By Azada Joya
More than a year has passed since darkness cast a shadow over the university. Since then, I have suffered from severe mental pressure. My motivation to continue my studies faded away.
I had been living in the girls’ dormitory at Kabul University for two years. Before, it was’t difficult and everything ran smoothly. I missed my parents occasionally, but being in the company of Afghan women from all provinces of the country was pleasant. It didn’t last.
Following the country’s change of power, a disappointing atmosphere emerged between students and professors. Nothing was pleasant. My motivation to continue studying waned.
The university gates reopened after seven months, but with strict restrictions on female students. In particular, black is the only colour allowed. We are all mourners grieving for the glory days of the university. At first, I resented wearing black from head to toe, but I came to accept it. It was the only way I could continue my education. There was no choice. Still, there was a ray of hope still shining in my heart in spite of the darkness: my mother’s wish to see her daughter in her graduation dress.
More and more restrictions were added. We were even forbidden to laugh. One day, when I wanted to take a selfie of me and my friend smiling on campus, a woman wearing a black mask grabbed my phone and shouted, “Down your laughter! You are not allowed to take pictures!”
After begging and apologizing dozens of times, I finally got my phone back later that day. But the warning was clear: “If I see you snap a picture and laugh again, I will take your student card and refer you to the president.”
Everybody knows. Everyone knows how cruel they are. I couldn’t do anything but bow in agreement. Humiliation made me feel numb. It felt as if I couldn’t move. I leaned against the law school’s wall. In my ears, I kept hearing her words, “That’s your last time laughing! The last time!”
In that black and dark space, I couldn’t laugh. I was shaking, losing my passion for life, and my motivation to learn. I couldn’t concentrate in class. I was afraid that something bad would happen. I was concerned that a rocket would hit our college or that there would be an explosion.
While the professor was teaching, I would be thinking of ways to escape. I kept my eyes on the door and the window. My mind raced with ideas of how I could jump from the third floor to the ground in case of an attack. My friends had noticed that I was restless. They used to ask, “Why do you keep looking around?”
My fellow students seemed to have forgotten that not only the university, but the entire country is in the hands of the same people who attacked the university two short years ago.
I couldn’t sleep at night. Every night, there was gunfire and commotions near my dormitory. The thought of gunmen possibly attacking our dormitory made me nervous. I would sit on my bed all night, ready to jump at the slightest sound. I gazed out the window in fear. The night the Taliban celebrated their victory by firing shots into the air, my roommates hid under their beds, crying.
Anxiety had become part of me. Each morning, my roommates and I discuss escape routes. We used to comment on how difficult it was to break the double-layered glass of windows and we should have something heavy to break the glass, if needed. All these worries made it difficult for me to concentrate on the lesson.
The months that passed were filled with tension and worry. Then the month of Muharram arrived. Every year, the girls used to commemorate the ninth and tenth days of Muharram in the dormitory mosque. They honoured Sham-e-Ghariban (a mourning night for Shias that is observed between the tenth and eleventh days of Muharram) by praying and lighting candles. This year we were not able to commemorate these days as we usually do. The managers of the women’s dormitories refused to allow us to pray and closed the mosque to Shias. When the girls honoured Sham-e-Ghariban by lighting candles in the corridors of the dormitory, the manager gathered all the students together and insulted us by saying, “You Hazaras are fire worshippers and you are polytheists.” Anyone who knows a bit about Islam knows that accusing Muslims of polytheism or disbelief carries serious consequences. It was a difficult time. These words made the female students cry. Because of decisions by the Taliban and their affiliated members, we were not permitted to conduct our religious practices. At best, we were ridiculed and insulted; at worst, we were accused of blasphemy.
Those cold looks from the dormitory manager will never leave me. As she passed me, she told the teacher with her, “I won’t let even one of them stay if they celebrate Muharram this year. I will reduce the number of Hazara girls.”
We did not keep silent. We demonstrated and protested the loss of our basic rights in the dormitory. In response, a delegation from the university president came to mediate between the dormitory managers and the students. Apparently, she apologized to the Hazaras for calling them fire worshippers. However, five Hazara girls were expelled from the dormitory shortly afterward, apparently for commemorating the tenth day of Muharram.
From then on, they checked our clothes every morning. We had to wear black socks and black masks. The girls were ordered to wash their faces after inspectors said, “You have make-up on your faces. It’s forbidden.” If they saw a single coloured flower on our black clothes, they would cut it off. Putting on coloured socks or going without socks was punished by hours of imprisonment. Talking on mobile phones was forbidden inside the dormitory. Officers took student phones, asking why and with whom they were talking.
We had to tolerate all the restrictions. For the sake of continuing our education, we endured all these humiliations and hardships. On September 28 and 29, Hazara students were poisoned in the dormitory, likely through the food in the cafeteria. While most of the girls felt weak and suffered from headaches, nausea, and heartache, at least three died.
Out of fear, I stayed with my mother’s relatives for a week. When I returned to the dormitory a week later, my name was on the list of expelled students. I had no idea what my crime was or why I was sentenced. Nobody answered my queries or those of the other expelled Hazara students, instead repeating the same explanation: “We received a letter stating that you will be fired. Don’t argue with me anymore and talk to the director.”
We were ridiculed when we requested the letter that stated we were expelled. The university president’s office told us they knew nothing about our dismissal, instead suggesting we talk to our supervisors. We were passed from one to the other. Around 60 of us wandered around for a week. After working hard for four years, we were dismissed. Several female students returned to their provinces, while others stayed in Kabul.
Since then, I haven’t spoken to my mother about university. The hardships I endured while preparing for the entrance exam are still fresh in my mind. For many days, I was hungry while studying in class. During the harsh winter of Afghanistan, I studied through the night in a cold and damp room. My entry into the university hadn’t been easy, and now, just when I should be seeing the fruits of my efforts, I’ve been expelled without reason.
In our province, my mother had waited in vain for my graduation while I was stuck in Kabul. I couldn’t tell her that being a Hazara is a crime. I know it was planned that way. After poisoning and evicting Hazara girls from the university and dormitory, the dormitory manager achieved her goal. “I will reduce the number of Hazara girls in the dormitory,” she told us.
Azada Joya is a student.
