A four-part series that lifts the veil of stereotype from Islamic women's lives. For instance, despite the strenuous objections of religious conservatives, women are taking seats in local government councils in Pakistan as part of a program enunciated by the country's military leaders. More than 4,000 were elected in a first round and there is a widespread feeling that the world will never be quite the same, say PNS commentators Muddassir Rizvi and Hadia Nusrat. Rizvi is a Pakistani journalist specializing in development issues; Nusrat works with an Islamibad-based public health publication. For PNS contributor Fariba Nawa, author of the second piece, the last 20 years have been particularly unkind. The daughter of exiles raised in America, who is old enough to remember but gone long enough to forget, she returns to Afghanistan, providing a series of unsettling contrasts. Nawa travels frequently to the Middle East and South Asia.

Segment 3:
WOMEN TAKE LOCAL OFFICE IN PAKISTAN UNDER UNLIKELY AUSPICES OF MILITARY RULERS
BY MUDDASSIR RIZVI AND HADIA NUSRAT, PACIFIC NEWS SERVICE

"Having women representatives will promote obscenity," declared Maulvi Allah Bakhsh, who leads prayers at a mosque in a small village near the town of Sargodha, a four-hour drive from Pakistan's capital, Islamabad.

Allah Bakhsh represents the dissent emanating mainly from right -wing religious parties against women taking local political seats allocated to them by the military government.

"Islam restricts women from 'intermingling with men' other than relatives," he explains, "and holds that women should stay at home and shouldn't be allowed politicking."

But this did not deter Fatima Bibi, newly elected councilor from the same village. "Things are going to change," she says. Bibi is among 4,689 women elected in the 18 most backward of Pakistan's 110 districts in the first phase of local elections. The second phase, involving 23 districts, begins March 21, and the third and final round ends August 14.

This is part of the military government's planned devolution of power aimed at introducing true democracy to this country of 135 million people.

It also heralds an era of women's empowerment in a country that has been under fire for rights abuses and discrimination against women. As it tries to gain more acceptability in the international community, the military government has placed major emphasis on improving human rights here, especially for women and minorities.

But even this first step was not easy. When the government announced last March that women were to be given half the seats in the traditionally male-dominated local level institutions, it was met with sharp criticism from religious parties and Islamic extremist groups.

"The plan to give representation to women at the village council level is a conspiracy to mutilate the ideological spirit of the country," said Maulana Shah Ahmed Noorani, who heads the Milli Yakjehti Council (MYC), a coalition of more than 15 Islamic parties.

The MYC threatened the military rulers with countrywide agitation. This forced the government to cut down the number of reserved seats to 33 percent.

But that did not satisfy the Islamists. In many parts of the country, religious parties ran concerted campaigns to discourage women from participating in local elections, using family and social pressure. In the mountainous Dir district in the northwest, one extremist Islamic party, closely linked with Afghanistan's Taliban rulers, physical threatened physical harm to women's rights activists.

Even more moderate segments of the right wing oppose women's emancipation. "If the need arises, women can work outside their homes on the condition that their domestic duties are not compromised," says Dr. Zafar Ansari, Director of the Islamic Research Institute in Islamabad.

Aside from religious pressures, men in the families -- especially in influential families -- see women leaving the house as a matter of loss of prestige.

Against this backdrop, almost 20 percent of the reserved women's seats remained vacant after the recent vote. Fatima Bibi, whose retired military husband fully supports her political endeavors, is undeterred by opposition. The 39-year-old mother of six is bracing herself to raise issues as diverse as high rates of female illiteracy, poor maternal health facilities, and non-availability of clean water.

"We have no fear¥we'll fight for our rights," she said amidst approving nods of women of the village gathered around her at the office of the Pattan Development Foundation, which has been working on voters education for the past three months.

Pattan field staff had played a key role in motivating women in 12 villages of the area. "The process was painstaking," said a Pattan volunteer Fida Hussain, camped in a mud house near the banks of the Chenab River. "We involved the men and elders of the family in allowing their women to take on the role of participation in decision-making. As women's participation is a sensitive issue, we tried to make our intervention culturally acceptable and closer to the people's value systems."

Pattan is not alone. Aurat Foundation, a Lahore-based women's rights group, formed district level committees to ensure maximum women's participation.

A report by the Mahboob ul Haq Centre for Human Development found at least 29 percent of Pakistani females are deprived of health care, whereas an alarming 72 percent -- as against 47 per cent of males -- have no educational opportunities.

In Fatima's village, the only girls' primary school in the has no teacher, making religious education at the mosque the only choice. Nor are there facilities to address maternal health problems. A government-paid health worker does not enjoy the confidence of the local population, because she is young and inexperienced.

"The nearest basic health unit is more than 20 km (12 miles) away," said Bashiraan Bibi, whose husband lost the election on the peasant seat by a narrow margin. "Many women, especially those with complications, lose their lives since the only transport available is a horse-pulled cart."

But these women now see a ray of hope in Fatima and other women councilors making their voices heard. These women are still a long way from real empowerment. "Change is a slow process¥but at least the ball has been set rolling," said a confident Fida Hussain.

Much will depend on whether or not the government honors its promise of devolving powers to these local representatives as the only way to introduce good governance in a country that is marred by corruption and bureaucratic inefficiencies.

Segment 4:
AFTER 20 YEARS: GOING HOME TO A STRANGE AND FAMILIAR LAND
BY FARIBA NAWA, PACIFIC NEWS SERVICE

Buzzing flies circled my face. As I swatted them away, I slowly looked up to see nearly a dozen men staring intently at my face and hands -- the only bared parts of my body. I was dressed in compliance with Iran's code for women, I was standing in line at the Iranian border waiting to cross into my hometown of Herat, Afghanistan.

