By Saba Masih*
Parisa* owns a beauty salon in the Shahr-e Naw-e region of Kabul. She overcame a brutal childhood in Lal Sar Jangal district in Ghor province, and worked hard to become a successful business owner. Now, the Taliban decree banning female beauty salons has thrown Parisa back to the poverty of her childhood.
Much of her childhood was scarred by her father, Mohammad Nabi*. He had worked in Iran for a while, but returned during the former president Hamid Karzai’s first tenure. Soon it became apparent that Mohammad Nabi was an opium addict. Parisa’s mother, Anahita*, frequently confronted her husband. Once, he stole 100 afghani that Anahita had earned by cleaning livestock pens for a neighbour. He even sold the family’s wheat to buy drugs. He wasn’t the only addict in their village of around 20 homes – at least 10 or 12 residents were grappling with addiction. Still, as his wife, Anahita bore the brunt of the community’s pointed fingers. Neighbours often admonished her: “Anahita, many women in the village share your plight with husbands lost to addiction. Persevere, and raise your children. They will stand by you when they’re older.” She did all she could to help her husband, even enrolling him three times in a rehabilitation centre in Kabul. Each time he returned, he’d relapse within weeks, with the stark changes in his demeanor, especially his disheveled appearance, informing the villagers of his regression into addiction.
Fed up, Anahita moved into her own father’s home with her two children, Parisa and her brother, Naseem*. It didn’t go well and relatives grew tired of her and her unruly children. Nasee started stealing from villagers, even stealing truckers, one of whom beat him.
A few months after the move, Anahita disappeared. When people asked Naseem and Parisa about their mother, they claimed she had set out for their grandfather’s house but never arrived. No one knew her whereabouts. Some speculated she ran away with an old man, while the last vague rumour was that she went to Iran.
Naseem and Parisa were largely left on their own, sometimes hunting for food in village homes. One day, Naseem leaves for Iran after hearing that their mother was there. Their father, Mohammad Nabi, is too lost to drugs and alcohol to care. Occasionally, while in a drunken state, he would wonder, “Why did the bitch take my kids?”
Parisa soon left their village to search for her mother. She ends up in Kabul where she runs into her Aunt Zahra*, who took her into her home, where Parisa looks after her baby. Finally, her life begins to improve. Soon, Parisa starts working in her aunt’s beauty salon. When Zahra moves abroad to be with her husband in New Zealand, she gives her salon to Parisa, who learns the trade of beautification with the help of the Pamlarana (Care Afghanistan). While Parisa deals with tattooing and eyebrow enhancement, employees handle simpler tasks such as hair colouring, manicures, and make-up.
Life was good.
Then, Kabul fell to the Taliban. “My friend, Simin, went to Iran. I bought the equipment from her salon. It cost me a lot. I spent around 300,000 Afghani on Simin’s salon equipment,” Parisa recounts. She had five employees, and like her, they are also orphans, in a way.
Now, Parisa doesn’t know how to make a living, given the Taliban decree against beauty salons. “I had nothing. I got here with blood and sweat. In reality, my job is my life. They are taking away my life,” she says. After a brief silence, she adds, “We have to go somewhere we can start over; maybe Pakistan is better. From what I’ve asked around, I’ve heard there are fewer jobs like tattooing there. But I’m not sure.”
It seems she is reliving her hard childhood. She closes her eyes, and a tear slips down from the corner of her eye, landing on her hand. On her right ring finger is a silver ring, the one that her father gave to her mother after he returned from Iran all those years ago. Her mother placed the ring on the windowsill of their home when she left; Parisa has kept it ever since.
It’s her only memento of her family, though Parisa thinks in moments of solitude “I miss them – it’s been 17 years since I’ve heard from Naseem and my mother. I’ve only heard that my father is still an addict and shepherds in a remote village,” she says. “My heart aches for him. I wanted to go to the village this fall and bring my father back with me. But now, with the closing of beauty salons, I’m left jobless and alone.”
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the interviewees and writer. Saba Masih is the pseudonym for a second-year journalism student.
