Afghan Eyes

One of the few things I did know prior to coming to Afghanistan was that during the Taliban’s grip on this land for several years, a woman’s attire had changed from principally Western attire to the fully encasing burqua. Following the collapse of the Taliban, women theoretically were no longer force-fed their apparel, however the religious conservatism that came with Taliban, remains to some degree. How much women choose burqua and how much it is imposed remains debatable, but what is absolutely the case is that all women wear at a minimum the hijab. Women’s feet, hands, and faces, along with some wisps of hair around the forehead, may show. Fashion varies immensely. One day a woman may wear jeans, a long tunic top, and her scarf. Another, she may don a long jacket, a tailored, ankle-length skirt, a coordinating scarf, and heels. Some women wear full-length chadars that reveal only the eyes.

Men’s clothing also is very conservative and varied. Some wear Western shirts and jeans or slacks, but many wear the classic shalwar kameez—the long tunic with loose-fitting pants—along with sandals and some form of scarf or shawl tossed either around the neck or on the shoulder. I have noted Western-style suit coats over the top of the tunic and vests, as well. There is something terribly exotic and romantic about the clothing, and I find myself quite swept up in the man who is in classic Afghan attire. Frequently, men also wear headgear. I have seen the Karzai-style fez, turbans of silk, and kufis—skullcaps in a dizzying array of patterns and colors and materials. It seems the companions of the Prophet (peace be upon him, as Mirwais always adds) always covered their heads, and so the significance is more than a mere fashion statement.

On one occasion we rode the narrow streets of the city in one of those high profile SUV’s as the insistence of MomoHismat, Mirwais’s uncle, with our armed guard literally riding shotgun, and ventured into tiny shops in search of fabric for Mirwais to have his own shalwar kameez and shawls. The shopkeeper showed him a variety of fabrics and the men discussed the colors and textures. About $12 USD later, Mirwais had selected fabrics of beige and grey—enough to make two new outfits. Whilst our guard watched over me carefully, we continued through the bazaar until we arrived at the tailor’s shop. He invited us into his tiny quarters and Mirwais reviewed the many possibilities for cuffs, necklines, and embroidery. Measurements complete and a price agreed upon, I learned that the tailor would have all of this ready by the following day.

During our outing I tried to take pictures, but I have learnt that my camera draws attention—principally positive, but on occasion consternation—and one of the keys to our security is to melt into the crowds, which, in my case, is all but impossible. I have developed several new behaviors, wholly foreign to me until now. I have come to make surreptitious eye contact with men. Rather than look directly at people, I frequently glance, and if I note a man stares just a little too long, I pull my scarf even further down on my head, look toward the ground, and make myself just a bit smaller. When in public places, Mirwais frequently takes the lead and Cousin Nazir, who is with the Afghan Secret Service, but whom I affectionately call, Afghan CIA, watches my back, literally.

So, as the days have passed and the city that was once wholly new becomes dotted with familiar landmarks, I discuss with Mirwais the issue of women’s dress nearly continually. I quip that given the fact that men are men, regardless of what a woman wears, that perhaps the feet, hands, and eyes become the object of men’s fantasies, since they can see little else. I had remarked in our early hours how surprising it was to see the Burqua Babes with perfect pedicures and high heels and lacy pantaloons peeking below the pleats of their gowns. I noted a bit later how the women wore henna art on their hands, along with multiple rings and bracelets. And those Afghan eyes. They take my breath away. Men’s. Women’s. Children’s. Even at great risk, I cannot resist looking into those soul-filled windows. I am captivated.