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Najibullah

Letter to My Daughters I

September 3rd, 1996

Destiny is a saddled ass, my daughters; he goes where you lead him. But you must know the rules to discern the path. First, give full trust to no one. The smiling horseman with whom you bow for dawn prayers may seek to kill you by nightfall. Work in cooperation, of course— what dust would rise from one rider alone? But do not let your lashes slip lazily to your cheeks while the sun remains in the sky. Whatever Allah wills shall be. Nevertheless, tie your steed's knees tight before sleeping.

It is dawn just after prayers; Kabul's golden light creeps in through my window, a timid but relentless thief here to steal the night, and I am imagining you three with me instead of in Delhi, us all cross-legged on toshaks, looking directly into each other's faces. My mind has become so practiced in seeing you where you are not, in fact, that I can almost hear you teasing me now— horsemen? Steeds? You would tell me, if you could, that these are male metaphors, and male concerns.

But you've been raised liberated girls; your dealings will be with both genders. Besides, though perhaps it is less likely, a woman too may pat your back with a blade in her palm.

I have barely slept the night thinking of you girls and your mother. As reports reach me of

the fundamentalists clawing daily closer to Kabul, the courage that buffered me as

Afghanistan's president bolsters me still. I believe these extremists, being fellow Pashtuns,

will at last send me into exile, which means I will rejoin my family.

Nevertheless, as it is hard to predict where a worn fighter's bullet will land, there is urgency to my task. For over four years and four months, I have been unable to share a meal with you, hear in person of your plans or tell of mine. We have not played a single game of Ping-Pong nor watched a movie together. When I think of it, as I do often, my eyes feel rubbed with salt, my throat thickened with mud, my chest pummeled by an angry fist. I put these lessons in writing to be sure you will have them in case you need them before we are reunited.

So, then, the rules. When you must trust someone, rely on a stranger more easily than on a friend; yes, because a friend knows your soft spots. But remember, family is the marrow of your bones. Who is here with me still? My two UN "guards" and a young Pashtun, Amin, who waits on me. But my daily companion, the one with whom I share my deepest thoughts, is my brother Shahpur, your kaakaa jan. Together we follow politics and watch television and talk of you. Shahpur celebrated— but that's not the right word without you— he marked my forty- ninth birthday last month, a hard day to be apart from my beloved wife and girls. He holds me upright in your absence. You sisters, too, will lift each other when the need appears.

Take care of your mother-flower until I return to you. I became her tutor all those years ago driven by the hope that she would fall in love with me over formulas and test questions. They can arrest or exile me— I will always be a lucky man because of her. She gave me you three, and a home of laughter even in dark times, and the strong foundation that has allowed me to do my work.

And this rule: love your country. Victim of many men's fury, corrupted by fanatics who believe our landlocked status means we sit in the cup of their hands, it still remains proud. "I come to you and my heart finds rest," Ahmed Shah Baba wrote of our motherland. "Away from you, grief clings to my heart like a snake." I know your memories of Afghanistan will be tinged by our separation and my detention. But put that aside, learn our history, and return one day to make your own impact.

Remember that Afghanistan must be one united nation, all ethnic divisions discarded. Remember the couplet of the great Pashtun poet and warrior Khushal Khan Khattak: "Sail through vast oceans as long as you can, oh whale, for in small brooks I can predict your decay!"

Remember, also, Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan. He too endured house arrest. He too knew it possible to be a devout Muslim and still support a progressive society. His goal, to unite all, was noble. Together one day, we'll visit his resting place in Jalalabad.

Be brave. Be proud.

Fear and shame are father and son, and you should feel neither. You will need courage to meet detractors— the strong or outspoken always have those who would malign them. Still, we Afghans are raised on bravery with our morning chai; I remind you that it runs easily through our blood.

Be punctual. Work hard. Memorize the Quran. Don't forget your Dari. Never boast: it is the small mouth that speaks big words.

Do not believe the stories you hear about me, my daughters. At least, not wholly. You are still so young— Muski only eight years old— but I know grim murmurs make their way to your ears already; your mother tells me. If I was a puppet, how did I manage to hold on to power for three years after the Soviets scuttled away? If I drew blood, it was only in self-defense or for Afghanistan. If it was I who was the roadblock to peace, then why has our city been ravaged by warfare in the months and years since I left office? Do you remember Kharabat Street, its musicians flinging open their doors to compete for the chance to perform at the palace, their heart- thumping music expanding and floating into the mountains? Massoud's single- note rockets left the Street of the Musicians in rubble. Districts where you three and your mother used to walk are now impassable, proof enough that I preserved peace, not obstructed it.

And now your uncle is at my door. I will write you again soon— not a diary, since when the days are filled with events that might make an interesting diary there is not a spare moment to record them, and those are not my circumstances now. Instead, my enemies have given me the gift of time. As a satellite phone is available too infrequently for my wishes, I will make for you a written record of the state of your father's mind during this fifth year living as "Honored Guest" while our fractious country and its devious leaders struggle forward without my firm hand. I will ask the boy Amin to send these off discreetly, since I want no UN censor marring my pages.

Soon, inshallah, I will rejoin you. Until then, with love for you, and a country of kisses for your mother, my dearest Fati,

Najib