Dex and I were to meet a Taliban commander named Haji Namdar. The day before our meeting Haleem, one of our interpreters, relayed a message from the commander: “You cannot bring a woman with you.” Dex and I were adamant that we would not separate. The long-bearded Haleem, who himself was sympathetic to the Taliban and wouldn’t look me directly in the eye because I was a woman, was tormented. He wracked his brain for the entire day and finally came back with the solution: “I know! Lynsey can be Dexter’s wife! And we can say that Mr. Dexter did not want to leave his wife alone in the hotel while he traveled out of Peshawar.” I was always being dressed up as someone’s wife.
We arrived at Haji Namdar’s house in the early afternoon, in the midst of a torrential downpour. I tried to steal glances through the thin white cloth of the hijab that covered my face. We were inside high compound walls, and everything was tan. Haleem and Dex jumped out of the car to greet the commander. I was told to wait until permission was granted for a woman’s presence.
Within minutes Haleem returned and told me I, too, could enter the house. The room was pungent with foot odor and full of heavily bearded, armed men in varying states of Friday sprawl against the walls. Their AK-47s stood up against the walls alongside their prosthetic legs or lay alongside their masters. I tried to walk without tripping over my abaya. Dex, in very Dexter fashion, started the interview.
“Haji Namdar,” he said jovially. I was surprised he didn’t add “dude” or “man.” “Thank you so much for welcoming us today. Before we begin, I want to introduce you to my wife, Lynsey.” I was grateful he didn’t waste time, because I was clearly the elephant in the room. “And by the way, my wife has a camera,” he continued. “Can she take some pictures?”
It seemed like an absurd proposal.
Haji Namdar agreed. I often found that some of the biggest extremists were open to meeting with women so long as we were not their women. Western female journalists didn’t have to abide by either male or female traditions, and I assumed they had given up trying to figure us out long ago. I removed my hulking Nikon D3 with a 24?70mm f2.8 lens from my bag and tried to look unprofessional.
I started out with a few frames of Haji Namdar as Dex interviewed him. I wasn’t sure whether the other Taliban fighters were comfortable with being photographed, but I figured if their commander agreed, they would also agree. After a few minutes I started pointing my camera around the room. My rule of thumb was that once I got permission to photograph, I shot as much as I could, because I was never sure how long that permission would last. Some men shielded their faces when I turned my camera on them; others didn’t flinch. And some were proud to be photographed for the most important American newspaper in the world. They might have been illiterate fighters, but most insurgents understood the influence of the New York Times on the U.S. government.
Talibanistan series for the New York Times Magazine, July 2008.
I grew more brazen and took another lens from my bag. My hand got tangled up in my layers of cloth instead—my eyesight impeded by my hijab—and I dropped the lens. After eight years of trying to shoot from beneath myriad disguises, I was exasperated, and I opened a teeny horizontal crease in my hijab for my eyes. I needed to work.
About ten minutes into the interview, tea was served, causing a flurry of activity around Haji Namdar. I stayed focused on shooting. Some men whispered among themselves and then included Haleem in quiet conversation. Finally a declaration was made. I worried they had had enough of a woman’s presence and were going to ask me to wait in the car.
“Madam,” Haleem said, “the commander’s men are worried you can’t drink your tea through your veil. They would really like for you to drink your tea.” The whispers continued, and if it weren’t for the veil, I would have had a difficult time concealing my smile. Only among Muslims is the hospitality so great that they cannot bear the notion that someone’s tea will be left untouched.
Haleem had another brilliant idea: “I know! You can stand in the corner of the room, with your back facing all of us, and lift your veil to the wall and drink your tea. Once you finish, you can replace your veil.”
And so, in a room full of some of the most vicious fighters against the United States and everything it stood for, I stood in the corner and faced the wall as I drank my tea.
Some eight months later our magazine story, “Talibanistan,” was part of a package of stories that won the Pulitzer Prize. I congratulated Dex; hours later, to my surprise, congratulation e-mails began pouring in for me. Apparently two photographers—myself and my childhood friend Tyler Hicks—had been included in the winning team, which was unusual for the Pulitzer. For years, my only dream was to work for the New York Times, and now my work for them was part of journalism’s greatest award. I was honored and overwhelmed.
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