Manaz Dost, 19, signs a document at the International Organization for Migration’s office in Islamabad, Pakistan on June 29, 2004, during a briefing family members recieved a day before flying to Canada. Sitting behind her, left to right, are her father Azim, 48, brother Wais, 18, mother Lailoma, 39, and sister Khatool, 20.The Globe and Mail
In a cramped flat in Peshawar City, above a row of clothing boutiques, a family of Afghan refugees is packing for the journey of a lifetime. Sixteen brand-new canvas suitcases and 10 carry-on bags take up most of the apartment. The bags are piled, one atop the other, filled with everything the 11 members of the Dost family believe they will need in Canada.
There are ice-cream bowls and tea cups; saffron and tikka kebab mix; a rice cooker and a pot for making mantoo, the Afghan beef-ravioli dish; sweaters and jackets; sheets and bedspreads; a DVD player; and a set of heavy blue velvet curtains sewn by Lailoma Dost on her manual Butterfly machine. "For the cold. The curtains are for the cold. See how thick they are," explains Mrs. Dost, 39, with warm hazel eyes and the reassuring air of a woman who has raised nine children.
The Dost family – Tajiks, from Kabul – prayed to Allah for two years that Canada would accept them as refugees. And on May 29, their prayers were answered.
The phone call from the Canadian High Commission in Islamabad came at 4:30 p.m., as the family sat around on crimson cushions on the floor of their home. Sheela, the youngest at 5, was watching a Tom and Jerry cartoon on television, while Khatool, the eldest, carefully copied out English phrases into a worn notebook.
The father, Said Azim Dost, put down the phone and began to weep. "We're going to Canada," he said in Dari as his children gathered around him in disbelief. They stayed up all night, crying and talking, trying to imagine what their new lives would be like.
The family fled to Peshawar, just 60 kilometres from the Afghan border, eight years ago: Mr. Dost had fallen on the wrong side of a Panjshiri warlord and been thrown in jail. Lailoma Dost had to sell the family home to pay a bribe to get him out of prison. The warlord, angry that Mr. Dost had associated with the man who killed his brother, threatened to kidnap the Dost daughters and kill the sons.
Like many Afghans, the family took refuge in Peshawar, a conservative city in Pakistan's North West Frontier Province, ruled by a coalition of religious parties.
Here, the family must live under sharia law, brought in last year by the government, which confiscated greeting cards and tore down billboards with images of women, and burned piles of "un-Islamic" videocassettes and compact discs, as well as deodorant sticks (in the belief they were sex toys).
Khatool, 20, and her sisters Manaz, 19, and Nargis, 17, have never walked the streets alone, or gone without their chadors (veils) in public. Their father, who works as a mechanic, worries incessantly they will be harassed in the street by roving bands of boys – or, worse, kidnapped. Police are known to shake down refugees for bribes.
"We have taken refuge here, but we know we cannot stay forever. My life has passed me by, but I have dreams for my children," says Mr. Dost, 48, a worn-out look on his craggy face.
Several kilometres away, in a dusty refugee camp on the edge of Peshawar, another family of Afghan refugees is preparing for a journey of a very different kind.
Mohumudullah, a bearded Pashtun from the Hussain Khil tribe, and his brothers, Naqibullah and Ghlummuhiddin, have spent the past week dismantling their mud home, hacking at the roof's wooden beams with a pick.
After more than a decade, the brothers are going home to Kabul. They are taking the unedited contents of their lives – wooden beams and straw; two wooden doors; several cots; a wheelbarrow; a rusted bicycle; chickens and roosters; bags of bedding and cooking utensils. And, of course, their burqa-clad wives and 12 children. Only their fan will be left behind; there is no electricity where they are going.
The brothers came here in the early 1990s, after fighting in Afghanistan as mujahedeen warriors against the invading Russians. They built homes of red clay in Badaber, one of the 200 camps run by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) that dot the Pakistani-Afghan border.
