In 2002, I was sent on assignment for Glamour magazine. It was six months after NATO had liberated/bombed the buggery out of Afghanistan, and Number Ten wanted the biggest-selling women's magazine to send an intrepid reporter out to Afghanistan to report on the newly liberated women of the country. I was the intrepid reporter, and the intrepid photographer was the deeply talented Karen Robinson. But Glamour could only afford to send us for 3 days. When a luggage truck drove into our plane at Gatwick airport before take-off, and suddenly we had to go via Karachi and not just Islamabad, the 3 days turned into 18 hours. Unfortunately for Karen, about eight of those hours were darkness.
The 18 hours began with a meeting in the British High Commission, a fortified big house in Kabul, which was staffed entirely by men. They were very disappointed men. Having been told they were to host two Glamour magazine journalists, they were – reasonably – expecting heels and lipstick. They got combat boots, no glamour and some post-24 hour journey via Karachi crankiness. The British Consul had clearly been told to give us the diplomatic red carpet (a cup of tea in his office) and didn't know why. We didn't know why we had to have a cup of tea with the Consul when we only had ten hours of daylight to assess the joyful liberation of Afghan women.
Sample conversation:
Consul: “What do you want to see while you're here?”
Us: “Er. Women?”
Consul: “Er…”
Us: “Schools?”
Consul: “Yes, that can be arranged.”
Us: “Beauty salons?”
Consul looks with bewilderment at his brainy political adviser, whose face is also bemused. (He thought we were ditzy idiots until we spent three hours in Islambad departure lounge and he discovered that Glamour wimmin had, y'know, been to Iraq and everything. Later, he resigned over the Iraq war and now runs this.)
Brainy advisor says it could be done. Food was served in a lounge where men were lounging and it smelled of frustrated testosterone (they had been in lock-down for months) before we were sent out into Kabul. What I remember of Kabul are the roadside vendors selling chips, the crazy traffic, and the fact that I only saw about three women not wearing burqas. I expect there are fewer now.
Our host for the ten hours was a fabulous woman called Shukria. She ran a women's newspaper called Women's Mirror, and now sits as an MP in the Loya Jirga. Unlike this other fabulous Afghan woman, Shukria is still alive and hopefully still kicking. When we left, she gave me a burqa. This is it:
It's a modern hands-free version, where the front panel of cloth only reaches the waist. It is made of blue polyester from Herat and wearing it is a hideous experience. Not even for the symbolism – oppression, sexual victimisation, women as sexual threats etc etc – but because it is physically a distressing garment. The polyester sweats. Your breath collects around the grill panel and makes you sweat. The grill panel has threads hanging down which makes it even harder to see. You have no peripheral vision. Millions of women have crap eyesight from years of wearing burqas.
I haven't worn a niqab, but I doubt it's much better. The justification for it is no better than the Taliban's was. I don't remember anyone defending the right of Afghan women to express their “strongly held religious beliefs” by continuing to wear the burqa. The niqab is no different so why is the debate different? My two ha'porth on Faceveilgate: They are hideous and oppressive and should be removed from every public arena possible. They should also be forbidden behind the steering wheel.
If anyone wants to borrow my burqa for that special “women are sub-human” experience, apply below.