A Woman's Place

The beginnings of a new Afghanistan can be found in Razia Aqbalzada's classroom at the Shinbul Girl's Primary School. The blackboard has been taken over by a visiting election officer who is telling the students about the Sept. 18 vote for the country's parliament and provincial councils. But the students at the back of the room are more interested in the sudden appearance of a reporter than in how to mark a ballot. That's until their teacher slams her hand on the desk. "Why are you not listening?" she chides. "You must pay attention to how the elections will work, so you can teach others, so you can make a good decision. Don't you understand? You are the future of Afghanistan."

Aqbalzada's students are only in seventh grade, but their ages range from 18 to 27. Their schooling was interrupted by civil war and the Taliban regime, which barred girls from attending classes. Now they are getting a crash course not just in basic biology but in the rudiments of democracy. They are learning how to vote, in particular for their own teacher, who is running for election in the central Afghan province of Bamiyan. "At my school I can only help a few women at a time," says Aqbalzada, 29. "If I get a seat on the provincial council, I can help my country."

Nearly four years after the U.S.-led coalition overthrew the Taliban, Afghanistan is still stumbling on the path to peace and stability. The country is nowhere near as violent as it was before; it has a new constitution that enables the establishment of civil institutions like an independent judiciary; and foreign investment is trickling in. Outside the capital Kabul, however, much of the hinterland remains poor and lawless, often controlled by rival warlords and drug barons who do not answer to the central authorities. The presidential election that Hamid Karzai won last year should have given the divided country a unifying leader. But Karzai has been hamstrung by the lack of a parliament or local government bodies, and many Afghans derisively call him "mayor of Kabul."

Afghanistan will only become a true democracy when citizens can turn for help to locally elected leaders, rather than armed warlords. That's why this week's polls are potentially so important. Yet there's no guarantee they will help stabilize the country. Historically, power in Afghanistan has been seized; asking for votes is an unfamiliar exercise. Indeed, campaign posters plastered on walls, windows and rusting Soviet-era tanks around the country reflect a vagueness of mission. "Truth, faithfulness, good work. Think of me and my agenda when you vote," pleads one candidate. Others promise peace, demilitarization and reconstruction—noble goals, for sure, but hardly likely to be within their reach. What's more, all 5,800 candidates for the 249 parliamentary seats and 420 provincial council posts are running as independent individuals. Without the backing of political parties, the legislators will lack the clout that might come from working in unison, fears Joanna Nathan, senior Afghanistan analyst for the International Crisis Group (ICG), an international think tank dedicated to preventing conflict. "That's going to make for a horribly weak and paralyzed body unable to accomplish anything."

Yet if nothing else, the elections will change the face of Afghan politics. In a bold initiative that has earned the ire of many of the nation's men, the constitution of Afghanistan, instituted in January 2004, has mandated that at least a quarter of the elected posts be reserved for women—putting the country ahead of Australia, Canada, the U.K. and the U.S. in terms of female representation in government. The names of male and female candidates will appear together on the ballots, but the female candidates with the most votes are guaranteed seats, even if they do worse than their male counterparts. Afghanistan's women have enthusiastically embraced the quota. "Women are smarter than men," says Aqbalzada. "We may not understand politics, but we understand the needs of society because we are mothers. Men only understand men."

Those men still want to call the shots. Restricted by the social rules and safety fears that continue to govern women in Afghan society, female candidates are unable to campaign freely: they cannot travel on their own, throw election rallies or give speeches at mosques, the traditional arena for Afghan politicking. Nor can they expect support from local religious leaders, who denounce women in politics as an abomination. Under the Taliban, images of women were forbidden—and many families still prohibit wives and daughters from showing their faces in public. Yet 565 women candidates have had their photos placed on the ballots, even though they have to go to extraordinary lengths to get their messages across. More than one candidate in the Taliban heartland of Kandahar is campaigning door-to-door in a burqa, the head-to-toe veil that conceals even the face.

In the less conservative province of Bamiyan, where the enforced seclusion of women wasn't part of the local tradition before the Taliban came to power, female candidates must still make concessions because of their gender. Marzia Mohammadi, 30, a medical doctor and one of seven candidates aiming to fill the seat set aside for women representing the province in parliament, had to get permission from her husband, as well as from the other male members of her extended family, in order to run. Unable to take public transport alone, she has had to hire a jeep and driver to take her out to the remote villages that make up her constituency, and because her own village is so far away, she has rented a small office in town so that she has a place to stay while campaigning.

Having distributed the 10,000 posters and brochures she had printed up at the beginning of her campaign, Mohammadi is worried about how she will pay for the next batch. She estimates that she has already spent at least $2,000, more than six times her monthly salary as a midwife. The financial burden—which she has covered in part by selling all of her gold jewelry, aside from her wedding ring—will only increase as the poll nears. The election commission grants each candidate airtime at local radio stations—a female candidate's best bet for getting her name out—but production of a good campaign commercial is costly. Still, Mohammadi and her husband believe the sacrifice is worth it. "This jewelry is nothing," her husband told her. "It is of no value compared to helping your country."