The UNHCR wants to close all the camps by the end of next year. Already, the Pakistani army has ordered Afghan refugees to leave the capital of Islamabad and has bulldozed refugee camps in the southern province of Waziristan, where the army is waging a campaign against tribal leaders suspected of harbouring al-Qaeda terrorists and former Taliban fighters. The refugees have worn out their welcome.
"We know we must leave. And we are looking forward to going back to our homeland, inshallah, Allah willing. It is our country," says Naqibullah, who looks the part of a mujahedeen in his beard, grubby prayer cap and shalwar kameez (loose tunic and baggy cotton trousers). "But we know we will face a lot of problems in Afghanistan. We have no shelter, no jobs, and there is no security."
Inside the hut, Mohumudullah's wife, Shughla, peeks out shyly from beneath her flowered, blue head scarf. Flies buzz around her children, who are pale and gaunt with listless eyes. "We are happy to be moving on," she says.
Wherever she goes, her life changes little: She is not allowed to show her face in public, and may not leave the compound. Her daughter will stop going to school once she reaches the age of puberty, after which education is considered shameful.
"We stay in the house only. We cook, wash clothes and do embroidery," says Shughla, who guesses she is 30, counting the years since her first menstrual cycle. "We don't mind if our daughters are just like us. Elite people from Kabul want to get an education, but it is not our culture and we cannot change that."
A grim-faced Mohumudullah has mixed feelings about the journey back. "I would be very happy to go somewhere else, like Canada. I would do a labour job there and save money and then send for the rest of my family."
Then he sighs. "Really, I know I can't go abroad. It is only for rich people who can approach influential people in the UNHCR. I'd like to be in such a position, but instead I am here."
Afghans remain the largest refugee population in the world. Pakistan alone still hosts two million displaced Afghans, most without legal status. Many have been here for a quarter-century; their children have never seen their own country.
They escaped the Soviet invasion of 1979, then arrived in waves over the years, fleeing feuding warlords, acute drought and finally the U.S. invasion that followed the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001. Some live in impoverished urban enclaves, like the Dosts; thousands more, like Mohumudullah's family, eke out an existence in the refugee camps.
Now, after 25 years, the UNHCR wants to resolve their fate. The agency is overseeing the largest repatriation effort in modern history. The removal of the Taliban regime in 2001 paved the way for a mass return; in the past 18 months, more than two million Afghan refugees have gone back.
The theory was that the new U.S.-backed government, with help from the international community, would absorb the returnees. Together, they would rebuild the war-ravished nation. Instead, the unanticipated wave of homecomings has overwhelmed the Afghan government, especially in the capital, Kabul, where roads are still a shambles and electricity is scarce.
There has never been a global outpouring of sympathy for these Afghan refugees, the way there was for the Vietnamese boat people 25 years ago, when they hung off the sides of rickety fishing yawls in the South China Sea, begging Canada and the world to rescue them.
The international community took in about 379,000 of the boat people, but the world was only briefly in the business of airlifting boatloads of refugees. Today, there are logistical and security concerns, along with the enormous cost. The prevailing theory in development circles has become that it is better not to resettle refugees in the West, but to assist them to go home.
"Only a fraction of the total of Afghan refugees have ever been resettled in the West," says Rupert Colville, UNHCR spokesman in Geneva. "It is generally agreed that repatriation is the best option if it is possible."
Ahmad Fahim of the International Organization of Migration (IOM), an intergovernmental body that assists migrants, adds: "Globally, whenever there is a conflict, if everyone coming out were taken elsewhere, it would create a vacuum of people and talent and weaken that country."
Today, only a small fraction of the world's refugees (well below 100,000) are taken in by Western governments, given refuge in Canada, Australia, the United States, New Zealand and other countries.
For a very few displaced people who cannot go home, such as the Dosts, there is another path leading to a new life: Canada's private sponsorship program. The program, unique in the world, allows individuals and organizations to sponsor refugees, provided they support them financially for one year.
