‘Get lost before I report you, you undocumented Afghans’: When an Iranian driver runs over the foot of an Afghan girl
The morning started normally. I called out to Nora*, “Dear, stay home. I’ll go to the bakery to get some barbari bread and come back quickly.” She stared at my face, saying, “Mom, can’t you take me with you?” I explained but my six-year-old wasn’t satisfied. Her almond-shaped eyes were fixed on my mouth, waiting for me to say, “Yes, come along.” In the end, I took her small hand, and we went outside.
The scorching sun that day in Robat Karim, Iran, reminded me of the blazing sun in my hometown, Mazar-e-Sharif. Suddenly, I felt homesick. As we walked down the alley, I checked the time. It was 11:30 a.m., enough time to bring the bread home by noon. My daughter was talking about how she wanted to celebrate her upcoming birthday in a few months. The alley was crowded when we entered it. Some people were buying bread, while others were purchasing groceries from nearby shops. I noticed a black Kia Pride in front of us. The car passed others in the alley but, as it approached us, it sped up. Then, it hit us. I fell with Nora hitting the ground after me. My limbs suddenly felt weak but I was more worried about Nora. The moment I looked at my daughter, the car ran over her foot. Nora let out a loud scream. I got off the ground and picked up Nora. All the men and women gathered around us. We were screaming and shouting. The driver got out of the black Pride. She was well-dressed and wearing dark sunglasses. “It was a mistake,” she said calmly. “I got distracted for a moment, and the car’s brakes didn’t work, so I hit you.”
The Iranians who were gathered around us showed no reaction. They were indifferent to our suffering. I just held Nora tightly in my arms, my heart breaking from our helplessness. Fear had taken over me completely. The Iranian woman took us to a private doctor at the end of the alley and bought Nora a painkiller, saying, “She’s fine.” She left us there though Nora was writhing in pain.
When I left Afghanistan three years ago, I thought I had saved the lives of myself and my four children, but here, because we are Afghans, they injure us and pass by with complete indifference. The doctor, who was also Iranian, didn’t pay much attention either, saying, “Go, it’s nothing serious, she’ll be fine.”
But I was sure her foot was broken. Yet I couldn’t say anything to them. I went home, where my daughter continued to moan and cry in pain. That evening, after my son Reza* and my daughters had returned home, my son and I decided to take Nora to a private hospital. As we didn’t have insurance or national ID cards, we had to pay out of pocket. For the examination alone, the cost was 500,000 tomans , and just for the examination, we paid 500,000 tomans (CAD$10). They took an X-ray of Nora’s foot, which confirmed that her ankle was broken. The doctor put a cast on her foot and prescribed painkillers. In total, the bill was six million tomans CAD$140).
The high cost of my daughter’s treatment exhausted my savings. So, after asking around, we found the house of the driver who had hit us with her car. My 21-year-old daughter Leila* and I went to her house at the end of the alley. We called at the intercom at the entrance of the building and a man came down. When he heard that I was looking for the woman who ran over my daughter’s foot, he said, “Ma’am, why are you looking for trouble? Why did you come to my house?” I responded, “Sir, who will pay for my daughter’s broken foot? Her ankle is broken, and your wife only bought her a paracetamol tablet.”
He repeated his questions and then, without apologizing, said, “Go, ma’am. Don’t look for trouble. You’ve turned our country into a garbage can, and now you want rights, too?”
Leila raised her voice, and told him, “You not only hit my sister with your car, but now you’re insulting us, too.” As she shouted, the woman came down and also began cursing us. When my daughter tried to respond, the man slapped her hard across the face. When I tried to intervene, he struck my daughter’s left ear hard and said, “Get lost before I report you, you undocumented Afghans.”
None of the neighbours defended us. Instead, their stares made us feel even more humiliated. With a broken heart and pride, I picked up my daughter and we headed home.
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the writer.
