Reverse rebellion

Teenager and married to a Pashtun

Francisca von Koch

Cardboard; 256 pages

The year is 1971, Magdalena is 17 years old and on her way to India to find a guru. She stops in northern Pakistan, where she is invited to a Pashtun family. The son of the house and Magdalena fall in love with each other and Magdalena moves into his family's house in the village.

Franciska von Koch tells here about how she lived as a young wife to a Pashtun, with all that it entailed in terms of love, culture clashes, nature experiences and hardships. This is a genuine and unique portrayal of a young Swedish girl's life as the wife of a Pakistani in a culture of honor.

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Excerpt from the book:

The border with Pakistan, 2014

They locked me in a hotel room and a shy boy in dirty clothes gave me a tray with a bowl of watery curry naan bread and a thermos of chai. After a short while the boy returned with three bottles of bottled water and a potty. Outside my door stood a Taliban guarding my door. He didn't react to my abusive words. That was all I could see before the boy closed the door. I heard the Taliban bolt it.

Why did they keep me here?

I sit on the rickety bed and stare blankly in front of me, completely exhausted from the screaming, stiff with the fear that is now eating me from the inside.

Idiot, go back to Pakistan, you're not really smart. How the hell did I get myself into this situation. How could I think I could contribute anything at all, that I could go into Pakistan painlessly and easily.

When I was in Oslo and saw Malala receive the Nobel Peace Prize, she said something that made me decide to try to find Muzarath, the girl who was my friend forty years ago. Malala talked about the Swat Valley and the city of Mingora, the city where she was shot because she wanted to go to school. Malala had shown me some photos of the children there and I thought I recognized one of them. A girl looked exactly like Muzarath, she must be her daughter. There had been a plea for help in the girl's eyes and then and there at the Nobel ceremony I decided to try to get to Mingora to find my former sister-in-law. I had photographs and medicine with me.

I was such an idiot to think it would be possible to complete this journey without any problems. Now I was locked up here.

How long would they keep me here before people at home found out? They had immediately confiscated my cell phone, as well as my laptop and camera. Did they think I was a journalist? The hours passed, I tried to meditate, Uncle Walter remembered. What would he have said to me now? He would have told me to wait, not to provoke myself, to go to the source within myself and rest there. Easy for him to say, but I knew he was right. There was nothing I could do now but wait. Before I lay down to try to get some sleep, I barricaded the door from the inside as best I could with a chair. In the worst case scenario, I could throw myself out the window, but the fall was high and I would probably break my legs, but if someone came to rape me, I wouldn't hesitate.

The sound of trucks and buses constantly coming and going at the border near the hotel reached where I was now. Sometimes people's voices could be heard in the distance, mixing with the sounds of engines. I listened intently to all the sounds, trying to commit everything to memory, it gave me a small comfort of having some control over the situation. The thought of my Swiss Army knife that I had in my toiletry bag made me search my backpack, I discovered that it was still there. They had also let me keep my notebook and some pens. With these precious finds, I lay down again under the covers with the knife folded up under the pillow.

This is how the first night went, when I got a few minutes of sleep every now and then but was woken by the slightest noise and I threw myself up and stormed around the room, searching through my backpack, drinking some water, peeing in the potty, swearing and staring out the window at the corrugated iron roof on the other side, too far away to jump to.

Damn, damn, damn, damn shit. Hell. Locked up.

– You can't do this to me, you have no right to do it, where is my passport!

– Sorry Mam, I don't know why they do this to you. I'm a civil servant.

– I am a tourist with an entry permit. I have a visa, everything is correct.

– You are just as trapped here as we who work here. Now you can't travel further, you have to stay here. It's dangerous in the region and we have our orders.

– Hey, stay here, aren't you really smart?

Anger rose madly from my feet into my stomach and made me double over. I was so angry that I couldn't take in the full meaning of his words, stay here, at the border with Pakistan. Where then?

– Call your superior here immediately! You can't do this to me, I have a Swedish passport and visa! You have no right to treat me this way, do you even know who I am?

Before the fear had time to grip my solar plexus, which it would soon do, before the next few hours when they actually locked me in a room in the dingy border hotel, another man came and sat down casually. He was calm and collected and looked to be about thirty and while I was trying to get the words out, which came from the deepest survival instinct in me, the one that gathers me for battle and attack instead of letting fear in, he kept looking at me kindly and patiently, as if he were listening to a child. Without thinking, without knowing if it was smart, I shared information that I had forced out of me.

– You can't do this to me, do you know who I am? I've lived in Pakistan, I've lived with a powerful family. I've been married to a Pashtun and been taken in by the family.

– Mam, maybe it has something to do with why you are not getting your entry permit.

– It's been forty years. This is a mistake!

– Mam, there are very powerful people here and they know everything. You must understand that we are only following orders. I must ask you to come with me and it will be easier for you if you do not resist. Do not try to escape, everyone here is armed.

– What do you plan to do with me?

The last words got stuck in my throat, one horror scenario after another played out in my head. Would they keep me as a toy for the lonely border guards, that couldn't be possible. Would they have me beheaded like IS did with the Christians in Syria, or stoned like in Saudi Arabia, no, that didn't sound likely either. It was incomprehensible and confusing to me. I had done all the research possible before I set off and had assured myself that one could now travel through Pakistan as a tourist and I had all the papers in order. At the Pakistani consulate in Stockholm, they had convinced me that it wouldn't be too dangerous when I told them that I wanted to go to a certain village in the Swat Valley to visit family. They had encouraged me not to pretend to be a journalist but to travel as a tourist instead. It was an area with a lot of Taliban, but they no longer ruled the country and apart from occasional terrorist attacks against schools, the area was now relatively peaceful, they said. They had advised me not to drive my own car but to take the bus like ordinary people, so that I wouldn't stand out unnecessarily. I had taken a flight to Kabul and then a bus to the border in northern Pakistan. It was the same route I had taken twice before, forty years ago. The dark blue burqa that was in my bag I had bought in Afghanistan and intended to put on only after I entered Pakistan. It would be a good garment to hide under when I searched for my family.

The fact that I wasn't allowed to enter the country didn't really surprise me, but what came as a shock was that they had actually imprisoned me. I had been kidnapped and locked up in this damn dingy border hotel. I had met a few other Western travelers on the bus who seemed to have moved on. Why had they locked me up?

Some opinions about the book "Reverse Rebellion"

The book is exciting, especially the parts that take place in the seventies and have the character of self-experience as they are supported by photographs and letter excerpts; here there are vivid descriptions of environments and of the psychology between people. The story gives a good and insightful picture of a young person's impressionability and what it can depend on, as well as of young love and culture clashes. Franciska is also a relaxed, lively and wise lecturer with a lot on her feet regarding psychology and existential questions.

Inger Edelfeldt, author

“Because the author and I meet in Berga's nursing home almost every weekday – she as an art coach and I as a 40-year-old resident – ​​it is difficult to see her as a deeply religious hippie on her way to India to seek her guru.

On the way there, she ends up in Pakistan and falls in love with and is loved by a young Pakistani man, who is already engaged to a very suitable Pakistani girl, which is why the culture of honor is relevant. Magdalena, who has received a very “free” upbringing, gains “experience” long before her age. This is perhaps compensated by the very strict rules of conduct during her three-year confinement in the family of her beloved. When I read the book, I naturally compare it to my own life and upbringing. My daughter is about the same age as Franciska and I am grateful that her hitchhiking destination was Paris and not India.

I found a fluid style and a fascinating world, which has tragically disappeared completely, and which I would love to hear more about.

Dagny Rafting (b. 1915)