A woman without a room of her own
That morning, an educational program was playing on the radio when the woman got into the car. The host and his guest, both men, were discussing child rearing. The host asked, “In your opinion, what’s the best way to correct a mischievous child?” The guest replied, “Hitting! A few proper slaps will do what a hundred pieces of advice won’t.” A woman passenger looked surprised and angry as she turned to the woman sitting next to her: “He says to hit!”
The driver changed to another radio station. On that channel, a Taliban member was explaining the benefits of night prayers. The woman looked out the window, hoping to see something beautiful to lift her mood. Her eyes landed on tall, expensive buildings, and then she remembered that she couldn’t even afford to rent a single room in those houses.
She had traveled from the Hangar intersection to Darul-Aman in Kabul. She was tired. The weather was hot. Out of breath, she stood outside the door of the building where she worked until they opened it for her. She went inside. They gave her a glass of cold water. She drank it and wanted to sit down, but there was no place. Someone gave up their seat and said, “Sit here until a spot is arranged for you.” The woman sat, and her colleagues started chatting with her. A girl asked, “How are the kids?” The woman answered that she had just one child. She turned to another colleague and asked, “Why do our people say ‘The kids’? Does every married woman have to have three or four children?” The girl replied, “Yes, unfortunately, a wrong mentality has formed among our people, and it won’t go away anytime soon.” That girl may have had many more questions to ask, but seeing the woman’s cold reaction, she didn’t continue.
It wasn’t even halfway through the day when the woman asked about the working conditions. They told her that her hours were from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. The woman said, “When you hired me, you said it was a part-time job.” They told her, “Yes, that’s right. You’re officially part-time, but because of the workload, we have to keep you full-time in the office.” The woman didn’t get angry. She wasn’t even disappointed, because she had previously experienced worse working conditions but then she had been a single, carefree girl. She didn’t have the extra weight she now carries.
The woman asked, “So, have you reconsidered the salary as well?” They replied, “No! Unfortunately, our office can’t afford to pay more. The maximum salary we can offer is the amount we initially told you. Of course, you have the right to accept or reject these conditions. You can quit if you want. We’ll give you that right.” The woman responded, “How nice! You give me the right to quit, and you’re well aware of the situation. You are taking advantage of my helplessness. You know there’s no other work available. Finding a job takes months, if not years. You say one thing during the hiring process, but when it comes to the actual work, it’s something else. Your contract says one thing, but your actions say another.” They told her, “We try to be considerate with you. Even now, we’re being very lenient with you.” The woman replied, “You told me that my degree, my education, and my experience have contributed to the success of your work, and now that you’ve succeeded, you treat me like this?” No one gave her an answer. The woman felt upset. She was stuck at a crossroads. She was one step away from poverty. Her distance from poverty was always the last paycheque she had received from her last job.
On her way home, the city felt crowded. The traffic was heavy. Karteh Char had colourful cafés but the woman had neither a friend to go to a café with, nor the money to spend. The roundtrip cost of her commute was equivalent to the price of a sandwich in one of those cafés. She remembered friends, colleagues, and acquaintances from the past, all of whom had left the city. No one remained in Kabul except for her. She was alone, abandoned in the solitude of Pul-e-Sorkh and Karteh Char, penniless and defenseless. So defenseless that she hadn’t even been able to angrily slam the door and leave that deceptive office. She endured the low pay and long hours just in the hope that by the end of the month, she could afford to rent a house, send her son to kindergarten, and meet the basic needs of her life. But she knew her salary wouldn’t be enough.
The woman looked at the cars. The roads were full of them. She thought to herself, “What if one day I could own a car? Where do all these people get the money to buy cars?”
With a tired body and a troubled mind, she arrived home, and her son, upon seeing her, vented his frustrations: he screamed, banged his head against his mother’s face, and threw a tantrum. At home, they asked about her new job. She explained the working conditions to her husband. Her husband said, “Don’t go! Right now, send a message and tell them to keep their job to themselves!” The woman remained silent. Her husband twice repeated that she should not go, cursing the office and its boss. The woman thought long and hard. She had no other choice. She needed that meager salary and had to continue working.
The next day, she had just arrived at the office and opened her laptop when they told her, “The boss wants to see you.” The woman went to the boss. The boss asked, “How’s the work going?” The woman answered. The boss asked, “Where did you work before?” The woman listed the places she had worked before the fall of the republic. The boss was surprised that she had worked in such good places and handled difficult tasks. The woman added, “I also do journalism.” This last sentence didn’t help. The boss became agitated and said, “What? You participate in protests? I don’t want anyone from my office to be seen at those women’s protests.” The woman quickly replied, “I don’t protest. In my opinion, working in these conditions is a better struggle than public demonstrations and …” She didn’t finish her sentence and thought to herself, “Why am I wasting these words here?”
The boss firmly said, “None of our office’s secrets should be shared anywhere.” The woman stayed silent. She returned to her laptop and read “A Room of One’s Own: The Story of Goli Taraqi.” She didn’t cry, but a sadness settled in her heart. She had studied and worked so much, but still didn’t have a room of her own, and even the chair she sat on wasn’t hers.
Alma Begum is pen name of a woman freelance writer in Afghanistan.
