The Girls from Afghanistan: Tales of war and of love woven into the knots of a rug

By Hossein Fayaz Torshizi

Presentation
“The Girls from Afghanistan” tells of the meeting between a rug dealer and Azar, an Afghan girl from Herat, during the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan in the nineteen eighties.
Hossein, the dealer, returns to his country of origin to visit relatives and buy rugs to sell in Italy, the country he has resided in since the sixties. On his arrival he discovers that rugs are for sale with completely new motifs. He is curious about the descriptions and seeks out these rugs. His inquiries take him to Dogharon, the Iranian refugee camp on the Afghan border, where hundreds of Afghans are sheltering after the Russian invasion.
At the camp he meets Arash, the head of the Afghan clan Kuroshi, from Do-Ab, his young daughter Azar and other girls: the youthful Neda, the weaver Ozra, who will tell the incredible story of Najibe, an eleven-year-old child who was taken from the presidential palace and thrown into prison.
He will purchase ‘talking rugs’ from Azar and Ozra, woven with symbols that tell a painful story – their own and that of the Afghan people.
The painstaking translation into English by Katherine Margaret Clifton of the second edition of ‘The Girls from Afghanistan’ has been enriched with maps, photographs and an updated historical timeline. There are also three important final chapters: a glossary of the Persian terminology (Farsi Dari) used in the book; a timeline of important historical events in Iran and Afghanistan from 1499 to 2015 and ‘a conversation with the author, Hossein Fayaz’.

About the Author
Hossein Fayaz Torshizi was born in Iran (1943, Kashmar). Since November 1967 he has lived in Italy for study, and has been an Italian citizen from year 1981. He has been married for more than forty years to an Italian and they have a daughter and two grandchildren. He has also been an expert and technical consultant for the Chamber of Commerce and the Court on European and foreign rugs and tapestries since 1981.
Hossein Fayaz lives in the Emilia Romagna region of Italy and writes full-time. He is a cosmopolitan writer. In Italy he has published ‘Potere dei cittadini’ (Power of citizens: Tales of life experiences in Iran, Switzerland, Germany and Italy), 2014; ‘Il manuale dei tappeti’ (The carpet manual) A practical manual for the purchase and maintenance of oriental rugs, 2008; ‘Dialogo e Integrazione’ (Dialogue and integration), 2005; ‘Io musulmano in Italia – Quale Islam in Europa?’ (I am a Muslim in Italy. What Islam in Europe?), 2004.
In Iran he has published ‘East and West – Dialogue between friends’ Sharq & qarb – Goftvagu bin do dust (in Persian), 2005, Mashhad; ‘Iran, the reasons for the non-development’ Iran dalail adam roshd (in Persian), 2005, Mashhad; ‘The village teacher in Orteh-Cheshemeh – Quchan’ Amuzegar rustae Orteh-Cheshmeh - Quchan (in Persian), 1988, Teheran, Iran.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hossein Fayaz Torshizi (Fayaz Editore)
• Release date: Mar 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9788890928628

Book preview

The Girls from Afghanistan

Hossein Fayaz

Tales of war and of love woven into the knots of a rug

Translation by Katherine Margaret Clifton

First edition e-book: March 2015

FAYAZ EDITORE

Copyright

Series: MIDDLE EASTERN NOTEBOOKS 7 (Ebook VII), FAYAZ EDITORE 8:

The Girls from Afghanistan Tales of war and of love woven into the knots of a rug.

Original title Le ragazze afgane © 2015.

Copyright © 2015 by Hossein - Fayaz Torshizi, Fayaz Editore.

ISBN: Paperback                978-88-909286-1-1.

Ebook                                  978-88-909286-2-8.

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http://www.hosseinfayaz.com

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Contents

Copyright 2

Contents 3

Dedication 3

Maps 4

The characters in this story 8

1 In the warehouse of a dealer in rugs in Mashhad 10

2 Towards the Afghan refugee camp 13

3 Azar weaves a story 18

4 The story in knots 20

5 Motifs and symbols rather than words 23

6 The story of an escape 25

7 The battle with the band of opium smugglers 31

8 The battle with the opium smugglers 35

9 An improvised wedding ceremony 39

10 An encounter with the Russians 53

11 Crossing the border 55

12 The design is no longer an enigma 57

13 Najibe, from the palace to the prison 59

14 Siavash the young Afghan refugee 74

15 Siavash, what does the future hold? 78

16 Azar’s rug arrives in Italy 80

Where are the protagonists of these stories now? 81

Glossary and notes 83

Timeline 114

Acknowledgements 142

A conversation with Hossein Fayaz 144

Index of Figures 153

By the same author 154

Dedication

For Wanda, the companion of my life…

If you do not feel the pain of others, you are not worthy of being called a man.

