My recent dive into Veronica Doubleday‘s book, Three Women of Herat, was a double-edged exercise in time-travel. Afghanistan has always fascinated me, ever since I glimpsed this magnificent country while on the late hippie trail in 1976. Since then political events have brought endless turmoil, repression and power struggles, culminating in the shameful Western abandonment of the country in 2021 and return of the Taliban. Women are virtually banned. So when Doubleday’s book was re-published last year by Eland, it fired up my craving to mentally return.
Old acquaintances
But that was not the only reason. In fact I had known the author aeons ago in the early 1970s while I was at Sussex University. She, a few years older, had already graduated but remained in Brighton with her partner, the musicologist, John Baily. My charismatic, striking boyfriend at the time was Veronica’s younger brother, Oliver Doubleday, also an undergraduate, so naturally I met his beautiful, willowy sister – a somewhat remote figure (or was I just shy?) who left me in awe. On my occasional visits to the family pile in Kent she was sometimes there – distant, but kind.
My memories of the time are hazy, but perhaps I heard her partner, a brilliant ethno-musicologist, perform informally. One day Veronica gave me a stunning, full-length, multi-coloured skirt that she had hand-crocheted – I felt honoured, and kept it for many years before it met the moths.
Our paths forked definitively when I left for my studies in France and I never saw Veronica again, although I remained in touch with Oliver, on and off, for a few years.
Into the heart of Herat
But back to the book. Once I started, I was totally immersed. For several long rainy days during this cursed English summer I became enveloped in this ancient, exotic world that Veronica reveals with sensitivity, perceptiveness and intelligence. Her approach is far more than a mere traveller’s tale; it is an ethnographical study threaded with personal anecdotes.
The accounts of her relationships with three different women in Herat, each living a different form of purdah, draw me deep inside their closeted walls. From the charming friendship that develops with Mariam to the more tortured ties with Mother of Nemo, the book gathers momentum until the final chapter. This is when Shirin steps onto the scene. The account of Veronica’s bond with Shirin (aka Zainab, a celebrated singer at the time), who becomes a generous music teacher to the young Englishwoman, is full of eloquence, insight and emotion, though not without critique. All too sad to read about Shirin’s premature death in the afterword.
The sounds of Afghan music
Not only touched by Veronica’s social attachments and ability to immerse herself in this foreign world, I was also impressed by her growing mastery of Afghan music. This included drumming rhythms on the daireh, a jingly frame drum, or actually singing traditional Afghan songs – thanks to her fluency in local Dari. She even performed professionally at wedding parties. This of course was unheard of for a Western woman, albeit incognito. How I regret not seeing her perform in London in recent years – I just didn’t know about her concerts, but hopefully there’s still time.
Yet how delighted I was to mentally walk with her along the shady alleyways of Herat, follow her music groups or friends, and be spirited through the cloistered world of Afghanistan’s women, of which I had no experience. During my own journey through the country, they had been invisible – enigmatic figures in long, pale blue silky ‘tents’, with only a grid to see through. Veronica’s comments on the psychological effect of donning the burqa are revealing, and she soon adopted cunning hijab-twitching techniques to ward off men’s provocative glances.
Herat in August 1976
Unfortunately my notebook of the time has vanished, as have my black and white photos (I still hope to unearth them in the chaos of my study), but Veronica’s descriptions inspired me to look again at a large folder of photos taken by one of my travel companions, Alberto Salvagno, a photographer. The colour pics here are all his.
I clearly remember that Herat seemed like paradise after we crossed the border from the strict Shiite world of Iran. There fierce old ghouls shrouded in black tapped your elbow if even a centimetre of flesh showed. In contrast Herat felt welcoming, boosted by monumental sights such as the ruined citadel or the Friday Mosque, the kaleidoscopic colours of the bazaar, aesthetic arrangements of fruit-stalls and above all the social ease of the Afghans. Unfortunately there was also plenty of child labour, visible here.
Alberto’s images revive the visual excitement of the night bazaar, the sizzling kebabs, mountains of fresh produce, barbers’ shops, pony carts, tea-rooms, tailors and the carpet shops. How many times have I seen similar on my repeated travels through the Islamic world since?
Yet they have never rivalled the impact of Herat. Even more striking is that in Alberto’s many photos not one woman features, burqa or not. This is proof that Veronica miraculously tapped into a separate society thanks to her mastery of Dari (Afghan Persian / Farsi), her commitment to music and above all being an empathetic woman.
Paths not crossed
As I read further I realise that my own stay in Herat had been just a few weeks before Veronica and John returned there overland, in September 1976 (the book mainly covers their year-long sojourn in 1974-5). They traced the same somewhat perilous route that I shared with my three friends from Italy where I lived at the time. Long dusty roads through Greece, Yugoslavia, Turkey and Iran were filled with risky incidents, strange encounters, dodgy food and spectacular landscapes (read a detail or so here).
After a few days in this little paradise, our little group motored onwards to Kandahar, Kabul before venturing up into the mountains of the Hindu Kush and the magnificent lakes of Bandi-E-Amir. Although intrepid, it was a far more superficial experience than Veronica’s dedicated focus on Herat, her women friends and music.
And then, at the very end of the book, I discovered the last coincidence: it turned out that my former boyfriend, Oliver, had visited his sister shortly after my passage through Herat, and contributed to the book a fetching photo of her with Shirin (below). Past worlds within worlds – and just a shame we could not all have met up for a glass of tea.
