Hamida* recounted her story to Zan Times journalist.
The nights in Kandahar have become so cold that the hairs on my body are stiff from its intensity. My body won’t warm up. Since winter began, it feels like the cold has penetrated my bones and the left side of my body has become numb due to the frigid temperatures while my voice trembles when I talk to my children.
As the air gets colder day by day, my fear and anxiety increase. We live in a tent, which is not only unimaginable, especially in winter, but also the only option available for putting a roof over our heads. I worry about how I will protect my four children from the cold, fear, and gnawing hunger. I have four children: a 13-year-old son in the seventh grade; his 10-year-old brother, who is in the fourth grade; my seven-year-old daughter and her five-year-old sister.
My name is Hamida* and I’m a widow. My husband was a taxi driver before he contracted hepatitis. As his condition worsened, he became bedridden. With no money to treat his illness, he died seven years ago. He was 39 years old. After my husband’s death, I took responsibility for our children and got a job working as a janitor at a girls’ elementary school in Kandahar. With only an education that stopped in the sixth grade, it was the best job I could find. The full-time job paid 3,000 afghani a month, which allowed me to rent a house and pay school expenses for my children.
Then the Taliban returned to power, and my life was again destroyed. I lost my job when the school closed. I couldn’t find a new job as all janitorial firms were only hiring men. No one offered me help, even food to allow me to feed my family. As our financial situation again became desperate, I began selling household items: blankets, curtains, carpets, and even utensils one by one. I used the money to buy bread for my children, though often all I could afford was stale bread from the bakery.
Four months ago, I couldn’t afford to pay the rent for our house. Our landlord evicted us, saying, “A new tenant has been found for the house, and you and your children must leave.” Homeless with no money, I was forced to sell my only asset of any value – a gas cylinder. I used that money to buy a small tent for my family.
Living in a flimsy tent means I don’t feel safe for myself and my daughters during the long winter nights in Kandahar. We huddle under our only blanket and try to sleep as best we can. We don’t have a latrine but instead tied a piece of cloth to the corner of a wall that offers us a little privacy as we relieve ourselves behind it. It’s still very difficult for women and girls to visit such a toilet in those circumstances. During the day, there are usually men near the tent, so my daughters and I prefer to wait until nightfall before relieving ourselves. As a result, we suffer from bladder pain, which is exhausting, but we have no choice but to endure it. Although the wind howls in the cold weather, we also reluctantly bathe behind that piece of cloth at night. Just a few days ago, my daughter couldn’t sleep all night due to being in pain and cold after her nighttime bathing. She developed a fever but we couldn’t afford to go to the doctor or buy medicine, so she had to endure the illness for several days. All I could do was pray for her. Thankfully, she’s better.
My health is not good. I have hepatitis but it’s not as acute as my late husband’s though symptoms have become more serious over time, including pains in my body, especially my legs.
I can’t remember cooking for my children in the past month. My biggest wish is to have a plate of warm food for them to eat. I can’t hold back my tears seeing them in their torn and dusty clothes. For a mother, such a situation is harrowing. Adding to the pain is the realization that this mother can’t work because of her gender. My children are suffering from severe malnutrition and I fear they will die in front of me, in our tiny tent.
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the interviewee and writer. Sana Atef is the pseudonym of a Zan Times journalist in Afghanistan.