Sa’di

Iranian poet and writer.

(1184-1290), Shiraz, Iran

Maps

Figure 1 - Physical map of Afghanistan.

Figure 2 - Political map of Afghanistan.

Figure 3 - Map of the territory controlled by the Soviet troops during the war in Afghanistan.

Figure 4 - Political map of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

Figure 5 - Plitical and tourist map of the eastern regions of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

The characters in this story

Hossein, narrator, thirty-eight years old, of Iranian origin, importer of Persian rugs to Italy

Ramin (Rami), fifty years old, wholesaler of Baluch rugs in Mashhad (Iran).

Ebbi, Rami’s twenty-year-old son; he works with his father in Mashhad (Iran).

Parviz, a young, non-commissioned officer in the Army of Knowledge.

Ali Akbar, forty years old, the Kadkhoda or village chief in Orteh-Cheshmeh (Quchan – Iran).

Arash Kuroshi, forty-five years old, previously the teacher and headmaster of the junior school in Do-Ab (Herat – Afghanistan).

Shirin Kuroshi, forty-two years old, the wife of Arash and the mother of Sohrab, Aazr and Siavash.

Azar Kuroshi, the protagonist of this story, nineteen years old, daughter of Arash and Shirin.

Sohrab Kuroshi, twenty years old, the older brother of Azar.

Siavash Kuroshi, eighteen years old, the younger brother of Azar.

Sirus Azadi, forty-five years old, friend and colleague of Arash Kuroshi.

Nasrin Azadi, forty-two years old, the wife of Sirus and the mother of Babak, Morad and Neda.

Babak Azadi, twenty-four years old, son of Sirus and Nasrin.

Morad Azadi, twenty-two years old, son of Sirus and Nasrin.

Neda Azadi, sixteen years old, daughter of Sirus and Nasrin.

Rostam Kuroshi, forty-two years old. Cousin and brother-in-law of Azar’s father. He was previously a non-commissioned officer in the Afghan army.

Ziba Kuroshi, forty years old, wife of Rostam and sister of Shirin.

Mahbod Kuroshi, twenty-three years old, son of Rostam.

Kambod Kuroshi, twenty-one years old, son of Rostam.

Arvin Kaviani, forty-six years old, husband of Sima and father of Dariush.

Sima Kaviani, forty-four years old, wife of Arvin and mother of Dariush.

Dariush Kaviani, ninteen years old, Azar’s husband.

Ozra, twenty years old, childhood friend of Azar and ‘nanny’ to Najibe Ziri.

Mrs Ziri, forty years old, wife of Saleh Mohammad the Minister of Health of Afghanistan at the time of the Soviet invasion.

Najibe Ziri, eleven years old, daughter of Saleh Mohammad the Minister of Health of Afghanistan.

Simionev, young Tajik lieutenant in the Soviet Army, based in Kabul (Afghanistan).

Gianni, salesman in a shop selling Persian rugs in Pesaro (Italy).

All the terms in Farsi used in the text are in italics and there is a glossary at the end of the book.

1

In the warehouse of a dealer in rugs in Mashhad

It was the month of May 1981.

I was in Mashhad, the capital of Khorasan, the large north-eastern region of Iran, for two reasons: I had to stock up on Persian rugs (at the time I was a dealer in oriental rugs in Italy) and I wanted to visit my relatives, who lived in the region.

Mashhad is the second Iranian city for number of inhabitants and the first for the number of tourists; this is thanks to the presence of the sanctuary of Imam Reza, the eighth Imam of the Twelver Shī'ite and the only one of the eleven deceased Imam to be buried in Iranian territory. Imam Reza died in the year 817, after eating poisoned grapes offered to him by the seventh Abbasid caliph al-Ma’mun (786–833). His sanctuary, thanks to the magnificence of the domes, mosques, minarets, madrassa, museums and libraries, has no equal in the whole of the Middle East. The Twelver Shī'ite or Imamiyyah, await the return of al Mahdi, their twelfth Imam, born on July 29th 869 and who disappeared or went into ‘occultation’ (in hiding) (Note 1: The Twelver Shī'ite believe that the twelfth Imam is not really dead and that, at the end of the world, he will return in the guise of the Mahdi to institute a reign of justice that will right the wrongs done to the Shī'ite community. Probably this culture of waiting for the arrival of the saviour has slowed the movements for political and social emancipation of the Shī'ite populations.) in 874 at the age of five years (following the martyrdom of his father) in order to avoid being arrested and killed by the emissaries of the Abassid caliph (Note 2: In Persia belief in a future saviour is a heritage of the Zoroastrian era. Zoroastriansm, one of the first monotheist religions in the world, was the State religion for the great Persian empires from 550BC to 651DC. The dualistic concept of good and evil of the religion of Zoroaster, represents the eternal battle between God and the devil, influencing Judaism, Christianity and Islam, in particular Shī'itism, which is the Persian form of Islam. Following the Arab invasion, unlike other ancient civilisations such as the Egyptian and the Iraqi cultures, thanks to Shī'itism the Persians managed to maintain their language and their national identity, founding the Samanid Empire in 875 (it lasted until 999). This period is considered the Persian cultural, political and artistic Renaissance.).

