The Kabul Peace House by Mark Isaacs

Author:Mark Isaacs
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook
Publisher: Hardie Grant Publishing
Published: 2019-05-19T16:00:00+00:00

INSAAN, THE STALWARTS and I walked down narrow mudbrick walkways in the bitter cold. The occasional covered-up pedestrian hurried past into the night without offering any greeting. The streets were otherwise empty and mist was starting to descend upon the city, creating a sense of eeriness that was both beautiful and unnerving. For me, Afghanistan had never been so quiet, and I felt a thrill at being outside at night. I had been living under the assumption that there was an unofficial evening curfew. Not even with the adventurous Martin did I walk the streets after dark.

We stopped at a rusty door embedded in a hard mud wall and knocked. A young woman opened the door slightly and peeked out at us. When she saw who it was, she squealed with delight and ushered us inside. We passed through a courtyard and a garden of trees and flowering shrubs, invisible from the street, and entered the main house. A young man greeted us, grinning fiercely, shaking hands and kissing cheeks. In the context of widespread societal distrust, it was uncommon for Afghans to invite strangers and foreigners into their homes. What’s more, male guests usually wouldn’t see the female members of the family except for the children. But I was beginning to expect this type of radical behaviour from the members of the community.

In the next room was the reason we had come: a sleeping newborn and a toddler in an orange onesie. The young man and his wife were proud to show off their young family. It was toasty warm inside and we sat on comfortable cushions on the floor, alongside the couple’s bed and the baby’s cot. On the floor in front of us the couple had prepared a generous feast of spinach, chicken, rice, bread, pickled vegetables and tea.

‘Paiman was the first Pashtun man in the community,’ Insaan said. ‘Paiman and Zarrina met in the community.’

Paiman and Zarrina shared a loving look.

‘In Afghan families, when the older sons reach a certain age, usually around eighteen, the family begin to talk of marriage,’ Paiman said in English. He had a strong accent and he spoke quickly and stuttered a little, as if he was too excited to form his words properly so they piled into each other.

‘The custom is that the parents will look for a suitable spouse by talking to their relatives and friends about who can arrange something. In the provinces outside of Kabul, neither the man nor the woman is part of the process. They aren’t asked their opinion. But we did not follow this tradition.’

Paiman looked slyly at his wife.

‘I got to know Zarrina when she was working with the seamstresses in the tailoring and duvet projects. The first time we met, marriage was not on my mind at all. She was a fellow volunteer, nothing more.’

Zarrina rolled her eyes and Muslimyor laughed like a hyena, which earned him a disapproving glare from Hojar.

‘But gradually those thoughts came to my mind,’ Paiman said, chuckling as he spoke.

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