A woman travelling without a mahram, and the Talib in the back seat
My daughter and I sat in the front of the car. Four people – three men and a young woman – were sitting behind us. The driver called everyone his “sister” or “nephew/niece.” He used the rearview mirror to speak to one of the men in the back in the local language.
We had been driving for five minutes when my kid got impatient. I asked the driver, “Does your car have a music player?” He said, “Yes, but I don’t have a chip; use your telephone Bluetooth to play music.” My phone was being repaired so he asked one of the men if they had music on their phones. One connected his phone to the car’s system. After a boring song, he played a song by Farhad Darya. I was just beginning to feel tranquil when the car stopped. The driver cursed the mechanic who had returned the car without making needed repairs. “A wrench fourteen is needed,” he said. He asked two young boys who were on the side of the road, “If you find a wrench 14, you will buy me [make me happy].” It took five minutes for the boys to return with the needed wrench so the driver could make the needed fix and get back on the road.
I had come from the district to the provincial capital for my daughter’s treatment. My husband had things to do in town, so we inevitably had to travel home for several hours without a mahram. My husband drove me and my daughter to the transportation hub. He spoke to a driver who was waiting in the passenger pickup queue, explaining that he was not able to take his wife and daughter home himself, and requested that if they were stopped by the Taliban vice and virtue, that the driver himself would take responsibility for us, as our mahram. The driver replied, “Leave them first to God, and second to me, they are my sister and my niece until doomsday.”
Then the driver addressed me: “Sister, you are also my niece. I consider people’s honor as my own. Like you, I have brought many women and girls to their destination day and night. I was a child with no facial hair when I started driving.” I was wearing a black hijab in such a way that only my eyes were visible so I tilted my left eye slightly to see him. He resembled Robin Williams.
The driver kept talking, “During the republic, I had a great time. I used to transport Taliban weapons through republic checkpoints, cooperating with both sides. I had built my guest room in two parts. One to host Taliban and one to host republican forces. There was no choice. Such was the need of the times.” He laughed in a muffled voice.
He pointed to one of the back seat passengers: “That young man sitting behind, he is my nephew. He is a Talib. Wow, what a fighter he is. I can’t exaggerate his sharpness. If there was battle, he was in the front line, turning into a machine of fire and fury.” He giggled and asked the young man to tell the story himself. I was horrified to hear the man behind me was a Talib and that the driver is familiar with them. I was terrified. I had asked the driver to play music. My hands were numb from fear. Even so, I was trying to calm myself down and not show that I was afraid of them. I looked at the men behind me through the rearview mirror of the car. There was nothing special in the appearance of those men. Only one of them was wearing a Kandahari hat, which is now worn by many ordinary people.
At the persuasion of the driver, the man with the Kandahari hat started talking: “Well, everything has its own time, war also has its time.” The driver laughed again, saying, “He was almost a martyr. He wanted to be a martyr. He recited his ‘final’ prayers every day after bathing, then wrapped himself in a shroud and went to war, but he survived.” Then he addressed his Talib nephew: “It’s good that you survived and saw whose pockets would be filled as a result of your wars. If you were dead, a song would have been sung in your name by now.” Without laughing, the Talib in the back seat spoke: “I reprimanded them all. I told them that we did not fight for this. We did not fight for palaces and armoured cars.” The driver resumed: “You strove, you fought, but in the end, you didn’t get anything. Others took four wives, but not one has reached you.” The Talib answered, “How come you don’t understand? Where did I come back from, and I’m returning home.” With his same mischievous laugh, the driver resumed: “Did you get a wife? A woman makes a disbeliever a believer. See that she brings home a rebel Talib.”
Despite trembling with fear, I couldn’t bear it and asked, “How come you don’t know about your nephew whether he is married or not?” The driver responded, “Sister, whoever rides in my car, if he is a young man, he is my nephew. If she is a young woman, she is my niece. This is the law of us drivers. Who says that the driver folk are not good people.”
Then the driver wanted to know what the other two men in his vehicle thought about the war. They were afraid of the Talib, who was sitting next to them, and did not know what to say. The man who was sitting next to the young woman and was obviously her mahram finally said, “War is very dangerous. Though it is not everyone’s job. They say that it is not the job of every goat to thresh hay.” With these words, he wanted to please the Talib who did not show any interest in such admiration. “Right here. It was exactly here that we faced the republic forces and the war started. We had two casualties, they had eight casualties,” the Talib replied.
Again, the driver intervened: “What happened to their family when your friends died? Were they paid some money? You got nothing. Tell me, have you seen your wife? What will you do if you see there is no beauty, and it is someone uglier than me?” Talib kept his calm and did not respond.
Finally, the Taliban spoke: “I called Maulawi Sahib. I said that I was coming to pay my respects. Is this what we were after – this cheating and looting? The people of Afghanistan see days that they have never seen in their worst nightmares. Before, it was others looting, now it is them looting.”
The driver started again, asking, “Now tell me, should I take my wife and children and go to Iran or should I stay here? Do you think I will survive?” Without waiting for a response, he turned to me: “Sister, do you know how many people have been killed from our own region in these 10 years? Ten thousand, of which 7,000 are children.” After hearing all that strange information and sitting in a car where a Talib and a Talib associate were busy talking, my mind and body were so paralyzed with fear. I wanted to listen to this conversation, but even more I wanted to reach my destination as soon as possible and escape this environment of fear.
The car groaned again. The driver stopped the car and then he and the Talib went to see what was going on. The driver put his head under the hood, saying, “I wish I had a 14 wrench. It has crashed again. [Cursing the mechanic] I will punish him once I go.” The driver and Talib stood on the side of the road and asked the driver of every passing car if they had a 14 wrench. Finally, someone was able to help get the car started. It was hot, with the wind blowing as if from an oven.
On the road, the Talib continued his speech, “Well, I’m leaving this country. I am going to a place where there is bread and water. I tried Iran and Türkiye and measured the people there. This time I want to go to Mecca.” The driver intervened: “What about your wife, what are you doing with her? The wife asks for bread and water too.” The Talib remained silent on the subject of his wife.
We reached our destination. I wished the driver would drop the Talib first, but he said, “Let’s take this sister first, then I will drop each of you off along the way.” I couldn’t say anything. The courage that I had to ask the driver to play music or help the driver ask more questions to the Talib suddenly disappeared. When the car was about to enter our alley, I hurriedly asked the driver to stop and let us out here. He said, “Good-bye, sister, if my nephews weren’t in a hurry, I would have taken you to the door of your house.”
I worry that the Taliban now know where I live. I worry that a Talib knows that I am a woman who asked for music to be played in a car and who travelled three hours without a mahram. I fear that armed Taliban would enter our house in the middle of the night and take me to prison for the crimes of travelling without a mahram, talking to non-mahram men, and asking a driver to play music.
*Alma Begum is the pseudonym of a female writer in Afghanistan.
