From The Sunday Times
She has survived five assassination attempts, been suspended from parliament and forced into hiding, but Joya refuses to be silent
I’m the youngest member of the Afghan parliament, but I’ve been threatened repeatedly with death because I speak the truth about the warlords and criminals in the puppet government of President Hamid Karzai. Having survived at least five assassination attempts, I’m forced to live like a fugitive, moving every night to stay ahead of my enemies.
After September 11, 2001, many of us thought that — with the overthrow of the Taliban — we might finally see some light. But we’re still faced with a foreign occupation and a government filled with warlords who are just as bad as the Taliban.
Afghan women like me, who vote and run for office, have been held up as proof that we enjoy democracy and women’s rights. It’s a lie. In Afghanistan, killing a woman is like killing a bird. We remain caged, without access to justice, and still ruled by women-hating criminals.
Fundamentalists preach that “a woman should be in her house or in the grave”. In most places it’s not safe for a woman to walk on the street uncovered or without a male relative. Girls are still sold into marriage and hundreds of women have burnt themselves to death to escape their miseries.
I was chosen by women in my district as their representative in the new Afghan assembly, the loya jirga.
All the stops had been pulled out in Kabul for a big show of democracy, with much talk of the “new Afghanistan”. It was clear to me, however, that the old Afghanistan hadn’t gone away. Some of the warlord delegates to the loya jirga were among the worst abusers of human rights that our country had ever known. And they were seated in the first row. Nor did anyone seem to mind the presence of Abdul Rab al-Rasul Sayyaf, the man who had invited Osama Bin Laden to Afghanistan and trained Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, the mastermind of the 9/11 attacks.
The voices of the countless widows who’d told me of their suffering rang in my ears. It was terrible enough to hear about these men and their crimes, but seeing them in person was like torture.
After four days, I finally got my chance to address the gathering. Because I’m only 5ft tall, an official lowered the microphone. I spoke as rapidly as I could and directly from my heart: “My criticism of all my compatriots is why you are allowing the legitimacy and legality of this loya jirga to come into question due to the presence of those criminals who have brought our country to this state ... They are responsible for our situation now.”
Many in the huge tent where we were meeting applauded, but most of the warlords glowered at me with faces as hard as stone. I went on: “It is they who turned our country into the centre of national and international wars. They are the most anti-women elements in our society who brought our country to this state and they intend to do the same again.”
By now a number of the warlords were on their feet, yelling and shaking their fists in my direction.
“They should be prosecuted in the national and international courts,” I said. Then, suddenly, I could no longer hear my voice echoing over the PA system: the chairman had cut off my microphone.
There was an enormous commotion, with angry men lurching in my direction. One of the female delegates started shouting: “Take the pants off this prostitute and tie them on her head!” In the midst of the pandemonium, a widow called Ayeesha grabbed me and shielded me with her body. She knew the depravities of which these angry men were capable.
My supporters and a group of United Nations facilitators huddled around me, arms locked, to protect me as they escorted me through the mob that was still screaming insults and threats. That night, a group of people came looking for me at the university residence where I was staying. Carrying sticks and screaming insults, they demanded: “Where is that prostitute girl? When we find her, we will rape her and kill her!”
Subsequently there were several attempts to kill me.
In 2005 I decided to stand in Afghanistan’s first parliamentary elections in 33 years. My enemies spared no effort to block me, distributing leaflets that called me a “prostitute”, “anti-Islamic”, and a “communist”. One had a photo of me with the doubly false slogan: “She took off her scarf at the loya jirga, she’ll take off her pants in parliament.”
My enemies failed: I became the youngest member of parliament. Afterwards I learnt that many of those who’d voted for me had been beaten — or worse. An 18-year-old called Ibrahim who’d campaigned for me very effectively was abducted and killed. His eyes had been gouged out, probably while he was alive.
Once again many warlords forced their way into the government. I shouldn’t have been surprised that when it was my turn to speak in the new parliament the sound was again cut off.
Indeed, I have never once had the chance to speak — my microphone has always been cut off. And I was constantly attacked and insulted by other MPs.
In April 2007 I gave an interview to a US-based TV channel in which I used strong words against the warlords and warned that people would soon be calling our parliament a zoo.
This led to a great row in Kabul — indeed, one friend overheard a warlord MP saying I’d be killed by a suicide bomber — and my suspension from parliament. But that hasn’t stopped people coming to me with evidence of an epidemic of abduction and violence against women and children.
Meanwhile, attacks on female teachers and students are on the increase. Last November in Kandahar, eight schoolgirls were splashed with acid by men on a motorcycle. Little wonder that fewer girls are going to school.
To all intents and purposes the position of women is the same now as it was under the Taliban. In some respects it’s worse, with higher rates of suicide and abduction — and impunity for rapists.
Few rape victims have had the courage to raise their voices publicly because rape is regarded as a shame to the family. Even so, a 14-year-old girl named Bashira and her father decided to seek justice. Bashira had been gang-raped while going to pick up supplies from an aid distribution centre. It turned out that one of the accused was the son of an MP, who quickly intervened to ensure his son wasn’t arrested.
Bashira was so distraught after the rape that she tried to burn herself to death — I saw her scars. Her father said the rapists had tried to bribe him to drop the case; when he refused, they beat him so badly that he ended up in hospital.
Because I’ve been deprived of my parliamentary rights, I’m not in a position to do much for such people except to listen and then tell the world. Sadly, there are thousands of Bashiras in Afghanistan. I try to comfort the women and girls who come to me with their sorrows and I urge them not to choose suicide, but to choose to be part of the struggle to achieve justice for women.
For now, I continue my fight to return to parliament to denounce the tyrants. I still receive death threats and my supporters have uncovered — and thwarted — yet more assassination plots. But I don’t fear death; I fear the consequences of remaining silent in the face of appalling injustice.