Beyond endurance: A disabled woman struggles to survive under Taliban rule
By Mahsa Elham*
Zahra* is a disabled woman living in Afghanistan. This is her story:
The celebration of my wedding with Gholam Rasool reverberated from house to house in my village, located about 60 kilometres away from the centre of Firozkoh city, the capital of Ghor province. Some said it was not right for this man to marry a girl who is an adolescent and the same age as his daughter. Others said that no one except an old man would marry this girl because she is disabled. Some said that Zahra cannot do anything and she is a burden to her family and the old man who married her. Hearing these words caused me pain and made my heart bleed.
I didn’t want to wed. I married Gholam Rasool* to fulfill the promise I made to my mother to protect my sister and brother, and to ensure that they didn’t suffer because of me, which is why my dowry of 600,000 afghani was given to my family. We had a very simple wedding, and it was held among our families, relatives, and neighbours. I went to my husband’s house with a heavy heart.
My husband had moved from the village into the city of Firozkoh more than five years ago. After the wedding, my challenges not only persisted but even intensified. My 60-year-old husband had lost his eyesight, and now couldn’t do anything on his own. In addition, I have an eight-year-old son. It’s for his survival that I struggle, both with the Taliban rule and the community in which I live.
My difficulties began when I was a child. In 2001, I was 4 years old when doctors visited our village to administer polio and tetanus vaccines. While others were fine after getting their vaccines, something went wrong with mine. A month later, black sores appeared on the tips of the toes on my right foot. As the months passed, that area of black sores grew larger and larger. After seeing the blackness on my foot, my parents transported me by carriage to the central clinic in Firozkoh city. The doctors explained that a faulty vaccine injection was the cause of the blackness in my foot. They said the damage was permanent and my leg needed to be amputated at the knee. As a young child, I didn’t understand what my future held. But seeing my father’s distress and my mother’s tears, I knew that something bad must have happened.
My mother objected, saying they didn’t want to agree to an amputation, but the doctors explained that the infection could spread to other parts of my body, endangering my life. Reluctantly, my parents agreed to the amputation.
As I grew older, I began to understand how devastating a disability can be. When neighbourhood children and my peers played in the alley without any problems or limitations, I would watch them, leaning against a wall, with my cane in my hand, yearning to join their games. I didn’t know how to alleviate my longing. Sometimes, I would shout in frustration. Other times, I would cry alone, overwhelmed by my own emotions.
My family treated me with kindness, which helped alleviate my suffering. My father worked as a laborer and earned a daily income of 250 to 300 afghani, yet many times he’d spent half of those earnings on me, buying new shoes, clothes, handkerchiefs, and other items to bolster my feelings. Everything changed when my father passed away due to a heart condition when I was 13 years old. My family’s problems multiplied, now that we no longer had a breadwinner. My brother was young at that time, meaning that our mother couldn’t work to financially support the household. One cold winter night, my mother, sister, brother and I huddled under the blanket to stay warm. My mother would alternate between holding me, my brother, and my sister to prevent us from succumbing to the cold. During the day, my mother would go to our neighbours, begging for firewood so that her children could survive the freezing nights.
One day, my mother told me that I had to get married to ensure my sister and brother’s survival. I didn’t oppose my mother’s decision and replied that I would accept whatever was destined for me. At that time, I was 15 years old, under the legal age for marriage. I had no idea that I was about to spend my life with a man 30 years older than me.
I also didn’t expect to have to take on the responsibility of being the head of the family, a role I’ve fulfilled for the past two years. It feels like a mountain of hardships weighing on my shoulders. My husband, who was once my support, has lost his eyesight and is now reliant on my support. Despite needing a cane myself, I have become the cane for my husband. When he goes outside the house or even to the sink and bathroom, I assist him. I don’t have legs, and he doesn’t have sight; we are both disabled.
Poverty and hunger also torment us. I am not literate and I did not work during the republican period, when our lives were sustained through assistance from aid organizations. In addition, I used to receive a monthly government stipend of 5,000 afghani. In the past, I had enough money to buy my son what he needed for school, including shoes, a backpack, pen, and notebook.
After the Taliban took power, we became miserable. They reduced my disability stipend to 3,500 afghani a month but stopped paying even that amount. Then the aid organizations closed. To provide for my family, I wash the clothes of our neighbours and clean their houses. . These tasks aren’t easy for me, but I have no choice. I earn a monthly income of 1,500 to 2,000 afghani, which is not enough to meet all our needs. Right now, we don’t even have gas, and we haven’t been able to afford rice for two months. Most of the time, we get by with tea and the food that our neighbours give us.
To get my disabled person’s allowance, I have gone to the Martyrs and Disabled Affairs Office four times. For the first three times, the Taliban would say that their chief wasn’t available. I wouldn’t go away, but instead, stood there for two to three hours, requesting to see the chief. Once, an annoyed Taliban soldier said, “We told you he’s not here. Go and leave us alone, or we’ll beat you up and throw you out.” Finally, I arrived early at the ministry’s gate. I asked a disabled man waiting nearby to tell me when he saw the Taliban leader arrive. At around 10 a.m., the stranger pointed to a Ranger pick-up. I ran forward to the vehicle, my cane falling from my hand. “It’s evident that I am poor and destitute. I beg you in the name of God to help us and provide us with the disabled person’s allowance,” I said to the Taliban leader. He lowered his window to reply, “The centre [capital] has stopped the disabled person’s allowance. Whenever they send us, we will inform you.” As I pleaded for help, he drove away. I told the guard at the gate that I wanted to see the chief as I’d just seen him arrive. He replied, “You have mistaken someone else with him; he hasn’t come yet. Go away and don’t bother us, you cripple.” He pushed me with his gun and I fell to the ground. In despair, I headed towards home, crying and pleading for God to come to our aid.
My son, who is in the sixth grade at school, has worn-out shoes, and he struggles to find pens and notebooks. To buy himself a few school necessities, he goes to school with a bag, in which he collects plastic and scrap iron. It’s not enough. He tells me, “Mother, the other children have nice clothes and good bicycles, but I have the same old school bag. I want a bicycle and new clothes.”
When I listen to him, it breaks my heart. I tell him that as soon as they give us our disability allowance, I will buy him school necessities. Though he’s upset when he sees other children who have everything they want, I struggle to even buy him bread. It has been two years since I bought new clothes for myself, my little one, and my husband.
Last Eid, one of our neighbours brought clothes for my child, who was very happy. For the upcoming Eid al-Adha, I still don’t have the money to buy him shoes and clothes. We cannot distribute Eid sweets and sacrifices.
I feel very weak and helpless compared to other women because I am disabled. But I have no choice – it is my fate not to be as healthy as other women. Sometimes I see other women who can easily handle their household chores. Seeing them and comparing my own life makes me very unhappy. Sometimes I ask myself, what will the end be? How long will I endure this suffering? I wish fate hadn’t treated me this way and hadn’t changed the course of my life like this. Now, I strive for the sake of my son, so that he can rescue us from this misery when he grows up .
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the interviewee and writer. Mahsa Elham is the pseudonym of a Zan Times journalist in Afghanistan.
