He knows the American dream. A house. A car. A family. A vacation. Does he have the same dream? "It is the same dream. A house. A car. Family. Vacation." He leans forward. "We have something more." To serve one God and to serve others, he says.
He has had long conversations with his wife about watching TV. "I try to convince her," he says, about the strictest mandates of Islam against entertainment. He is proud to say: "She doesn't see TV. She doesn't listen to songs."
"I'm not an imperialist. I'm a husband and a friend. I don't want to bully her." The topic broke off with the sound of shattered glass. His young daughter dropped a glass in the foyer, shards of glass everywhere. A family relation scoops her up quickly before slivers of glass pierce her bare feet.
There is one type of music he allows in the house. Patriotic Afghan songs, "thahrahnah" in Pashto. He gets up to bring a cassette and presses the "play" button on a little red boom box. Deep incantations fill the room. Crows caw outside. He writes the phonetic translation and literal translation in neat English with curls starting his "m's" and "n's."
"Kari khidmat da waran wijar hewad abad kari. Khapal nikona yad kari." Serve your country. Build this destroyed country. Remember your ancestors' deeds.
He leaves the room for a moment. I ask the first wife her thoughts. She speaks quietly and plainly in Pashto without much expression. The younger wife translates into Urdu. I don't understand it all.
When he slips again to the floor, I ask their husband to translate. He resists. "She doesn't know much about politics." Indelicately, I persist. It was a long thought.
The first wife repeats her thought in Pashto. He translates into English: "She said that America will resort to killing innocent people. They will have the same experience as the Soviets. They will not achieve anything. They will not achieve what they want."
He cannot suppress a smile. "Even I am surprised. I did not know she knew so much about politics." Before I can ponder the thought too long this is the moment when the women jump up to escape into the foyer where they huddle after hearing the footsteps of a stranger, a visitor for Shaheen, nearing the screen door. They remain out of sight until the visitor leaves.
During my first visit to Shaheen's house, I asked my escort, an intermediary, "Would it make him more comfortable if I cover up completely?"
My escort was quick with his response from the front seat. "You should not do what makes other people comfortable. You should do what makes you comfortable."
Excellent. I kept my dupatta on as I learned to wear it as a child. When I entered the sitting room the first time, I knew not to sit too close to the men, nor to try and shake their hands. I faced the Taliban representative and sat cross-legged on the floor a pillow away from my escort. They talked to each other in Urdu about the latest developments in tensions. It was a day before the bombings. They discussed the merits of any diplomacy from the Rev. Jesse Jackson, who had approached them with an offer to mediate -- not the other way around, Shaheen said. He said that he figured that Jackson was acting with the knowledge of the Bush administration, even while President Bush laid out a "no negotiations" policy.
During a quiet moment, I ask the second wife what she thinks of my defying, for my work, the Muslim values she embraces to stay behind purdah. She looks at me seriously.
"Bahoth achah kahm hay. Bahoth naik kahm hay." It is good work. It is pious work.
I thank her. When I tell her husband her response, he smiles, cocks his head, and says, "We don't agree on everything," but continues to spend hours talking with me. Journalism knows no gender, a cousin of mine later says.
His phone rings. It is someone asking about British journalist Yvonne Ridley, who was caught trying to sneak into Afghanistan wearing a burkha, but without a visa. He says he called the British Embassy to tell an official to pick up the journalist at 5 p.m. at Torkham Gate at the Pakistani border. "He said, 'The counselor is not available. We'll call you back.' I said, 'Don't call me back. Pick her up, otherwise we'll have to take her back to Kabul." He has a good laugh. (And isn't shy to spread the account of Kabul police, whom he says were horrified at how much the journalist cursed at them. "She wasn't behaving with us like a lady.")