Walking the Precipice by Barbara Bick

Author:Barbara Bick [Bick, Barbara; Naby, Eden]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781558619197
Publisher: The Feminist Press at CUNY
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 5

Faizabad

The day is still bright as we enter Faizabad. It is September 4. I had planned to be back home the following day, but instead I have finally arrived in this town of some one hundred thousand people, the administrative and commercial center of Badakhshan province and a good place to begin our investigation of women living under the Northern Alliance. Faizabad, an ancient provincial town, is set in a valley of the Pamir Mountains. The climate is moderate, although it can be snowbound in winter. Its fertile soil is bountiful, amply irrigated by the Kokcha River. During the Soviet invasion Faizabad was the site of a major garrison of some six thousand Russian troops.

As we drive through the hilly, crowded streets, we pass market districts where shops and street stalls display meats and fowl, stacks of produce, and clothing. We also pass through an industrial area filled with piles of used building materials. Our car descends a steep incline leading to a concrete embankment that confines the thrashing, white-capped Kokcha. Rock cliffs loom on either shore. The road follows the river for a short distance, then ends abruptly at a concrete causeway that leads to a flat rock in the middle of the river. We walk across the causeway to a low building—Star House, another Northern Alliance guesthouse. The river beats against the rock on all sides, but the sturdy house sits stolidly on its rampart, impervious to the force of the dashing waves. What a wonderful contrast it is to the guesthouse on the sun-scorched mesa of Khoja Bahauddin!

Once again, Nasrine and Sara have arrived before us. Nasrine stands at the end of the causeway, beaming and calling out, “Come in, come in.” She eagerly pulls me up the steps. A tall woman with a broad smile stands beside Nasrine. She looks amazingly like Eleanor Roosevelt. It is Mary MacMakin, the American whom Sara has come to film.

Mary has been in Faizabad for several days, anxious to meet us, wondering why we haven’t arrived sooner. Our bags are put into a small room at one end of the building and we quickly go to join Ed, Shreib, and several Afghans in a large dining room for a dinner of nan, rice, meat, vegetables, and tea. At the end of that long day, I just want to relax, so I tune out the conversational din and concentrate on the dining room. It is furnished with the same carved, gold-painted furniture as in the villa at Khoja Bahauddin. Gauze drapes, gently stirred by breezes from the river below, frame wide French windows.

When we return to our rooms that first night, we realize that the guesthouse is, like the one at Khoja Bahauddin, only lit for a few hours each evening using its own generator. During the night there are kerosene lanterns, and the long narrow hallway is lit by a single lantern on the floor, casting a ghostly wavering light. I am a bit scared that first night, going down the hall in that flickering light to the bathroom, where there is no running water.

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