This narrative is told to Zan Times via WhatsApp:
I am Razia*, a graduate of Kabul University, and I have worked with national, local, and international organizations. Since the Taliban came to power, I have been in survival mode, trying to leave the country, but I didn’t have the connections or money to get myself out of the gender apartheid country created by the Taliban.
A while ago, a friend told me of an organization that helps activists, educated, and freedom-seeking women relocate outside the country – perhaps even to America. My friend whispered this information as a secret, emphasizing that I shouldn’t mention the details to anyone. My friend asked me to organize documents, certificates, and photos regarding my work and education to showcase my activities. The organization would use them as they talked about me with influential individuals.
After enduring so much suffering and frustration, I felt a glimmer of hope. Perhaps, after being in this large prison called the Islamic Emirate, I’d found a way out. I thought about obtaining a passport for my daughter, in case we had to leave quickly.
I spent two to three days busy collecting and preparing documents. I emailed everything to my friend, including an image of my passport and ID card. My friend mentioned that the immigration organization required a video recording, and that there could be no contradictions between what I said in that recording and any subsequent interviews. I organized my thoughts, relieved that I didn’t have to lie; I just needed to tell the immigration official the truth.
Before forwarding my email, my friend asked me to talk to an officer from that immigration organization. I messaged the officer, introducing myself and mentioned who had recommended me. The person called back within a few minutes, and introduced himself as being from Afghanistan, which slightly eased my stress. It was reassuring to speak in our shared language, especially from an important immigration organization in the U.S.A.. I had prepared to talk in English, which I didn’t end up using.
He asked me to talk about my education, work experiences, and other valuable activities. Then came the second question: “What does freedom mean to you?” I paused, seeking a proper and suitable definition of freedom, but he began defining it. I was so stressed during the interview, which took place at 10 a.m, that I didn’t worry about the conversation.
He called again that night, but I couldn’t answer. The next day, the organization called again when I was at a gathering with friends. I couldn’t pick up because I didn’t want to delve into a thousand questions and complaints about why I hadn’t informed them of this excellent opportunity.
The next night, I talked about the calls with my husband. We were both happy, but I was concerned as to why the immigration organization was calling so frequently. When I woke up on the third day, I saw 11 missed calls from the organization’s number. I rushed to a quieter room and called back. For 18 minutes, he talked casually and passionately about freedom. He didn’t allow me to talk. It was more of a monologue, where the person was eager to share his opinions. He said they knew everything about me. He asked about my marriage, how satisfied I was with it, and how much I loved my husband. He wanted my answers in the form of percentages, like 50 percent and so on. He spoke about his wife, saying there’s no one like her in the world. I was utterly baffled. The interview that was supposed to be about immigration had turned into an intimate and personal conversation.
His final request left me utterly perplexed: “You record a video of yourself wearing a blouse and trousers while discussing freedom.” He said that they needed it quickly. I was given three hours to prepare for the video. I called my friend who told me that the organization wanted me to wear a neat blouse and trousers in the recording.
By now, I was frustrated and anxious. I called my husband, who suggested that I tell the officer I wanted a joint interview. I left that request in a message, mentioning that we have legitimate concerns and needed to have a more precise conversation about the video.
The official returned my call. He was agitated, saying, “I don’t like people like you; a few minutes ago, you agreed to make a video, and now you say that I have to talk to your husband.” I responded, “In married life, significant decisions cannot be made without the spouse’s consent; migration is a joint decision, and we need to coordinate.”
He replied, “Sister, in front of a camera, record yourself; what’s the big deal? Don’t be like this. Who are you to be worried? Were you a minister or a lawyer?” The conversation became more insulting, with him finally stating, “You’re not important.”
I couldn’t continue this distressing conversation anymore. I hung up, blocked that number, and asked my friend to delete my email. I said, “Maybe we are lonely and out of a job, but we are not fools.”
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the interviewees and writer. Alma Begum is the pseudonym of a freelance journalist in Afghanistan.
