From the moment I got on that shabby plane from Ariana Airlines, Afghanistan’s national carrier, in the wee hours of a humid July night exactly twenty years ago, I realized what was in store for me in that far, far away land. On the flight from Istanbul to Kabul I was only one of a handful of women (all foreign). The cabin was overflowing with Afghan men, poor Turkish construction workers, and shady Western contractors.
As we landed in Kabul, the words of one of them still rings in my ears: “What are YOU doing in this s***hole?” It only took me a few days to understand what he meant. Afghanistan was not a pleasant place. There was barely any electricity, no Western amenities, it was still awash with guns, unexploded ordnance and bombed-out buildings, had no sewage system, no clean water or sanitation, and barely any roads. Above all, it was radically male-dominated, meaning life there for a female journalist like myself would be even more arduous and challenging.
But underneath all the discomfort he described with that single word, that Western contractor didn’t know I was a Greek woman with ties to that country that went thousands of years back and that instead of living in those massive, guarded compounds where other foreigners lived both then and in the many years that followed, I had decided to live among ordinary Afghans as one of them. That was my way to get a true feel of their lives, concerns, and dreams that had remained in the shadows for decades and that sometimes reminded me of life back home less than a century ago.
In the early years of the war, all foreigners were welcomed just about anywhere. It was the time when Americans and their NATO allies were still seen as the country’s liberators, bringing prosperity to the war-torn country. Despite my initial efforts to dress as an Afghan woman, my foreign background almost immediately became obvious, leading to the same question: “Where are you from?” Saying that I was from Greece almost always prompted the same response, sometimes even from the poorest of the poor: “Iskandar!” (the Persian version of Alexander deriving from “Sikandar,” which in Farsi means warrior and refers to Alexander the Great).
In places such as Kabul’s National Museum and among more educated Afghans, long discussions would begin on Alexander and his presence in the region. At times, even some of Greece’s most renowned philosophers, such as Socrates (Sakarat in Persian) would be brought up in conversations, and ancient coins and artifacts were still openly sold in tourist bazaars those days. Every time I looked at one, the bond I felt with that land and its people only grew stronger.
Afghans are some of the most curious people I have ever met. They want to know things, they want to learn, sometimes unknowingly disregarding social norms. Cut off from the world for decades, they would openly ask how old I was, if I was married, if I have children. These questions came from Afghan women to whom maternity is the utmost goal in a woman’s life. They would want to know what the sea in Greece looks like, if I can swim, if I eat pork, and if America is as beautiful as it appears in the movies—and they would gaze in dismay when I refused to buy a chicken that was about to be slaughtered right before my teary eyes in one of the many markets even though they were offering me the freshest and highest quality meat.
As the years dragged on, the war began to quietly turn in favor of the Taliban insurgents. The ancient coins from the bustling bazaars were gone, as were the foreigners. Attacks and kidnappings of foreigners, especially Westerners, became rampant while more and more Afghans had begun perceiving Americans and their allies as invaders.
Through that time and up until the end of the war, it was my Greekness that helped me navigate the country more easily than other foreigners, especially the military, towards whom Afghans were becoming increasingly hostile. Greece did have a military presence in Afghanistan under NATO between 2002 and 2012, but it was small, and all our soldiers were non-combat.
Afghans barely knew that, and the vast majority never found out, which could explain why our units were never attacked—or it could even be because “Yunan” (“Greece” in Farsi) was always prominently displayed on their military vehicles in Farsi, evoking the millennia-old connection between the two countries.
My femininity, a cultural drawback in male-dominated Afghanistan but also an asset
While the presence of a Greek amid Afghanistan’s growing chaos looked seemingly safe, though I was always welcomed and respected by all, my femininity in this deeply conservative country turned out to be a drawback several times.
From my first interview with the Taliban in 2007, I encountered the harsh realities of deeply ingrained Afghan cultural norms. The bearded man with a turban refused to even acknowledge me, speaking only to my translator. Later, at an Afghan TV station in Jalalabad where I was training local journalists near the border of Pakistan, the station owner requested that my employer fire me simply because I smoked—a behavior deemed not only unacceptable for a woman in Afghan society but also a poor example.
Meanwhile, another Afghan translator addressed only my American male colleague as the authority figure, ignoring my presence entirely. It took me time—not to be offended but to understand and eventually accept—these deeply rooted mindsets in Afghan society, which stem largely from culture rather than religion. I was repeatedly reminded that Afghan women are expected to remain in the background, while men are the ones in charge.
I was always veiled and dressed modestly, following the example of Afghan women. With time, I learned not to draw attention or offend locals, so I would follow the customs of the culture even if it limited me as a Western woman. I would walk behind men, for instance, and have to think about which section of a restaurant I sat in.
In fact, it was the Afghan women themselves who taught me everything, from how to properly wear the burka and walk and see like them to how to wear the hijab, in what colors, and why to always sit in the back seat of a car or taxi and avoid eye contact with Afghan males. While being a foreigner allowed me to remain on the perimeters of Afghanistan’s male-dominated world, being a woman gave me unprecedented access to Afghan women’s secret lives.
It was inside the beauty salons, hiding behind curtains so that no one could peek inside that Afghan women were free to laugh and talk about their lives which, in actuality, do not differ dramatically from those of Western women. Women would talk about finding someone to marry, makeup, a secret “boyfriend” they were in love with, and about a new sparkling dress they’d buy for a wedding.
