Afghanistan: What Not to Wear

On September 15, 2004, two sweat-soaked, sleep-deprived Americans arrived to what, after two years, still looked more like a bomb shelter than an airport.

Susan Bryant and I, two members of what was to become a six-person crew, stepped down the rickety stairs of Ariana flight number 452 from Dubai. We were back to film the climax of the film: Massouda Jalal's courageous run for president against 16 male contenders, in a place that just months before forbade women to walk down the street without being shrouded in the notorious burka.

A man was frantically waving from the roof over a dilapidated sign that vaguely spelled out in peeling green and red paint, "Welcome to Kabul." It was our friend and fixer Fardeen, welcoming us back to his home.

I had been coming to Afghanistan to film since 2002, when the Taliban had just been routed out and hope was high. Eighteen months of Karzai's transitional government had done little to better Afghan lives, and in little more than a month, more than 9 million Afghans would have an opportunity to vote freely and democratically for their first president.

Tension was high. Afghanistan was in pre-election, "prepare for the worst" mode. But here, there was no need for the color-coded homeland security updates that were dominating America's airwaves - thirty years of war had made Afghans resilient and resolute to bring peace and reconstruction to their country, and they weren't about to let a few Taliban-propelled rockets get in their way.

But that didn't mean Susan and I weren't a little apprehensive, especially when the James Bond-like camera case that had safely accompanied me as carry-on baggage had begun making wild churning noises as I stepped onto the tarmac. I looked at Susan, and one flash of her eyes let me know that she had heard it too. Panic-stricken, I dropped the case on the runway like a hot potato and stepped back. The batteries weren't in the camera so I knew it couldn't, and shouldn't, be running. Susan began offering suggestions, as I tried in vain to get one of the baggage handlers to understand.

"Can you look at this case please?" I asked, louder and more emphatically than was appropriate.

"Airport!" he responded, pointing with air-steward efficiency toward the arrival gate. When I persisted, he rolled his eyes in frustration and began gesticulating wildly toward the other, well-behaved passengers, now just small dots drifting across the dusty tarmac.

Fresh from the "Foxified" imminent-danger hype of America, Susan and I were tense, and perhaps just a wee bit paranoid about worst-case scenarios. I knew enough about remote control bombs to know that opening the case without X-raying it would be...umm, a bad idea.

The baggage handler knew that, too.

The bag sat five feet away, baiting us ominously. "Open!" the man said in sign language as he smiled mischievously. Never let it be said that Afghans don't have a sense of humor.

He had a gun. I didn't. So I squatted to open the case, and thought at least at this close range I would be assured a quick death. Feigning the courage of a martyr with a mission, I told Susan to stand back. With two clicks, the latches opened. I lifted the cover slowly. Only an innocent, quiet camera and some batteries, unattached. I felt like an inconsolable child, frantically calling my parents into my bedroom to rid it of a nonexistent ghost. It seemed the plane's roaring engine had caused my case to vibrate.

I returned the man's now-smug smile with a weak embarrassed one, blurted, "Tajagore," (thank you) and picked up the now-harmless case.

Our van tooled us slowly through what we've come to know as the dust-capital of the world. More than 5 million returning refugees in a city the size of, oh, say Scranton. In other words, traffic was ridiculous, and now a new law had come into effect during the campaign. No curtains on the windows that covered the circumference of the van - curtains that used to afford us some privacy and keep the inside cool, since the air conditioner was never working. So there we were, Americans in a fish bowl, traveling slowly through what would become a war zone in the coming weeks. "No need to worry," Fardeen said calmly, as Susan and I tucked our hair more snugly into our scarves. "At least we have running water at the new place." Well that certainly put it all into perspective. It was true; there were more important things to worry about than clothing, even for women working in Afghanistan. But still, the number one question people asked when I told them I had spent time in Afghanistan was, "What did you wear, when you were over there?"

Finally, we were safely ensconced in our new guesthouse, a "villa" from the worry-free days of the monarchy and where Halima, my Afghan-American co-producer, was living. "Virginia, it's so good to see you!" she said - she, a vision of graceful loveliness in long flowing clothes; Susan and I, a rag-tag duo wearing the same baggy "Afghan wear" we had worn two years before. A lot had changed since 2002, including the choice of fashion for picky ex-pat workers trying to fit in as best they could while maintaining some degree of physical comfort and style. I had resigned myself to feeling like a bag lady for a month, but, despite the absurdity of it all, my spirits rose at the thought of sporting a glimmering and colorful shalwar khamis from Pakistan.

"I'll take you to my new secret boutique, 'Crystal Light,'" Halima said, explaining it had been a chandelier store and was now a hip clothing store that catered to people like us, women betwixt two cultures, eager to feel comfortable in their own skin. Indeed, the priorities had changed, from running water to what not to wear.

Photo courtesy of the filmmaker.
L to R: Virginia Williams, director; Susan Bryant, associate producer/sound; Halima Kazem, co-producer

Upcoming screening: Jackson Hole Film Festival - June 5-9, 2008