Ana Tortajada - The silenced cry: one womans diary of a journey to afghanistan

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the authors copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

Contents

FRIDAY, AUGUST 25, 2000.

Vallirana.

There are those who sell, for two and a quarter reales, sparrows still cleaving the sky.

It has been just five days since Ive returned to Europe. I drift like a distraught soul among the armchairs and corners of my house. I attribute the soreness in my throat to the strong air-conditioning that assaults me at every turn, and to the halfhearted chain-smoking, lighting up a cigarette only for the pleasure of doing so on a whim instead of having to find myself a secluded spot. I cling to the credible excuse that exhaustion (and the disaster that is my insides) offers me, after this voyage to a physical and virtual Afghanistan and to the Pakistani city of Peshawar and its innumerable Afghan refugee population, so as not to leave, so as to see no one, so as to do nothing.

It gives me a certainif very relativeamount of relief to know that its not just me who feels strange, out of place, foreign to the world around me. Something similar is happening to Meme and Sara. Since weve returned, its taxing to relate to our people and environment: they have not been there. Of course, they show interest in our trip, in the things that we have seen, but why wont this vague and frustrating sensation that the echo of our experiences is full of interference leave us? Words and the air through which they travel are morphing into a thick magma and are losing their conductive character that ordinarily permits communication. This doesnt happen when we talk among the three of us. So we take refuge among ourselves, in our own little triangle of common experience, in tune with each other where we feel secure, for those first few days.

We hadnt known each other before it all happened.

It hadnt been three days yet that Afghanistanthe situation that her people suffer under the Talibans oppression, and the struggle for survival by the Afghans taking refuge in Pakistanhad invaded my life, dominating everything, ever since I received notice that a group of people from the UOC (Universitat Oberta de Catalunya) was organizing a trip. But in reality there was no such group: only Merc Guilera, a UOC student who had decided to travel to Pakistan in order to better understand the situation of women in that country and who had proposed the trip to Sara Comas, the journalist from El Punt de Rub, whom she had met on several occasions. Each related to themes of cooperation and solidarity. Both had met the same Afghan refugee as I during her time in Barcelona. Sara had interviewed her for her newspaper. I looked up MercsMemesphone number. I called, and immediately joined in preparing for the trip.

There was nothing hasty about my decision. It was what I wanted to do. Nevertheless, as I realized the tasks assigned to me via telephone and e-mail, a part of me could not believe what was happening. Three weeks ago, all I knew about Afghanistan could be boiled down to a vague recollection of the invasion of Soviet troops, and the intricate 1998 campaign, A Flower for the Women of Kabul, had left nary a trace on me. Quickly, though, all my thoughts, efforts, and emotions settled on that forgotten country. I searched for information, I surfed the Internet, I ransacked libraries and bookstores with an insatiable desire for knowledge. The blinders were on: my first thought upon waking was Afghanistan, and I fell asleep at night mulling over everything I had learned and discovered that day. Even my dreams had turned toward that distant country.

Sara Comas, Merc Guilera, and I got to know each other personally just fifteen days after that first phone call, when we gathered for our first work session. Each of us had her own motivations and personal objectives when we committed to this trip, but all of us coincided on the fundamental: collect as much information as humanly possible, contact the maximum number of organizations, people, and classes, both here and there, in order to gain the most complete vision possible, and thus be able to denounce, upon our return, the situation of the Afghan people with knowledge of the cause itself. I am no expert on foreign politics, international rights, world economics, or anything of the sort. Im an ordinary citizen. I know that I have rights and obligations. I enjoy life and people. I detest lies and deceit, always preferring the truth.

The trip was, for me, the first consequence of a commitment I had recently acquired with a woman I had never seen before in my life: on March 20, late in the afternoon, I attended a conference in Barcelona featuring an Afghan refugee who was in Catalonia at the invitation of the Lliga dels Drets dels Pobles (the League of Peoples Rights). The young woman gave her lecture in English, while two interpreters took turns translating her words into Catalan. Back then, my knowledge of English was quite poor, so I was surprised to realize that I could understand nearly every word she said. As her discourse progressed, I became more and more fascinated. The exposition, sober and serene, painted a horrifying reality that captivated me completely. I didnt feel, then nor ever, rage, indignation, or hate for the Afghan oppressors or their accomplices. I dont believe in rage or hate: they are counterproductive.

Nor did I have any qualms about recognizing that what I experienced that day as the conference went on was a growing and inexplicable love for that young woman, for her people and her country. There wasnt an ounce of mawkishness in that feeling; it wasnt a simple emotional reaction. When the talk was over, I went up to introduce myself with a timidity uncharacteristic for me. I wouldnt allow my inability to express myself in English be an obstacle, and asked the translators to convey to her the only thing I wanted to say: Thank you for working as you do; for not having crawled into a corner to cry.

She replied with a great vivacity: I refuse to cry for my peoples situation. Crying doesnt solve anything, and it takes up energy that ought to be dedicated to changing the way things are.

We said good-bye with three kisses, as is the custom in her country, and she told me between laughs that three was the minimum, and that sometimes it can reach seven, nine, or even more.

Good luck! Buena suerte! I wished her in my awkward, limited English, and we parted ways at a traffic light.

I crossed the street thinking about what I could do, and I came to the conclusion that the only thing I could do even moderately well was write. Maybe I could write a book about this theme, a book that describes the reality just as it is and how it is lived; not a book that reflects, once again, the Western vision but rather the perspective of the Afghan people, of those who know and suffer it. I would document things extensively, so as to be a valuable instrument at her service, but I would write to make her voice the one that is heard.

I placed my offer the following day, via e-mail. I added that were the book to be published and earn royalties, all the money would be donated to the humanitarian projects run by HAWCA (Humanitarian Assistance for the Women and Children of Afghanistan), the organization to which she belonged. There is an Afghan sayinga Persian proverb from the region around Kabulthat reads: There are those who sell, for two and a quarter reales, sparrows still cleaving the sky. My offer was like the cry of such a vendor who had nothing on hand to sell. But she accepted. It was then that I realized that I didnt know a thing about her other than her name. She offered me all the help that she could, apologizing that her stay in Barcelona was nearing its end and that there wasnt enough time to meet again and talk. But she assured me that shed answer any and all questions, and that shed send me all the information that I would need. That was the start of an intense e-mail correspondence, during which I studied English, geography, literature, international relations, antecedents, origins and causes of the conflict, declarations, news reports, articles by experts in the field, and denouncements by Afghan women themselves.