In the early morning, as is my custom during visits to Iran, I went to the bazaar for rugs to meet Ramin, my trusted supplier in that city. His Horje is located at Sarie Saiid, one of the largest malls for Persian carpets in Mashhad, in Khosravi Now Avenue, close to the southern entrance to Imam Reza’s Mausoleum.

Saraie Saiid is a large mall with three balconied floors along two sides and a roof that protects shoppers from the sun and the rain. On the ground floor there are shops and warehouses with stocks of rugs from various places in the region, on the upper floors there are more shops and offices, and on the top floor are the workshops for the repair of rugs. The building is old and there are no lifts.

My friend Ramin, for his friends Rami, has not yet arrived and his oldest son, Ebbi, who works with him had opened the shop that morning.

Ebbi was twenty years old, tall, slim, sporty and muscular, with a light brown skin, large dark eyes and thick raven-black hair. He is a polite and kind young man. He always dressed fashionably with tight trousers, coloured shirts, unbuttoned; and he often wore a bomber jacket. That day, as always, he was smiling and active. His samovar was boiling and the tea was ready. As we sipped a good cup of Persian tea, grown on the banks of the Caspian sea, I asked him if he had any good rugs to show me and he said that he had a fine collection of Baluch rugs from Torbat-e-Hydarieh and some interesting news to tell me. I was curious and immediately asked for more information. He said that new Hezareh rugs from Afghanistan were for sale in Mashhad, with completely new designs and motifs (Note 3: The Hezareh (Hezara) were originally a nomadic people, but have now settled. They speak Persian and are mainly Shī'ites. They generally live in the Afghan province of Herat and in the Iranian provinces of Torbat-e-Heydarieh and Khaf Khorasan Razavi.).

That’s strange, I said, Afghanistan is occupied by the Russians. How can the Afghans export to Iran?

That’s simple, he replied, because these rugs are woven in the Afghan refugee camps, on the border between Iran and Afghanistan and Torbat-e-Jam, our Iranian border town.

Have you any pieces or photographs to show me? I asked.

I have seen one in the workshops, on the top floor of this building.

I must go and see immediately, I said as I finished my tea. The Russian occupation has caused terrible problems for the Afghan population. The Hezareh of Persian origin in the province of Herat have not experienced a similar tragedy since the invasion of Timur the Lame in 1381. Many years ago, before I left for Europe, I went to Torbat-e-Jam. How many hours would the journey take?

Two-hundred and thirty kilometres. In three or four hours we can be there quite comfortably.

At that moment my friend Rami arrived. He is a tall, robust man of about fifty, with thick grey hair combed back, large black eyes, skin the colour of a date, well-trimmed moustache and a beard of a few millimetres, like those of all the Bazari.

That morning he was wearing a light grey pinstriped suit and a white shirt without a tie. Rami lives in a new and elegant district, Kuh Sanghi, in the hills of Mashhad.

After greeting Rami, as one greets a friend that we have not seen for a long time, and after taking another cup of tea with him, I asked if Ebbi could accompany me to one of the Afghan refugee camps in Torbat-e-Jam.

Of course, no problem. When do you want to leave?

Right now, if possible.

"Just be sure that you return to Mashhad before evening. If there are any problems we have a representative in Torbat-e-Jam.

I hope to be back by this evening, I answered.

Ebbi and I got up and said goodbye to everyone; the Paykan giavanan swiftly set off towards the Afghan border.

2

Towards the Afghan refugee camp

The road wound between bleak hills and valleys which in May are still green. On both sides of the road were barley fields, not irrigated, relying on rainwater, a fairly rare event in Iran. Away from the villages some of the farmers had begun harvesting the barley by hand. Here there are no combine harvesters or tractors. Along the road we also passed through mountainous areas.

