Afghanistan: The Final Chapter (10)

A memoir of life in Kabul, Afghanistan from 1976 to 1978: Part X

I returned to Kabul in early July.

After four months in the U.S., I felt strong and positive again, and the men in our garden and on the street did not affect me as much as they had before. It was wonderful to see Hans, and I eagerly began teaching again at the USIS-sponsored language school.

Hans was doing well with the carpet cleaning facility and regularly sending product back to Rotterdam. The foreign community continued putting on plays, and Hans became actively involved as the volunteer lighting technician.

The only obvious difference in life before and after the coup was that the new government had instituted a curfew that required all people to be off the streets by 11:00 pm.

Major life decision

I had vaguely assumed I would have children some day, but I didn’t spend much time thinking about it. Until the dreams began shortly after returning to Kabul. For several nights in a row, I dreamed in detail that I was pregnant, and the urgency to become so overwhelmed my thoughts on waking.

So less than two weeks after returning to Kabul, I turned to Hans and said:

“Let’s get pregnant.”

“OK,” he replied.

The dreams must have been prophetic, because I got pregnant the first time we tried. It was early September when I knew for sure, and I remember how happy I was when I told Anne and Ilhan the news. Each of them already had two small children, and they were happy for me in turn.

And then rumors of rebellion began on the street.

The majority of Afghans, after all, were Moslem and did not want to be ruled by communists and atheists. Nor did they approve of the changes the government was beginning to force on them. As a result, talks of rebellion began to spread.

One Friday afternoon (the equivalent of Sunday in Afghanistan), Hans and I heard a knock at the gate. He opened the door, and four of my male students were standing there on the street. We invited them into the house, and they began asking Hans how to create an underground resistance movement!

I have no idea why they thought he would know anything about this, but he did have an inkling.

Born in 1947, Hans was obsessed with World War II and had read numerous books about it. His mother, Dinny, had almost starved to death during the war when she was a teenager—like millions of other Dutch people, including Audrey Hepburn and her mother. And Dinny’s younger brother had joined the Dutch resistance at the age of 16, where one of his tasks was to creep up on German soldiers in the middle of the night and slit their throats.

Hans shared what knowledge he had with my students, and they went away satisfied. But we began to worry more and more about what was happening underneath the calm surface of life in Kabul. What strikes me now is how innocent and naive we all were.

By late November, Hans and I had come to the conclusion that it was too dangerous for me to remain in Kabul, especially because I was pregnant and would have a hard time escaping over a wall should soldiers come for us. (Again demonstrating our naivete that it would be possible to escape at all.)

The last picture I have of Kabul was taken at an elegant reception sponsored by the U.S. Embassy at the Intercontinental Hotel. It was in late November, and I was dressed in my wedding dress. This time, however, a 4-month baby bump was beginning to show. In the picture, I am shaking the hands of Ambassador Dubs and his wife, Mary Anne, who was a journalist in Washington, D.C.

On December 1st, I climbed on an Ariana plane alone one last time. My destination was Holland, because Hans and I were still hoping he would be able to get his passport back and join me there before Christmas.

I spent two weeks in Holland with Hans’ parents. It was soon clear that no passport would be forthcoming, however, so I returned to Seattle to spend Christmas with my family.

Living in Seattle

In January, I rented a small apartment on Queen Anne Hill, which was one of the original neighborhoods in Seattle. The building was set against a hillside, so the view from my bedroom window consisted of a grass-covered embankment. I used to love lying in bed in the morning because it felt a bit like I was in nature, and the light in the bedroom was soft, diffused and peaceful.

I wanted to give birth at home, not in a sterile hospital environment where doctors so often perform cesarians to suit their own schedules, not the schedule of the baby. Hans was in complete agreement with this because the majority of women in Holland—even today—give birth at home in the company of a well-trained midwife.

So I started to search for midwives and found a woman who had immigrated to Seattle from Sweden. She wasn’t very warm and fuzzy, but she was extremely competent.

I did the best I could to stay positive and keep myself active (thanks to the help of my sister). But it was often difficult. Especially since I did not hear from Hans at all for the next six months.

Life back in Kabul

I only found out much later that Hans’ life had taken a turn for the worse.

In the effort to put down rebellions and to enforce its communist mandates, the Taraki government starting rounding up thousands of men, women and children and sending them to Pul-i-Charkhi prison, where they were tortured and killed. Living in the middle of Shahr-i-Nau, Hans was often awakened in the middle of the night by the screams of our neighbors being taken away.

One night, he discovered a simple guard on the street in front of our house who was in agony due to food poisoning. Hans put the man in his jeep and started driving him to the hospital. Unfortunately, this was after the 11:00 pm curfew, and he was soon stopped by armed soldiers pointing their rifles at him.

The soldiers forced Hans out of the car and stood him up against a wall, ready to shoot. Hans kept demanding, as authoritatively as he could, to talk to their commander. This man finally showed up and was able to speak English. He eventually let Hans go, but it was an extremely close call that haunted Hans for years.

Giving birth

My official due date was April 5th—a day after my birthday. So on April 4th, my mother drove the four hours from Oregon to be with me. Moments after she arrived, however, she received a phone call from a neighbor telling her that my father had had a heart attack. So she immediately turned around and drove home again.

My daughter was on her own time table, and I did not go into labor until April 12th. By then my father was stable, so my mother drove back to Seattle to be with me, along with my sister and brother. I took forever to dilate, and my midwife returned three different times during the day to check on me. Finally, on April 13th—after 22 hours of labor—my daughter Marieka was born.

Escape from Kabul

Three weeks after giving birth, I received word from Hans’ father that Hans had finally escaped over the border and was safe in Peshawar, Pakistan.

Hans told me later that he had let his hair and beard grow long in Kabul as a kind of disguise. (Throughout his life, Hans always grew a mustache; sometimes he had a short beard as well.) After weeks of searching, he had finally met a man from Ireland who looked like him and who was willing to sell his passport for drug money.

So Hans cut his hair short, shaved off his beard and mustache, put the passport in his pocket, and climbed on the bus to Peshawar, hoping that no one would recognize him. Luck was finally with him, and he entered Pakistan successfully.

My father’s death

One day after learning that Hans had finally escaped, my father had another heart attack and died in my mother’s arms. (I have always had the feeling that Dad held on to life until he knew that Hans was safe.)

As a result, Hans got an emergency passport from the Dutch consulate in Peshawar and flew immediately to Amsterdam and then to Seattle.

I met him at the airport with a month-old baby in my arms. With his short hair and missing mustache, he looked like a stranger to me. After collecting his luggage, we got on a small commuter plane and flew immediately to Pasco, Washington, which was an hour away from my parents’ home in Boardman.

My mother picked us up at the airport and drove us to Boardman. The next day, my mother, brother, sister, Hans, Marieka and I all attended Dad’s funeral.

And that is how Hans and I started our lives together in the United States.

The Epilogue

In my next—and final—memoir post about Afghanistan, I will provide an overview of some of the major events that took place in Afghanistan after Hans and I left Kabul. I will also provide an update about some of the people I have talked about in these posts.