Keeping my eyes to the floor to avoid the ogling, the Iranian border agent called my name. My hands trembled as I handed him my Afghan passport - perhaps the least useful travel document in the world. In a matter of minutes, I would be home again after nearly 20 years. I was 8 years old the last time I crossed the Silk Route. The desert I was about to cross was the frontlines of war. My parents, sister and I walked as donkeys carried our belongings for six hours until we reached safety in Iran.

My family fled Afghanistan during the Soviet invasion in 1981. We escaped to California where I grew up.

As an adult, I am Americanized but Afghanistan is in my heart and memories. I visualized returning to my grandfather's orchard home, where I used to play with my cousins and eat the sundry of fruits we picked from trees. The 5-acre home was a sanctuary from my parents' neighborhood where the boom of rockets and bullets echoed in our backyard.

The Afghan - Soviet war has turned into a civil war now as Afghans struggle to survive in the wake of more United Nations sanctions. One of the poorest countries in the world, Afghanistan is facing a severe drought as well as threat of starvation. The Taliban, the militia ruling the majority of the country, enforce a strict code of law. In the name of religion, they forbid women from going to school or working in most fields and force men to pray. Women must travel with a male kin and wear a burqa, which covers the body like a tent with only a mesh for sight. Men must sport long, scraggly beards. This was the Afghanistan I was about to enter.

My cousin's best friend was my rented male kin or mahram traveling with me. Mobin was a merchant who traveled across Iran and Afghanistan, selling buttons and lace to survive. He saw his wife and 18-month-old son in Herat one week out of every month. Shrewd and experienced on the road, Mobin promised to take me from Iran to Afghanistan and finally back to Pakistan, where I worked as a freelance journalist.

With my American passport hidden under my bra, I held my breath as we passed Taliban customs. We rented a taxi with two other women. Mobin was also their mahram. The Taliban banned music but the taxi driver popped in the latest Afghan folk songs and increased the volume as we headed toward Herat. An ancient city once known for its art and culture in Central Asia -- now it is the only Afghan city with a running economy.

The station wagon rolled up and down on the sand dunes. I took out my journal and wrote under my black coat. Every time a man appeared in the distant, the other women and I covered our faces with the edge of our headscarves.

"Don't worry. The Taliban are scared of women," Mobin said.

"They usually stop cars with men. The ones with women, they turn their heads."

We decided to don the burqa once we reached the city. In disbelief, I closed my eyes, smelled the air and listened to the folk singer, who had recorded his music in Virginia. The singer lamented that he was distant from his homeland. But I was finally home.

Two hours later in pitch dark, we entered the gates of the city. My heart was throbbing. The adobe, high walls hid the houses but downtown was lit up in neon-colored lights. Men rode their bicycles on the unpaved roads. It was 10 p.m. and there was not a woman in sight.

The taxi stopped in front of Mobin's house, I stepped down and kissed the ground, then looked up at the sky. The fall breeze blew the dust in my eyes but I could still see the constellations, shooting stars and the moon. That's the closest I have gotten to euphoria.

The people I knew in Herat were distant relatives with the exception of my step-grandmother, who still lives on our land. My mother's uncle was the only one who knew I was coming because he was one of the few owners of a telephone. I stayed with his two wives and their children. They were fairly well off and rebellious. Disobeying the Taliban's ban on music and television, a satellite dish propped up on their porch, a television and musical instruments in the basements. My five female cousins, mostly teenagers, did not clandestinely go to home schools as did some girls. They did their house chores and learned to read the Koran from a religious teacher for an hour a day while their 15-year-old brother attended public high school and took English courses.

This family's attitude toward the Taliban was typical of other Heratis. They have accepted the limitations in exchange for peace. However, they want Ismail Khan back in power. While warlords, once freedom fighters against the Russians, fought each other, Ismail Khan began to develop Herat and he was still corrupt but better than the Taliban, my relatives said.

The ruling militia has instilled a chilling fear in Afghans, especially women. Since Herat is the Taliban's base for money, they give its residents more leeway to break the law. Heratis take advantage but they go about it in a schizophrenic manner. My cousins would drum on their tambourines at midnight, cursing the Taliban as they sang. The next day, the girls whispered in conversation, afraid the Taliban were coming to get them. One way of appeasing the Taliban was to invite their ringleaders to parties where they joined in the festivity.

I kept a low profile, not asking too many questions and staying inside most of the time. I fit in surprisingly well despite my liberal ideas and informal mannerisms. My relatives assumed I had forgotten the Persian language and Islam, both of which I have kept.

On the second day of my journey, I bravely put on the burqa like my mother used to and hit the streets for the first time with my cousins. I walked slowly embarrassed that I might trip on the flowing fabric. There is an ironic power in being invisible. Men in public noticed my ankles and hands but they did not look at my eyes watching them. I stared at their expressions and actions, reading them without the interruption of their gaze.

We first rode a decorated Toyota Corolla taxi, then a horse wagon to reach my family home. I knocked at the old brass gate. A child opened the door and led me to my grandmother. She was praying. I lifted the front of my burqa as she turned her head. My grandmother, 70, screamed in disbelief like I was a ghost. She passed out for a few seconds before hugging me and sobbed on my shoulders.

The next few days passed so quickly in glee. I went shopping, visited shrines and my school where I stopped attending after I witnessed a bomb kill my second-grade classmates 19 years ago.

On the seventh day of my trip back to Herat, I stepped into the orchard home, saving the best for last. I threw my burqa on the ground and sprinted toward the living quarters, hearing my family's laughter inside the hallways.

But there was no one and no laughter. The doors of the 11 rooms were locked shut, some of their windows broken. I ran out to the field, frantically looking for the mulberry and pomegranate trees where we had picnics.

I found the trees but no harvest due to the drought. The entire place seemed much smaller. I kept running into walls. Then I recalled that my uncles sold three acres of the land a few years ago. My happy nostalgia turned into despair. I climbed the roof overlooking the city, buried my face in my hands and wept.

The tears were a catharsis, an acceptance of the past as past. My distance from Herat for these 20 years had left a void in me. I was missing something as I had lived my comfortable Western life in San Francisco. But 10,000 miles away, leaning at the edge of my childhood roof, I felt a sense of completion, that I was coming back full circle, fulfilling a spiritual journey. |