Once we passed the city of Fariman, we entered a vast plain, with fertile land covered in shrubs typical of the area. We continued along the road for kilometres without encountering either dwellings or cultivated land; we were constantly accompanied by telegraph poles and telephone aerials. Numerous birds (blackbirds, pigeons and doves) were perched on the wires.

Before the Arab invasion of 637DC and the subsequent Turkish, Mongolian, Turkoman and Afghan invasions, that plain was well-populated and prosperous; later the people were forced to emigrate to distant, better protected areas. The Sikhs and the Parsee of the Zoroastrian religion, who now live in the north of India come from this region.

We passed through a few villages and finally reached Torbat-e-Jam, the capital of the province by the same name, a town of twenty-one thousand inhabitants. We stopped before a carpet shop owned by Haji Namazi, Ebbi’s representative in this city. As soon as he saw us Namazi invited us to enter and poured us a glass of hot tea. Ebbi introduced me and asked if he had any Afghan rugs to show us.

At present there are only a few finished rugs. Some Afghan families have bought the traditional horizontal looms. It is just a question of time. In a couple of months there will be something on the market, answered Namazi.

 "Hossein agha would like to visit the Afghan refugee camp and see some finished rugs, or those being woven, continued Ebbi, so we will continue our journey."

We said goodbye and left.

Before we left the city, Ebbi stopped at a sandevich forushi; sitting in the car parked at the side of the road in the shade of two gigantic willow trees, we enjoyed sandwiches with mutton sausage with pepper and pistachios, crammed with slices of fresh tomato and gherkins, and we drank duq Ab Ali.

Taking advantage of this moment of relaxation, I said to Ebbi, I want to tell you an amusing story that happened to me when I was a teacher at Orteh-Cheshmeh, during my national service.

"Thank you, Hossein agha, I should like to hear it."

When I was a boy, I had to do my national service in Iran before I could get a passport and go abroad. After my school leaving examinations, since I could choose whether to do my national service in the army, or be part of a special corps called the Army of Knowledge", which was to fight against illiteracy, a very widespread problem in rural Iran at the time, I chose the latter. The national service lasted eighteen months, four in the barracks and fourteen as a junior schoolteacher in a village.

I spent three and a half months in the military base in the border town of Quchan, north of Khorassan (a north-eastern region of Iran). Every day, except Friday, which was a holiday, the mornings were dedicated to lessons and to military exercises designed to train a future non-commissioned officer of the army; in the afternoons we took courses to make us junior school teachers.

Once I had completed my training, I finally left for the village of Orteh-Cheshmeh, to which I had been assigned. It is in the province of Quchan, and it lay in a green valley between the Elburs mountains. In the heart of this long valley, at the time (the winter of 1964-1965) eighty-two families lived there: a total of four-hundred and two inhabitants.

The village was built at the widest point of a narrow basin where, at the foot of the Mohammad Beig mountain, in the heart of the rock, sprang a stream of fresh water that the inhabitants used for drinking, for watering their animals, washing their pots and clothes and for watering the orchards and fields.

To the north, at the lowest point, there was a narrow, deep pass between two rocky mountains, where the flood waters flow towards the Quchan plain. This pass was so narrow that a lorry could only just get through; to defend it, it was sufficient to place a rifleman on each side. For centuries Orteh-Cheshmeh had been a natural fortress. The majority of the population was formed of Kurds from the Chameshgazag tribe, from Mahabad, the capital of Iranian Kurdistan. They had lived for five centuries in this frontier zone between Turkmenistan and Central Asia, defending the natural frontiers of Persia.

They are a mountain people, tall, strong and light-skinned, with light brown hair and eyes, sometimes they are blond. They are proud, courageous and very hospitable people. A small community from the Turkish Afshar tribe also lives in Orteh-Cheshmeh.

The houses are mainly built on the slopes on both sides of the basin and have flat roofs that make wonderful panoramic terraces.

After my arrival I soon realised that in Orteh-Cheshmeh there was no school, there were no roads, no running water in the houses, no electricity and no public baths with showers; instead, there was a large bath warmed by a straw and wood fire, in which the women washed during the day and the men in the evening.

In those fourteen months, working hard with the inhabitants and with their constant permission, we realised a number of objectives and made up for a number of considerable deficiencies: the school held daytime classes for all the children (boys and girls) and evening classes for the adult men who wished to attend. In the hills we built a road of about two kilometres, covering it with gravel and we organised agricultural cooperatives to