One of my friends has been attending English language classes in Kabul for the past month. I was curious when she talked about her educational institution or saw her researching and writing assignments. I asked where this English language centre was located and how the Taliban allows girls to attend and study at such a centre. In a country in which no university, school, or educational institution –either public or private – is allowed to educate women, I couldn’t understand how an English language centre could have female students. “The Taliban allows English language centres and they only demand that we wear hijab,” my friend explained, saying she wore formal attire, including clean shoes, black chador, black mask, and black bag. She encouraged me to enroll in the same English class, saying, “Even if you did not learn anything new, you will review things you already know. More importantly, as you groom yourself every day and see a few other people, your spirit will be refreshed.”
Recently I managed to join the English language class. We got out of the car in front of a side alley and didn’t walk far before I saw the centre’s billboard on its big open gate. The first thing I saw upon entering was a small yellow banner. “Hijab is mandatory and anyone who does not observe hijab will not be allowed to enter,” it said. We went down into the basement of the big building. My friend said that all girls’ classes are held there. With no heating, it was cold in the winter. In that one and a half hour, my hands went numb, but my heart was warmed by a beacon of hope lit in the women’s basement.
This underground English class was composed of eight young women and girls, as well as an older woman and her little son. The older woman brings her son to act as her male chaperone so she won’t face problems if the Taliban entered the class. The woman and her son were sitting in the first row of the class, and we were in the last row. Her hair was sticking out from under her veil and two or three silver strands could be seen on her forehead. The other girls were all wearing masks, allowing for no one to be identified. Only me, my friend and that woman showed our faces; I held the corner of my chador in my hand in case I suddenly needed to hid myself.
The English language teacher was a boy. He carefully presented his lesson, then his colleague took over. He smiled more, making the classroom atmosphere more friendly. He taught English grammar and his subject that day was clauses. He asked us to make sentences that show an unfulfilled wish, a dream, or a regret. The sentences of all the girls focused on them wishing they were elsewhere: they wished they could get a passport, they wished they would have been there when the American charter planes were leaving the airport, they wished they could have graduated before the universities were closed to women, they dreamed of receiving a scholarship from a European countries or America, they wished they pass the TOEFL exam with a high score, they wished they were not forced to hide their faces or attend class in basements.
One of the girls who was already fluent in English attended the class to hang out and talk with other people. “I received a very good scholarship from an American university, but my age on my birth certificate was younger than the required age for the scholarship, and because of this I could not go,” she explained. “I must endure here for another year.”
Before the fall of the republic, my friend had worked in the justice system, dealing with cases of family law. She lost her job when the Taliban took control. She is now studying English to win a scholarship and go abroad so that her two children can live in a country where the government does not suffocate the people and does not snatch food from their mouths.
One of the girls read her essay in front of the class. It was about Ecuador, a South American country. Her English pronunciation was so good that it drew my attention. Her eyes and eyebrows were black, and she covered half of her face with a black mask. I found out that she is attending the class with her sister, and that both of them want to make prosperous lives in Canada or the United States. I had no particular intention of leaving Afghanistan but seeing those courageous and ambitious girls encouraged me to continue with the class.
When the class ended, we came out of the building into a street full of young men and boys and their bicycles and motorcycles. I asked my friend why the Taliban did not see us leaving class. She replied: “They do see. They only demand that we adhere to hijab. If we are not careful, we will be miserable one day. Just a few days ago, six Talib rushed towards me because the leg of my pants showed a little skin on my ankle. They had weapons in their hands and they scared me terribly that I cried and could not say anything.” My friend says that when the Taliban rushed towards her and scared her under the pretext that she wasn’t wearing proper clothing, not a single man supported her. They just watched and left.
The next day, the guard said that he didn’t notice, otherwise he would have defended her. Yet she knew he’d witnessed the incident. He was unable to stand against the notorious Taliban agents who control the streets of the city and dictate how to live and how to walk to women and children. Of course, it is difficult to intervene against religious police who are roaming the streets.
I worry that something similar may happen when I’m in class. I worry that the Taliban would storm the building and tie everyone up and take them to the police station.
What would I do in such a calamity? I’m not sure. Still, the friendly atmosphere of the school means I will push down my fear and terror and keep attending the class.
*Alma Begum is the pseudonym for a female writer in Afghanistan.
