Sabrina told her story to Laila Mandgar:
My name is Sabrina*, and I live in the earthquake-stricken district of Zindajan in Herat. We started that day with joy and excitement. We were dressed up to attend my cousin’s wedding in the neighbouring district. We had no internet access but around noon word spread on social media of the earthquake. I couldn’t contact my father, mother, brother, and his family due to the communication network being cut off. I wanted to return to the city of Herat, but the Taliban didn’t allow anyone through as they had closed the road.
Finally, I got through to my father and found some calm when I heard his voice. He assured me that all family members were well but my heart thought otherwise and I was restless and had nightmares during the night. As soon as the road opened in the morning, I headed toward our village. On the way, I called my father, and he told me to go to the hospital where my mother and my brother’s wife were, having been superficially injured. When my father saw me, he suddenly hugged me, unable to hold back his tears. Then, my younger brother hugged me while crying, “Mother, mother.” In that painful moment, I realized that my mother had lost her life after being buried under the rubble.
I was overwhelmed with shock and lost consciousness. During the three days that I was in hospital, they buried my mother. I never got to see her face for one last time to say my final goodbye. I didn’t know how to survive without her and her motherly love. In addition, my nephew also died in the quake while my brother’s wife was in critical condition.
I returned to a village destroyed by the earthquake. There was a severe storm; maybe the sky was also angry because of the mass deaths of people, or perhaps it sympathized with me.
I stood on the ruins of our house. Nothing was left. Maybe I was happy that our house no longer existed without my mother living there. I was wearing thin clothes and shivered from the cold. At that moment, I felt something coming out of my body. I hadn’t realized that I had started my period. Pain enveloped my lower back, abdomen, and legs. I had no hygiene products. My clothes were bloodstained. The only thing that came to my mind was to stain my clothes with mud so that no one would notice my bleeding — a whole day passed without having any means to control my bleeding.
When my sister arrived from Pashtun Zarghun district the next day, she provided me with sanitary napkins and clean clothes. As there was nowhere to change, my sister wrapped a veil around me so that I could have privacy to get out of those mud-soaked clothes.
We spent day and night on the harsh ground, unable to sleep. My back was numb from pain, and I felt that my legs were paralyzed. The seven days of my period felt like seven years. I cried uncontrollably during the days, and the sound of my moans disturbed everyone at night. My pain and the tragedy of losing my mother and nephew made me miserable. Our lives were shattered in the blink of an eye.
There are no bathrooms or toilets left in the village. Women had to wait until men left an area before using the open-air toilet. Our stomachs were in pain, but we could do nothing. We were living in a hellish situation.
For those of us who have lost everything, life will never be what it used to be. Nothing will replace all we have lost, and we will never be the same people again. No one will ever fill the void left by the death of my mother.
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the interviewee and writer. Laila Mandgar is the pseudonym of a journalist in Afghanistan.
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