During Afghan weddings, women remained separated from men, even entering the hall from a different entrance. But they would be unveiled with beautiful faces and all dressed up dancing to the sounds of Afghan music while, on large screens, they could see the men on the other side. Their future husband could possibly be among them. At hospitals and maternity clinics, where a friend once gave birth, I would witness the Afghan women’s formidable strength—going through labor (or any medical procedure for that matter) with only the very basic necessities at hand and then watching them raise their little ones.
My house, like most Afghan houses, was always within a walled plot, where nothing could be seen from the outside. Even before the Taliban, many women barely left their home. Each family had a room, and when the men left for work in the morning, the women would all do the house chores together, like washing the clothes by hand outside. The doors were all covered with curtains for further privacy.
Afghans had explained to me that their women were their most precious thing that should be guarded from the eyes of unrelated men. Within a few years, it seemed normal when neighbors would tell the men of the house I was living at to tell us women to move on inside because they had to do roof work at a nearby house. It was perceived as a sign of respect towards women when unknown men would want to avoid laying eyes on us.
It started feeling liberating that, especially on a bad hair day, I could just grab a hijab and cover my hair without worrying about what it looked like, and I had learned to appreciate that a soap bar, some hair oil, a hidden tweezer (which Afghan women use to pluck their eyebrows after they are married) and some surma, an ancient eye cosmetic powder made of crushed stibnite, were the main beauty items of an average Afghan woman. These were enough to be beautiful every day in a very minimalist way. It was only for major events such as weddings and birthdays that Afghan women would go all out, both in terms of makeup and attire, literally transforming themselves into actresses ready to walk out onto the red carpet.
Life in Afghanistan after the Taliban return
As a child, I spent my summers at the family village on a remote part of the southern Peloponnese. I still remember my grandmother with her hair continuously covered calmly slaughtering chickens, the curtains on the house doors, and the stories about my aunts who, as girls, did not go to school because it was considered useless for them and instead helped in the fields or my grandfather to dig up wells. All my aunts got married through arranged marriages and both my grandfathers, strict and unbending, were the undisputed heads of the household. Electricity was unavailable in the village until 1968, and by the mid-1980s, there was still only one landline at the village’s coffee shop.
I still watch old, Greek movies only to see how the honor of Greek women back in the 1960s had to be safeguarded by the males of the family, how it was the men who determined things for their daughters and sisters, including how they dressed, where they went, who they talked to, and who they’d marry.
Not so long ago, Greece was extremely conservative and extremely poor, but after World War II, the country slowly moved on. We received nearly $1 billion under the Marshall Plan to rebuild the country (the equivalent of about $7.7 billion nowadays). In the years that followed, Greek women were granted additional rights, including voting rights in 1952, while the dowry was abolished in 1983. We opened up and slowly moved forward, though patriarchal stereotypes still abound, especially in the Greek countryside. It was my family’s stories, my Greek roots and background, and my own country’s history that allowed me more than anything to understand and respect Afghan society because less than a century ago, Greece was much like it.
After 2001, Afghanistan received hundreds of billions more than Greece had after World War II, but for too many complicated reasons, it never had that chance to truly move on. While the West attempted for over two decades to push Afghan society forward based on modern Western standards, especially in its remote parts, this never took hold. It might have been because all efforts happened too quickly, too harshly, and a lot of finger pointing was involved. Alternatively, perhaps it was because we simply failed to understand Afghan culture and how deeply-rooted some stereotypes are for the people.
After the return of the Taliban, which is part of Afghanistan’s most conservative tribe, the Pashtuns, I have only been able to return once, in 2023, to gather things I had left behind at home.
The beauty salons were shut down, and the images of women decorating their windows were painted black. The swarms of foreigners and women once roaming the streets were replaced by men in turbans and a few women, covered up from head to toe. While my female colleague and I were welcomed at the airport and at shops with smiles, in the streets, where the Taliban have set up an unprecedented surveillance system, we had to be immensely careful. Any minor, incorrect move or anything the Taliban deemed offensive, such as not wearing our hijabs properly, could land us straight in jail. The fear that I had never felt as a woman in the past sixteen years in Afghanistan, this time was creeping in from the very first day. Two weeks later, it was definitely time to go.
Afghanistan remains as poor and conservative as ever. Children die because their mothers don’t have enough food for them. The Taliban do reflect much of what many Afghans stand for. Afghanistan’s people, especially the women, barely have access to necessities critical for their survival and well-being, including medical care, education, and work. Above all, they lack the freedom to define their own destinies. Before leaving this one, last time, I drove around the city several times, wondering what happened to those brave women I had met some years before at a safe house for abused Afghan women. Despite opposition from Afghan society, those shelters had managed to remain open for years and had helped thousands of Afghan women until the Taliban shut them down. Where were the female teachers at Kabul‘s only school for the deaf and those beautiful, shy, barefoot girls at an IDP camp who dreamed of becoming doctors to help their country?
Not a day goes by without thinking about them and about the countless others I had met in Afghanistan. Everyone who, despite the tragic end of the war and the immense suffering the world inflicted on this nation by once again abandoning Afghans, especially Afghan women, made me a part of who they are and showed me the depth of true kindness and love—the Afghan way: giving someone everything from the very little that is available.
Filio Kontrafouri is an independent international journalist, who has worked in Afghanistan since 2005. She was the Al Jazeera correspondent in Kabul between 2020-2021.
See all the latest news from Greece and the world at Greekreporter.com. Contact our newsroom to report an update or send your story, photos and videos. Follow GR on Google News and subscribe here to our daily email!