It was launched during the crisis in 1979-80, when Canadian citizens brought 60,000 Vietnamese refugees to Canada. Since then, Canadians have quietly sponsored about 3,000 people a year from dozens of different countries.
Mr. Dost's nephew, Said Ahmadi in Winnipeg, a refugee himself, made an application to Citizenship and Immigration Canada to sponsor his relatives in 2002. When it was approved last month, for the Dosts it was like winning the lottery – a chance to work in a well-off country, send their children to school and rebuild their shattered lives.
Officials contend that most Afghan refugees, especially fiercely independent ones like the Pashtun brothers, prefer to go home. "They have a sense of belonging and dignity ... versus living on charity and feeling totally dependent in an alien environment," Mr. Colville says.
But Catherine Dauvergne, who holds the research chair in migration law at the University of British Columbia, wonders if this philosophy is a self-serving one. After all, Mohumudullah said he'd rather go to Canada.
"The UNHCR and Western governments prefer that refugees go back to their own countries, obviously. But we rarely think about what the refugees themselves would want. We imagine people want to live safely in their own country but ... coming to a prosperous country may really be the first choice for many."
It's certainly the Dost family's choice. On the summer night before their departure, the Dosts have finally decided to share the news with their neighbours, fellow Afghans who live in a row of flats around the L-shaped shopping plaza. For days, they have kept it a secret, fearing bands of criminals would steal their travel documents.
An older neighbour, who lives next door, takes the news badly, breaking down in tears: "No, please don't go. I will be all alone here. Who will care for me?" he wails. Mrs. Dost and her eldest daughter Khatool also weep, kissing the man three times on the cheek and once on the hand. Soon, all the neighbours come out of their homes, stricken over their loss. Nobody expected the Dost family to be the first to leave.
Despite all the emotion, the Dosts tell the neighbours only that they are leaving, not their destination. "We must keep it quiet just in case someone outside our circle, maybe a criminal, hears we are leaving and tries to kidnap a family member. It's been known to happen," explains Wais, the eldest son.
At 18, he is a slim version of his father, and the family worrywart, with a furrowed brow and serious demeanour. The responsibility of caring for his sisters and younger brothers – Javid, 16, Farhad, 15, Nazir, 13, and Waheed, 12 – weighs down on him like a monsoon rain.
The next morning, the family clambers on to the 24-seat minibus they have rented to take them to Islamabad. Wais stayed up much of the night worrying about the logistics of the journey. And en route, his worst fears come true: Several Pakistani police officers on motorcycles stop the minibus and demand to see the Dosts' travel documents. The officer demands money, threatening to arrest them. The family looks stricken. "Will we go to jail?" Sheela wonders. "No, no, don't worry," Wais says.
A loud argument breaks out, resolved only when the bus driver agrees to pay a bribe of 300 rupees (about $7). At the IOM office in Islamabad, an official tells the family that such checks are routine on the road from Peshawar to Islamabad: Police are on the lookout for refugees, knowing they are vulnerable to extortion.
The family now has a day to wander around Pakistan's capital. Khatool marvels at the sight of foreign women dressed in form-fitting trousers and shirts at the five-star Marriott Hotel, near the guesthouse where she is staying. She cannot believe women are allowed to swim in the pool at the same time as men.
Khatool's dreams are inspired by the cultural clues she has managed to pick up from television. "I want to be free and take off my chador and go jogging," says Khatool, who like her siblings speaks relatively fluent English. "I want to go to school and meet famous people and have my photo taken with the prime minister."
Her sister Manaz adds: "I want to be a business person and start an import-export business. I, too, will take off my chador."
They want to go to school most of all.
