‘My dear Sofia, the women of Shaahir Square leave your surgery far happier than when they arrive. Is that not true?’
Sofia considered this. ‘Mostly, yes.’
‘Precisely. Which means that their husbands are happier and their children are happier.’ Sofia had watched the smile light up the face of her quirky boss. ‘Which means all the people who live in the square are happier. Everyone is happier! You are doing Afghanistan a glorious service.’ Jabril laughed, shaking his head at his powers of reasoning. ‘You’re a saint. Truly, we should call you Saint Sofia of Shaahir Square. Yes,’ he had said, rising from the chair, ‘that has a certain pleasing ring to it. Afghanistan will soon have its first Catholic saint. I must inform the Pope immediately!’ Sofia could still hear him chuckling as he made his way back through her reception area to his surgery.
Like everybody in the square, Sofia loved Jabril. It also helped that he really didn’t seem to care that the duration of her consultations meant she often failed to contribute her fair share of income to the business, an inconvenience that was exacerbated by the fact that some of her patients couldn’t afford to pay while others paid a random amount, and still others only paid every other visit. In time Sofia would learn that the viability of both of their surgeries was not reliant on this income but on subsidies from Jabril’s seemingly bottomless bank account.
8
STANDING OVER THE first flames of his grill, Babur wiped the beads of sweat from his brow with a greasy rag before waving and calling out to Sofia as she passed: ‘As-salaam alaikum.’ Just as she was returning the greeting she was nearly knocked off her feet by her young receptionist, Iman, who had come running up from behind to thread her arm through Sofia’s.
Iman’s father, who held a high position in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and her mother, who taught Pashto and Dari to expatriates at a small privately run school, encouraged Iman to be an independent woman, all the while tempering their enthusiasm for female emancipation with warnings about not drawing too much unwanted attention. Sofia thought both pieces of advice commendable if not somewhat contradictory, which probably went a long way to explaining why Iman adopted the first while generally ignoring the second.
Sofia had not missed Babur’s look of disapproval and knew that Iman’s habits of talking too loudly on her mobile phone, not covering her hair and always wanting to change everything were generally seen by some of the older generation as an affront to the good order of the square.
‘I believe that women must also take responsibility for the subjugation of women in Afghanistan society,’ offered Iman, who had a habit of randomly picking up on a past conversation without warning. ‘I know this isn’t a popular idea, but it’s true, don’t you think, Dr Sofia?’
Sofia had heard this argument before and wondered where the conversation was going this time. Sofia decided that until she knew it was probably best not to respond.
‘Think about it,’ continued Iman. ‘It’s mothers who teach their daughters to serve men and don’t insist their daughters are educated. It’s also mothers who treat their sons like kings and their daughters-in-law like servants. Even my friends, the way I hear them talking about each other makes me crazy. Why don’t women in Afghanistan support each other like they do in the West?’
‘Woman don’t always support each other in the West, Iman. There’s a lot of competition between women there, a lot of bad behaviour.’ She still had no idea where the conversation was going.
‘But there is also support, right?’ she asked, sounding disappointed.
‘Of course, but as I’ve said before, everything isn’t perfect in the West for women. What’s this all about anyway?’
‘I’m organising a protest to highlight the subjugation of women in Afghanistan.’
‘Interesting.’
‘Don’t say that!’ Iman let go of Sofia’s arm. ‘People only say “interesting” when they don’t agree with you and want to be polite,’ she said, petulantly.
Sofia remembered too late that Iman hated the word. ‘I promise I shall wipe the offending word from my vocabulary immediately. So how will you protest?’
‘We’ll ride our bikes in the streets of Kabul.’ Iman saw the look on Sofia’s face. ‘There’s nothing in the Qur’an that says girls can’t ride bikes. Boys ride bikes everywhere. Why can’t we? I want to point out this inequality.’
‘I’m just a little worried about the safety issue. The traffic here’s so dangerous.’
‘I’ve already thought about that. We’ll take over all the lanes and then the cars will have to wait behind us so they can’t knock us off our bikes even if they wanted to.’
‘I think your protest is admirable.’
‘Good. Then you’ll join us?’
Sofia was aware that Iman saw her as a role model, but the presence of a Western woman would undermine the validity of Iman’s protest by giving its detractors the opportunity to dismiss it as Western-led. There was also another problem. A big part of Sofia’s ability to continue living in Kabul was her skill at staying ‘under the radar’. She couldn’t afford to be part of Iman’s demonstration. ‘I don’t have a bike.’
‘Maybe I could find one for you,’ Iman said, pulling her hair back behind her shoulders.
Sofia
