By Laila*
Being a mother is a sweet experience, but not always. You’re often forced to sacrifice and endure the hardship, pain, struggle, and sorrow that come with this difficult and heavy responsibility.
Before having children, I wanted to raise my children well and had plans for their future. But fate intervened. My two daughters, Sanawbar and Hafiza, are disabled. Now, at 60 years old, I face days filled with challenge and difficulty.
Sanawbar is my eldest. Now 20, she was healthy until the age of three and used to crawl, eat, and communicate her needs. Then, she lost her ability to perform these basic actions. My second child, Hafiza, 15, faced a similar fate. Both my daughters are physically and mentally disabled. I also have a 12-year-old son, who, thank God, is healthy.
Desperate for solutions, we brought Sanawbar and Hafiza to doctors as well as mosque imams, and even embarked on religious pilgrimages, but to no avail. The doctors suggested that their conditions might improve over time but there has been no change in their behaviour or abilities and they continue to exhibit the developmental traits of a 3-year-old child.
I’m finding it increasingly challenging to care for Sanawbar and Hafiza, especially as they’ve matured and grown while I’ve aged. Whether it’s taking them outside or helping them to the restroom, each action seems to require Herculean effort. Occasionally, kind-hearted women from our neighbourhood lend their helping hands.
During a particularly frigid night in 2022, I tripped and fell while carrying Sanawbar on my back to the restroom. We both sustained injuries to our heads and faces. Sanawbar was in tears as a gash on her forehead bled profusely. As I dabbed at her wound, her pain seemed to seep into me. My own physical wounds seemed trivial compared to the heartache of witnessing Sanawbar’s suffering.
As well as the unceasing responsibility of caring for my daughters, Sanawbar and Hafiza, poverty and destitution add to our daily struggles. My husband spends his days at the local roundabout – an ad-hoc labour market where workers queue, hoping to be hired. However, due to his age, he often returns home with few or no earnings, meaning we sleep with empty stomachs.
To earn some money, I wash the neighbours’ clothes and also clean animal wool for wealthier people, which brings in 200 to 300 afghani per task.
That work hurts my fingertips but it also allows me to buy food as well as medicine for Sanawbar and Hafiza. Yet my husband and I don’t make enough to meet the needs of our family. Sometimes we get by with the food sent by neighbours.
Two years ago, in hope of gaining better access to humanitarian aid and government support, we moved from Allahyar district to Firozkoh, the heart of Ghor province. The minimal help we have received came from Afghanaid and the Red Cross, which have provided us with a 10-litre container of oil, a 50-kilogram bag of flour, as well as rice, beans, soap and tea.
Our housing situation is precarious. We don’t have the financial capacity to pay rent. Our limited mobility, due to the physical limitations of Sanawbar and Hafiza, further restricts our options. As a result, we are essentially homeless – we live in a small, doorless shop, which was generously given by its owner who insisted that it was a better option than living in ruins or a tent.
Living in this shop, especially during winter, is grueling. Its ramshackle walls offer scant protection against the bitter cold, and the lack of a door makes the situation even worse. We just about manage to ward off the chill by burning cardboard and plastic bottles that my son scavenges from the market.
Often, I find myself reaching out to neighbours for help in order to prevent my children from freezing. While some kindly provide firewood, others dismiss me like an unwelcome beggar at their doorstep.
I’ve knocked on countless doors, but to no avail. Just last winter, I spent a whole day at the gate of the Taliban’s governor, hoping for assistance. But, as evening fell, I was told dismissively, “Old lady, leave. There’s no help for you here. Try the charity NGOs.” My hopes dashed, I turned to the NGOs but found no help there either. Now, my days are spent labouring over others’ laundry and processing animal wool.
Sanawbar and Hafiza eagerly anticipate the moment when my husband returns home each day. They reach into his pockets, hoping for a small treasure. The sight of his empty pockets often leaves them in tears. On the rare occasions when he has a piece of bread, an apple, or a cookie gifted by sympathetic shopkeepers, their faces light up with joy.
Every mother dreams of the happiness of her children, but all I see is their suffering. I will continue to care for them and stand by them for as long as I am able.
Laila* is the pseudonym for a reporter who lives in Afghanistan.
