asian and Middle Eastern countries that the organisation I worked for, implemented Mother and Child Health programmes in. I have distinct memories of disparate things of that trip. It was my first trip on a fancy airline like Emirates, never mind that they could not offer me anything but wilted carrots and cucumbers posing as salad, bread and butter for a meal because a Dr Banerjee has to be Bengali and of course, everything but vegetarian.

My fellow passengers were a Chinaman and a Sheikh – the former I realised very soon, spoke fluent Arabic, was reading an Arabic newspaper – I was impressed enough to start a conversation. The Sheikh took over, he told me they were returning after a treatment session in Kerala. He said his wives remained there for a few more days. When I told him I was a doctor travelling alone to a conference he said Mashallah! It sounded lovely this word. I did not know what it meant then. I took it as a compliment. The Chinaman was the legal counsel he said in his business operations – someone who had run away after the Tiananmen massacre to Tunisia where he managed to remain and go to Law School and then land a job in Dubai – more valued because of his language skills. I have no way of verifying the veracity of this story about dates and details as I write this – this is as I remember it after nearly 2 decades – but am reasonably sure that these persons are not a figment of my imagination. There is a memory of meeting them again a week later in the Cairo Museum where I was gawking at the gold jewellery excavated from the pyramids. Wait- why am I talking about 2 men – I said I would introduce you all to women.

Afghanistan in my childhood was the land of the Kabuliwallah of Rabindranath Tagore – it then took on the flavours of Khalid Hosseini’s The Kite Runner. After I met Q and Dr N I did not need fictional references – I had real flesh and blood persons tell me their stories.

Site of the Bamiyan Buddhas

I have no contact with any of these women now- I do not know in what tense one should refer to them – what is the elegant style to do it? In the past or present? I need a writing course to learn this – am as we speak enrolled in one. I will remain authentic to my journal in 2008.

Q from Kandahar. A midwife- one of the few trained ones in rural Kandahar and makes home visits to counsel and deliver antenatal, natal and post-natal services to women. These are women who cannot- thanks to the forces whoever they are- leave their homes for these essential services. Q’s husband was shot dead in open daylight by the Taliban many years ago when her son now nearly an adult, was still a young boy. She supports his education and her nonagenarian father with her income from her job as a team leader for the home-based support programme supported by an international agency. She is covered head to foot by a full burkha when in Kandahar but was so comfortable wearing a pretty salwar kameez and dupatta with her head and face open for all to see. Her face is that of a strong intelligent questioning woman – is the burkha^[i] meant to hide the strength that women are not to have – will it threaten the stronger sex? I was compelled to say “Why do you not leave for the sake of your son and your own? You are young, educated, you can have a better life outside” She was angry “Why leave- where do I go? Who gives you outsiders the audacity to even suggest that things cannot improve in my country?” I was taken aback- dumbstruck. Seeing me extremely discomfited she broke down and said “Hope that is my only possession – I am lucky to be alive.” Yes- Q is alive- not just living- she smiles shyly as we pose for a picture together. Why have I said Q and not her name- I started writing her full name – but I was seized by an anxiety that is perhaps exaggerated – I do not want her identity to be disclosed- I want her to be safe.

Me with Q

As I read this account in 2024, I realise that this can be the story of a Q or an R today in Afghanistan. Has 2024 been the beginning of the end for women in Afghanistan? The Taliban regime in Afghanistan 2 weeks back has banned medical training for women. It means there will be no more Qs Rs and S’ who will train to help women deliver their babies safely.

And there was Dr N. A beauty –she was all peaches and cream – a true team player in all our group activities. Always waiting to hear everyone out before she added her voice, something different to add in her milk and honey voice. I suspect all the men in the room were taken in by her striking appearance but her reticence was a barrier to friendly banter. I suspect she was saving all her words to say what she knew no one else could or would. There was a session on the importance of psychological support for women after child birth with particular reference to successful breastfeeding. The phrase Mental Health was not in vogue then. The expert concluded his session, the floor was open for questions, Dr N waited as usual. And then asked “Who will provide psychological support to those who are providing psychological support to the women?” Am not sure I understood it the first time. Am pretty sure that was not what was expected to be asked – there was silence. And then she told the story of women in her team who held hands, comforted young women pregnant or just delivered, going house to house in Kabul, Herat and Kandahar only to be greeted by abuse themselves once home. Dr N said she was “Lucky”- that word again – and how lucky- her doctor husband only raised his hand in anger but – he never had hit her. “He is an educated man” she concluded. The silence was not broken and continued into the coffee break. Later that evening on the Nile Cruise as Um Kulthum’s plaintive tunes played, I saw Dr N swaying to the music ever so gently by herself on the boat- I had nothing to say to her as had no one else. I suspect she was not looking for answers from us. She wanted the world to know her inside story.

I last heard from Dr N after the Taliban took over completely through a brief Skype exchange – her reticence intact even as she said in dulcet tones that her family was safe and they were all together at home. She had not left home in weeks but expected to restart work soon. I am not so sure of that now.

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^[i] I risk offending many women who voluntarily wear the hijab or the burkha – I have no quarrel with those who do it of their own volition (how much is conditioning and how much is free choice is another debate), in the context of the story I tell here – I suspect Q was happy to be free of it where it was possible.