My name is Sheekiba*, and I am 50 years old. Before the Taliban returned to power, my husband worked at a foreign NGO in Kabul and earned a good salary. Our life with our four children was relatively good.
Then the foreign NGOs closed, and my husband became unemployed — each passing day made our economic situation worse. Despite this, we struggled on, primarily for our children’s education. The Taliban’s prohibition on girls getting an education shattered our hopes. To secure a better future for our children and improve our economic situation, we sought refuge in Iran.
We settled in a village near the city of Arak, south of Tehran. My husband got work as a well digger. Unfortunately, luck wasn’t on our side. He had a fall inside a well, severely injuring his back and unable to work. I was forced to find work in agricultural lands and orchards to sustain our family. I had no choice, despite the arduous work and low wages. In addition to my husband’s medical bills, I need to support our three daughters and son.
A few days ago, I went like usual to a local square to join other women catching the bus for work. Like me, most of my female colleagues were from Afghanistan and had recently sought refuge in Iran. They were compelled to work for minimal wages in agricultural fields, toiling long hours under the scorching sun.
It was a Thursday when we boarded the minibus. The employer took us to a different area each day. This time, we were en route to a pomegranate orchard in Arak. I felt a strange unease because we passed two police checkpoints. I never brought my registration papers to work for fear of losing them.. As we approached a third checkpoint, the police ordered the driver to stop, and one of them entered the bus. Suddenly, he shouted, “Get off, all of you!” We were scared and bewildered. Some women had no official identification. They took our mobile phones, making it impossible to contact our families.
After hours in the detention centre, we were transferred to a camp outside the city. We were completely ignored, despite our pleas for help. Some women who had breastfeeding babies at home became distressed. Finally, we persuaded the relevant officer to allow us to contact our families. I called my husband and explained the situation, asking him to bring my identification, which was the form, so I could be released. But when my husband brought the document that day, they said it was a holiday. I had to wait.
We spent another night at that camp. The conditions were terrible in our building, which resembled a barn. Many fellow compatriots who intended to return to Afghanistan were there, too. I had never been in such dire conditions. That night, I was overwhelmed by fear of the unknown, including what would happen to my sick husband and children, fear of being deported, and the humiliating behaviour of the Iranian police. I I couldn’t hold back tears for my helplessness and that of my compatriots.
On Saturday, I waited for my husband, but the morning passed with no news. Finally, a few of us approached the guards and asked, “We have the proper documents, and our families brought them over on Friday. Why aren’t you releasing us?” Looking at our documents, the guard said, “The chief hasn’t come today! No one can do anything until he arrives.” With these words, we returned to the barn. The third night was one of the most harrowing nights of my life because I thought they would surely deport us the next day. I thought about being a woman travelling alone in a country where women couldn’t go anywhere without a male companion, wondering about my fate in Afghanistan and my children’s situation in Iran.
That cursed night passed, and on Sunday morning, all the women coordinated their protests by crying, shedding tears, and wailing in the hope that the stone-hearted Iranian authorities might show mercy. After a while, the chief arrived and called out the names of those who had documents and whose families had come for them. One by one, they were allowed to leave. Then, at last, he called my name. For a moment, I felt relieved, but the saddened faces of women without documents, and those whose names weren’t on the list, wiped the smile off my face. I could only pray for them.
When I returned home, I was so fearful that I couldn’t go to the nearby shop for a long time. The fear of getting into trouble again, the thoughts of the fate of women without documents who stayed there, and the memories of those stressful three to four days had disturbed my mind and soul. Additionally, since I hadn’t worked since being detained, I was worried about what to do after our meagre savings were exhausted.
After days of discussion and consultation with friends and relatives, I felt the only solution was to arrange for my 12-year-old son to be smuggled into Europe in the hope that he might build a good future and eventually support his family.
It has now been a few days since I heard that my son has reached Turkey after a perilous journey across the border. Only I know what I went through during these days of not knowing his fate until he arrived in Turkey, and only God knows what hardships my little boy will face on his way to Europe.
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the interviewees and writer. Sheekiba Rahyab is the pseudonym of a journalist from Afghanistan.