For the trio of bearded Pashtun brothers, however, there is only one path, and it leads back to their old home. On the day of their departure from Badaber camp, it is 35 degrees, and dry as a tinderbox. The trip from Peshawar to Kabul is only 220 kilometres, but it can take as long as 12 hours. They rise before dawn to finish loading the last nails and beams into the transport truck they have rented, then head for the UNHCR centre on the outskirts of Hayatabad, set up to process returning refugees.
The UNHCR introduced a special iris-recognition procedure last year after refugees were caught abusing the voluntary repatriation system, making repeated trips through the mountains back to Afghanistan in order to pocket the meagre assistance available to returnees: $3 to $30 (U.S.) a person, depending on the destination.
There is a separate room in the centre for women, so that no man may see a woman's face when she removes her burqa to press her eyes against the laser imaging machine.
Mohumudullah's mood suddenly darkens as we approach his wife, squatting in the line beside him, shrouded in a blue burqa that billows in the breeze. "Please do not bother us!" he shouts, threatening to tear up his UNHCR registration card if we speak to his wife.
Later, he explains that he would lose face in front of his neighbours if a foreign woman were seen speaking with his wife in public. Some of the tribesmen resent foreigners and female aid workers, fearing they will plant radical notions in the heads of their wives and daughters.
After everyone in the family registers, their truck joins a long line of brightly painted vehicles, piled high with chicken cages, wheelbarrows, goats, dogs and carefully packed light bulbs.
Mohumudullah rides up top with two roosters, and six of the children, the girls dressed in bright pink and green scarves and skirts, rings in their noses. Dust fills their eyes as the truck pulls out of Hayatabad and begins the journey through the Suleiman mountain range into the historic Khyber Pass and to the Torkham border crossing 60 kilometres away. Mohumudullah worries about the uncertainties ahead.
The truck lumbers precariously along a narrow mountain road, past the smugglers' market and into the hills, dotted with caves, lookouts and old mud forts from the British and others who tried to conquer this strategic land. Called the Federally Administered Tribal Areas, they are ruled not by the Pakistani government but the Pashtun tribes, granted self-rule decades ago by the British.
The tribal people are known equally for their hospitality and strict code of honour that requires them to exact vengeance on anyone who crosses them over "zar, zan or zamin" – gold, women or land. Even Pakistanis require a special permit to travel in this area. Weapons and drugs flow freely, and tribal militia, armed with Kalashnikovs, must accompany all foreigners.
On top of the truck, Mohumudullah rubs tobacco on his teeth and tries to shelter his children from the unforgiving heat. He tries to be hospitable, offering a hard-boiled egg and dry bread, but his patience wears thin.
"Can you give us money?" he says. "All you are doing is bothering us. What do you know about going hungry?"
His spirits brighten as the truck approaches the magnificent mountains of his homeland. It is here in these rugged hills and caves that U.S. troops continue their hunt for Osama bin Laden, though Mohumudullah just laughs at the notion that the tribal people are sheltering the al-Qaeda leader.
The truck lumbers through the tall metal gates of the Torkham crossing, and disappears into the distance. "Enjoy the scenery," he shouts down.
On June 30, the Dosts arrive at the Islamabad International Airport nearly four hours before their flight. Mr. Dost has exchanged his shalwar kameez for a double-breasted grey suit and tie, and polished dress shoes. His wife and the older girls wear abayas, long black gowns with hoods. Peeking out from underneath the sisters' hoods are the seams of the first blue jeans they have ever owned, and the cuffs of their flowered blouses.
"Today, I will lose my veil," Nargis pronounces.
The brothers are in jeans and shiny, new white running shoes. Wais has shaved his mustache for the occasion and wears a beaded choker necklace around his neck.
The staff at Pakistani International Airlines balk at the steady stream of suitcases the Dosts dump on the weight scale. Every case is at least 20 kilograms over the 35-kilogram limit – and the airline sternly orders them to start unpacking. Some of the carry-on bags are too large as well, and have to be checked in.
