FIRST there is a look of confusion on their face followed by suspicion. Then
the questions.
"What are you doing here?" They ask in disbelief.
"Where is your family? Is someone funding you?" Perhaps in the back of their mind, they wonder whether I am a spy.
I used to give a long explanation in the first month but now my answer has shortened to one sentence: I am here to serve my country.
My compatriots shake their heads. Good for you, they respond skeptically.
And I understand. The 1.5 million Afghan refugees in Pakistan do not trust good faith anymore. They cannot understand how someone could leave the luxuries of the West and come to work in the scorching heat and filth of Pakistan. After all, they are giving thousands of dollars to smugglers to take them to the West and standing hours in lines at Western embassies in the hopes of acceptance to a land of opportunity. They have no hope for a better Afghanistan. So I expect their reaction when I tell them why I am in Islamabad and anxious to travel to my homeland. But I expect you, the educated Afghans in the West, to understand and to perhaps join me.
The young Afghans in Iran and Pakistan deserve their chance in the West. They want to get out and I do not blame them. They cannot move forward in these countries. But we have had our opportunities and for those of us left with a sense of responsibility, it's time to act on the promises we made to ourselves: that we would return, help bring peace and rebuild our watan (country).
When I was in high school in Union City, California where I grew up, some of my Afghan friends would talk about returning. We will go back when the Russians leave, we used to say. In 1992, when the Soviets rolled their last tank out, the last of the intellectuals departed as well and few, if any, of those in the West returned. My friends and I graduated high school, then college and settled into our comfortable lives as exiles. There was nothing to go back to, we said.
I am not writing this to give anybody a guilt trip. I'm writing this to those who still have a connection and a glimpse of hope. There are ways
to help and whether your efforts will be rewarded or will actually make a difference on a large scale is not a guarantee. But it's essential that we
do not surrender and leave our Afghanistan a drug-infested haven for terrorism and war. We have the education and multicultural advantage to push for peace. I do not know that my efforts with the Afghan community in Pakistan will change anyone's life but I'm here to try.
As a journalist, I came here to freelance and to present the perspective that is often missing in the Western media about Muslims and
Afghans. The power of the American media is immense. Much of the reports are overtly biased and out of context as I have witnessed. My dream has always been to be a foreign correspondent and I found no better place to start than Pakistan, the closest I can get to Afghanistan. But I prepared extensively for this journey.
I worked as a daily reporter for a local American newspaper in California for more than two years to get experience. I covered our refugee
community in Fremont, home to perhaps the largest exile enclave of Afghans in America. Last December, I visited Pakistan in search of a job with one of the foreign press agencies. I assessed the condition of Afghans, visited the refugee camps, talked to the most impoverished Afghans and made contacts with some people of influence.
But I returned to Fremont without a job. The foreign media did not have a place for me. Associated Press, for example, said I needed experience in Pakistan before they could hire me as a correspondent. My multilingual skills made no difference. But I persevered. I quit my job at the Fremont paper and at the dismay of my parents, I headed back to Islamabad, the capital of Pakistan, in March. Few of my family members or friends understood my motives. And they were worried. I had no job and no stable place to stay. But slowly, things worked out.
Patricia Omidian, an American anthropologist I befriended in the U.S., was living in Islamabad with an Afghan family she supported. She invited me to stay with her and now I have become a member of their family. Ten of us live in a spacious, comfortable house in a lush neighborhood of the city. (I had planned on living in a shack). The Afghan markets buzzing with the latest news from the homeland are a few blocks from my home. I have my own room and enough freedom to lead the lifestyle I had in Fremont. But I wear the traditional Pakistani clothes and attempt to adapt in the Islamic country as much as I can. Socially, I have found my niche.
Finding a job was harder. I could not make enough money to support myself as a freelancer so I had to get a day job. . The headquarters of the Afghanistan United Nations offices are all in Islamabad. After two months of networking, I landed a job as a consultant at the UN in the Afghanistan demining program office. I was hired with a promise that I would go to the minefields and interview mine victims. But the UN went back on its promise because of security risks. I was an Afghan woman with an American passport; the worst combination for the Taliban to strike. The UN also did not allow me to freelance as it was against their policy. While I was writing and editing for the UN, I received five other job offers from non-governmental organizations (NGOs).
So I quit the UN and joined a Pakistani think tank where I am the editor and head of the publications unit now. And I freelance on the side.
My first story on women and the Taliban just ran in several papers in the U.S. I wrote on how American feminists campaigning against the
Taliban may actually be hurting Afghan women; a side I had not read in any American media reports.
Meanwhile, Kawun Kakar, a friend who had finished law school in San Francisco, had also come to Pakistan to work. He just became the assistant to the UN human rights advisor to Afghanistan, an engaging and powerful position.
But Kawun and I have been lucky. Other young Afghans from the West have returned to be shunned by NGOs as well as the UN in Pakistan. If you come here, do not expect welcoming arms and gratitude. Many Afghans will resent you for having had the opportunities. They will be intimidated by your skills and begrudge the status you will be given in the workplace. And you may become a magnet for refugees desperate to get out of Pakistan. They will think that because you are coming from the West, you can get them there. So far, I have received ten marriage proposals from green card seekers. I politely rejected all of them.
Politeness, patience and perseverance will get you through the days when you ask yourself: Why am I here? Then I hear the call to prayer and see the Afghan children on the street playing, teasing each other in Pashto and Dari and laughing. And I know.
I do not know how long I will stay here. I have come back to Islamabad after 18 years. In 1982, my family was among the millions of refugees
waiting for the American visa. As I sit in my air-conditioned room now, I have flashbacks to when I was 9 sleeping on the roof of our house in
Peshawarmor to escape the heat. I see the Afghan families now who are hoping to get American visas. They sit home all day in anticipation. I can
empathize because we were just like them. But we waited 10 months before going to the U.S. They have been waiting for 10 years.
After four months here, I feel a sense of peace. This experience for me is not just a patriotic gesture; it is a spiritual journey necessary for
self-realization. The journey will not be complete until I go to my hometown Herat in October, hold the dirt of my family's land in my hand, and weep. It is going to be a catharsis. I expect to see Afghans in the worst conditions there. Though somehow I know that returning full circle will strengthen my hope for peace one day.
Call me naïve, but won't you join me?
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