I kept my eyes to the floor to avoid the looks until the border agent called my name. My hands trembled as I handed him my Afghan passport -- perhaps the least useful travel document in the world. Soon, I would be home again after nearly 20 years.

My family fled Afghanistan during the Soviet invasion when I was eight years old in 1981. We escaped to California, where I grew up. Although I am Americanized, Afghanistan is in my heart and memories. I pictured myself returning to my grandfather's home, where my cousins and I used to play and eat the fruit we picked from his orchards. His five-acre home was a sanctuary from our neighborhood, where the boom of rockets and bullets echoed in the backyard.

The war has turned into a civil war now as the Afghans struggle to survive in the wake of more United Nations sanctions. One of the poorest countries in the world, Afghanistan is facing a severe drought as well as threat of starvation.

In the name of religion, the Taliban -- the militia ruling the majority of the country -- forbid women from going to school or working in most fields and force men to pray. Women must travel with a male relative (mahram) and wear a burqa, which covers the body like a tent with only a mesh for sight. Men must sport untrimmed, scraggly beards. This was the Afghanistan I was about to enter with my cousin's best friend, Mobin, as my rented mahram.

Mobin was a merchant, who traveled across Iran and Afghanistan selling buttons and lace. He saw his wife and 18-month-old son in Herat one week out of the month. Shrewd and experienced, Mobin promised to take me from Iran to Afghanistan and finally, Pakistan.

With my American passport hidden under my bra, I held my breath as we passed through Taliban customs. We rented a taxi with two other women -- Mobin was also their mahram -- and though the Taliban banned music, the taxi driver popped in the latest Afghan folk songs and increased the volume as we headed toward Herat. This ancient city once known for its art and culture in Central Asia is now the only Afghan city with a functioning economy.

As the station wagon rolled up and down the desert sand dunes, I took out my journal and wrote under my black coat. Every time a man appeared in the distance, we women covered our faces with the edge of our headscarves. "Don't worry -- the Taliban are scared of women," Mobin said. "They usually stop cars with men. The ones with women, they turn their heads."

We decided to don the burqa once we reached the city. I closed my eyes, smelled the air and listened to the folk singer, recorded in Virginia, lamenting his distance from his homeland. But I was finally home.

Two hours later in pitch dark, we entered the gates of the city. High adobe walls hid the houses, but downtown was lit in neon. Men rode their bicycles on the unpaved roads. It was 10 p.m. and there was not a woman in sight.

The taxi stopped in front of Mobin's house, I stepped down and kissed the ground, then looked up at the sky. The fall breeze blew the dust in my eyes, but I could still see the constellations, shooting stars and the moon.

The people I knew in Herat were distant relatives except for my step-grandmother, who still lives on our land. Only my mother's uncle knew I was coming because he was one of the few who owned a telephone.

I stayed with his two wives and their children. They were fairly well off and rebellious, defying the Taliban's ban on music and television. They had a satellite dish on their porch, a television and musical instruments in the basements. My five female cousins, mostly teen-agers, did not go to clandestine home schools as did some girls.

This family's attitude toward the Taliban, typical of Heratis, accepts the limitations in exchange for peace. However, they want Ismail Khan, the warlord who ruled Herat before the militia, restored to power. While other warlords, once freedom fighters against the Russians, fought each other, Ismail Khan began to develop Herat. He was corrupt, but better than the Taliban, according to my relatives.

The ruling militia has instilled a chilling fear in Afghans, especially women. Since Herat is the Taliban's base for money, they give its residents more leeway and Heratis take advantage of this in a schizophrenic manner. My cousins would drum on their tambourines at midnight, cursing the Taliban as they sang. The next day, the girls whispered in conversation, afraid the Taliban were coming to get them. One way of appeasing the Taliban was to invite their local leaders to parties, where they joined in the festivity.

I kept a low profile, staying inside most of the time. I fit in surprisingly well despite my liberal ideas and informal manner. My relatives assumed I had forgotten the Persian language and Islam, both of which I have kept.

On the second day of my journey, I put on the burqa and went into the streets for the first time with my cousins. I walked slowly, worried that I might trip on the flowing fabric. There is an ironic power in being invisible. Men in public noticed my ankles and hands, but did not look at my eyes. I stared at their expressions and actions without their knowledge.

We first rode a decorated Toyota Corolla taxi, then a horse wagon to reach my family home. I knocked at the old brass gate. A child opened the door and led me to my grandmother. She was praying. I lifted the front of my burqa as she turned her head. My grandmother, 70, screamed in disbelief as if I were a ghost. She passed out for a few seconds before hugging me and sobbed on my shoulders.

The next few days passed so quickly in gleeful activity. I went shopping, visited shrines and the school I attended until I witnessed a bomb kill my second-grade classmates.

Saving the best for last, I stepped into the orchard home on the seventh day of my visit. I threw my burqa on the ground and sprinted toward the living quarters, hearing my family's laughter inside the hallways.

But the doors to the 11 rooms were locked and some of their windows broken.

I ran out to the field, frantically looking for the mulberry and pomegranate trees where we used to picnic. I found the trees, but no fruit, due to the drought. The entire place seemed much smaller. I kept running into walls. Then I remembered hearing that my uncles sold three acres.

My happy nostalgia turned into despair. I climbed the roof overlooking the city and wept.

The tears were a catharsis, an acceptance of the past as past. My distance from Herat for these 20 years had a left void in me. I was missing something as I had lived my comfortable Western life in San Francisco. But 10,000 miles away, leaning at the edge of my childhood roof, I felt a sense of completion.