I am always so grateful for the internet…for people to be able to speak their voice, their concerns, their thoughts….and no matter how much it happens these days, when something is brought to my attention that I may have never seen, I am once again so grateful that the internet is a tool that brings content home, no matter where one lives.
I just was turned onto this story written by an anonymous Afghan woman on a website called Afghan Women’s Writing Project.
The project began “…as an idea during novelist Masha Hamilton’s last trip to Afghanistan in November 2008. Her interest in Afghanistan was sparked in the late 1990s during the Taliban period, when she understood it was one of the worst places in the world to be a woman. Masha first visited the country in 2004, and was awed and inspired by the resolute courage of the women she met. When she returned, she saw doors were closing and life was again becoming more difficult, especially for women. She began to fear we could lose access to the voices of Afghan women if we didn’t act soon. The Afghan Women’s Writing Project is aimed at allowing Afghan women to have a direct voice in the world, not filtered through male relatives or members of the media. Many of these Afghan women have to make extreme efforts to gain computer access in order to submit their writings, in English, to the project.”
The most recent story, as I mentioned was written by an anonymous Afghan woman. As noted by the blog: This is only the second anonymous piece we have run on the blog. We encourage our participants to claim their own stories, but in this case, the writer felt she could only safely share this if she did so anonymously.
Here is her story:
I Am For Sale, Who Will Buy Me?
I used to think big. When I was six, I made my mom let me go to school, and I loved it. My father told me: “If you stay at the top of your class until the end of your studies, I will do two things for you. First, I will let you go abroad to continue your education. Secondly, I will buy you a car and let you drive.” With the encouragement of my father, I was a superstar in my classes. He was my first English teacher and he always called me “my scholar daughter.”
During the Taliban’s black government, my brothers could go to school, but I couldn’t. My father bought me school supplies, though, and told me: “Be patient. One day you will finish your studies.” He was right. I waited five years, but after that, I could go to school.
When I was in ninth grade, I earned my first money from teaching English. It was only 200 Afs, but I was excited. I gave my salary to my father. He kissed me and laughed and told me, “Dear, keep your salary for yourself. I don’t need it.” I said, “Dad, it is for you.” He smiled and told me, “It is just the cost of ink for your shoes,” and he gave me another 1000 Afs. He was my supporter in all aspects.
When I was sixteen years old, one of my neighbors came to our house and proposed that his son marry me. My father was angry and told him: “Do you know my daughter is sixteen? It is time for her to study. If the king comes and knocks at the door of my house and proposes that my daughter marry his son, I won’t accept it. Please, leave my house and never come back again.”
I was in my last days of school when my father died. When I lost him, I lost my shadow, but he left me with his words and advice and books. After his death, our economic situation was bad. Mom’s salary was the equivalent of $25, which was not enough. I began teaching classes in a private school. Half my salary was for my studies and half went for house expenses. During these years, I was the poorest student in my class. I spent days without breakfast or lunch, but I felt happy for my education. During the last four years, I received a number of marriage proposals but I rejected them all. Most wanted me to stop my studies and never work outside the home.
After my father died, the responsibility for me fell to my brothers, who grew up under the Taliban government and were influenced by it. Now I live with three Talibs and I must obey what they say. I am not like a girl in the house, but a slave. When I was at third year at the university, the owner of our house demanded higher rent. My family decided they would leave Kabul and go to a province where housing was cheaper. But I didn’t know how I would continue my studies in that case, so I gave up my transportation money to help pay for our rent, and I go to the university on foot.
Still, at the beginning of this year, my brothers said: “It is time for you to marry.” They arranged a marriage to my first cousin, my mom’s brother’s son, who lives in a province where most of the people are Talib. My cousin is about 40 years old and uneducated. His family has a business and a big house. Their women are required to wear burqas and are responsible for cooking, cleaning and caring for the animals. Most have eight or nine children. They can’t go outside the house—even when they are sick, they aren’t allowed to go to the doctor. My uncle’s money gives him power despite the fact that he is uneducated.
My family thinks I am tired of working so hard, and that my uncle’s money will convince me to accept this golden bracelet. My uncle told my family he would pay them $20,000, and this money might possibly keep my family alive. At the same time, I am thinking about graduating, seeking my masters’ degree and a PhD, getting a better job, making an independent life, standing on my own feet. I told my mom: “Please give me a chance. I don’t like this man. I can’t marry him. If you want to sell me, then I am ready to buy myself. I have a plan for my life. Please give me a chance, please, please.” She didn’t reply, but cried silently with me. I told her: “If my father were here, he would bring a revolution in this house.”
None of my close friends know what is happening with me. Once one of my classmates came to my house and she was carrying her notebook. I study in secret. When my family saw her notebook, they behaved badly toward her and told her not to come again.
These days I am thinking of possible solutions: how to get another job, earn at least $1,000 a month in salary. Running away is not an option because girls who run away here are raped by men and spend years in jail, and I am not such a girl. I can’t leave my mom because my brothers believe anything “wrong” I do is the fault of my mother, and they will kill her. My brothers think a girl who has a bank account or a mobile phone is a prostitute. I hide my phone and keep it on silent mode when I’m home.
I have two months to find a solution. If I fail, I have to accept this marriage, and I will accept it because of my mom, but I can’t live in such a situation. How can I live with such a man, or accept such failure? I think if this happens, I won’t stay in this world; I will leave the world for those who can live in it, who can find a solution.
What I write here are the wounded and torn pieces of my heart and the secrets an Afghan girl suffers.
I am like a piece of cloth. I cost little. Who will buy me?
By Anonymous
This story pulls at me at me in opposing ways. I am relieved to hear that she had a father who was so giving, loving, and supportive of her. This is not to say that there are not many Afghan fathers who stand up for their women. I, for one, have mostly only read of the atrocities of men including fathers, as that is what is written, that is what is reported by many of my women readers. And rightly so, as the plight of women needs to be expressed and in our faces daily. But I can not turn away from recognizing that this particular girl was blessed with a father who was not of the ‘norm’ according to the stories that I read and heard.
And I am saddened. I am saddened that her father did not pass along his respect and support of women to his sons. That he did not teach them well enough, knowing that when his time came, he would leave behind sons that revered women. And if he did, and the seeds were planted and nurtured, that her brothers did not have the courage to grow into men like their father…to be influenced by his actions, and instead chose to be seduced by the Taliban. And that they now treat her not as a beloved sister, but as a slave sister.
No doubt her story is unique; her relationship with her father, special. But we all know that her plight and her plea is as common as the next Afghan girl…as the next _______girl. How I wish I could say it wasn’t so.
Readers: Thoughts? Ideas? How to help? You know what to do.
Gratefully your blog host,
michelle
Aka BABE: Your Bad Ass Bitch Editor
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