The family frantically opens the cases, pulling out winter sweaters, cooking bowls, stainless steel utensils, sheets and towels and piling them onto the floor. Mr. Dost looks heartsick, as though he is being forced to part with one of his children.
Wais defiantly takes out all the clothes he has purchased for the trip and throws them into a pile in the centre. "I don't care about these," he says. "What are clothes compared to freedom?"
Lailoma Dost's sewing machine makes it. The rice cooker and mantoo pot do not.
An agent from the IOM shakes his head: "It is always this way with refugees. I have seen families trying to bring stoves on. They can't bear to leave anything behind." He accompanies the family all the way to the gate, and only then does the official hand over their special travel visas, issued by the Canadian mission in Islamabad. "There is a huge black market for these documents," he says. "So take good care of them."
When PIA Flight 785 finally takes off, there is no sadness, just waves of excitement. It is the family's first plane journey, and Khatool's stomach is doing cartwheels. She writes in her diary: "My new life will start from today, oh Allah, thank you very much for accepting our prayer, for taking us from a hot country to a cold one. Thank God Canada accepted us as refugees."
The culture shock begins in London's Heathrow Airport, where the family has a six-hour layover. Chinese punk rockers, blondes with jeans slung so low their belly buttons show and hippies in tie-dyed shirts with long curly hair all lounge in chairs, waiting for connecting flights. The Dost sisters stare into stores such as Hackett and Harrods, filled with silk ties and exquisitely tailored shirts, and are astonished to see a liquor store as big as the Peshawar market.
"What are those animals painted on that girl's arm?" asks Khatool, pointing to a tattoo. She and her sisters marvel at the scantily clad women in tube tops, tight jeans and high heels, clinging to the arms of their boyfriends. No one casts a second glance their way.
"Why is everyone so sloppy with small, small clothes?" Manaz asks. "Is it good to kiss in public like that?" It dawns on the Dost sisters that here in the West, people have the freedom to dress badly, and behave rudely. They are suddenly shy about their own appearance, and fasten their chadors more tightly. Suddenly the clothing they were so anxious to be rid of is a much-needed protective shield.
Air Canada Flight 859 to Toronto arrives just past midnight July 1. Mr. Dost has pinned a tiny Canadian maple leaf to his lapel collar: "Happy Birthday, Canada," he says as he steps off the plane into the cool night. "I feel as if I've just been given the whole world."
"It is a miracle to be here," Wais echoes. Khatool and her sisters smile broadly.
A week later, the family is settling in to a two-bedroom apartment in Winnipeg. Mrs. Dost is looking for work as a seamstress, while Wais is learning to make dough at Mr. Ahmadi's business, the Flying Pizza. All the children hope to go to school in the fall, and they are sleeping in beds for the first time in their lives.
The Dost sisters finally feel comfortable enough to remove their head scarves, and are enjoying the feeling of walking around outside with the wind blowing through their long, henna-coloured hair. "It is a big, big shock to be here," Khatool says.
Their sponsor, Mr. Ahmadi, says, "My wife told the girls, 'It's okay we have religion, we are good Muslims, but you don't have to wear the chador.' Not like in Peshawar where they will kill you if you don't."
It is too soon to say which family faces the bigger challenge – the trio of Pashtun families returning to their own war-torn country, or the Dosts, struggling to adapt to an alien culture.
For now, the family in Winnipeg is in the euphoria of arrival, and do not miss their mantoo pot, or anything else they were forced to leave behind. Meanwhile, in Kabul, as the brothers begin refashioning new homes from the wooden poles they have lugged from Badaber camp, they can take solace that if they go hungry, it will not be on someone else's land.
These hearty survivors are just the kind of returnees Afghanistan needs after a generation of war and mayhem. It stands a chance of rebirth, if the international community does not abandon it, as it did a decade ago, to warlords and Islamist terrorists. Otherwise, a fresh wave of refugees will pack up yet again, and head for Peshawar, back to the no man's land of barren camps along the dusty border.