A soldier’s widow becomes a cleaner for the Taliban
My name is Shima. I am in my late 30s and have two daughters and a son. My eldest child is nine years old, and my youngest is three and a half. My husband was a soldier in the National Army who was killed in a battle with the Taliban. When my husband was alive, many of the worries and struggles that plague me today did not exist. If he were still alive, he wouldn’t have let me endure so much hardship.
The last time he came home from duty was when our youngest child was two months old. He was overjoyed to have a son. A week after he returned to duty, we received the news of his death.
People in our country understand the plight of a woman who loses her husband in war. Over the years, thousands of women have endured this bone-crushing grief. When I heard the news of my husband’s death, I lost consciousness. It felt as if I were suspended between the heavens and the earth, detached from everything around me.
A month after his death, my husband’s brothers declared that they would not take responsibility for my family. They told me, “Live your life however you want. If you wish to remarry, that’s up to you. We have enough troubles of our own.”
I had to start a new life with my three children. I had to be both a mother and a father to my children. First, I pursued the process of registering my husband’s martyrdom with government offices. I needed to obtain a widow’s ID card. After several days of running around, I finally received the card. Then, I went to the Ministry of Martyrs and Disabled Affairs to register his case. Slowly, the process was completed, and I received a few months’ worth of his salary.
At that time, I had asked one of our neighbours to help me find a job as her husband worked in government offices. One day, my neighbour called and said, “My husband has found a job for you; if you can, come over.” They had found me a job in security screening. I was overjoyed.
At the same time, I was forced to move into my sister’s house. Her husband said, “We can’t afford to pay the full rent for this house. You take one room, and we’ll split the rent.” I agreed because it is not easy to rent a house on my own as a woman without a male guardian.
I began work. My two daughters attended school, and my son went to a daycare near my workplace. Life was going well. With my salary, I paid rent, bought groceries, and provided clothes for my children.
Everything changed when the Taliban regained power. I knew hard times were ahead. My mind was overwhelmed with worries and questions: What would I do as a widow, without a male guardian? Where would I go?
A few weeks after the Taliban returned, I was denied entry at work. “You are no longer allowed to come here,” I was left stranded with no support and had no idea how I would feed my children.
A month later, everything in the house was gone. My children were trembling with hunger. I couldn’t bear to see them like that. So, I put on a chadari (burqa) and began begging, sitting outside a bakery, hoping someone would offer me a few pieces of bread. For weeks, that was my routine.
Then the Taliban began rounding up beggars. One day, as I sat near the bakery, a Taliban vehicle arrived. They spoke in Pashto: “Load her up. She’s a beggar.” I was trembling with fear, my body weak and my eyes filled with tears. I threw myself at their feet, pleading, “I have three orphans. If you take me, my children will be left alone. Please don’t take me — I won’t come here again.” I clung to their feet, begging until one of them finally said, “Let her go. She won’t come again.”
I had begged for five weeks, going out in the afternoons and sitting at the bakery until evening. Some people gave me dry bread; others gave small amounts of cash.
After that incident, I stayed home, too afraid to go outside. One day, I received a call. It was from an old neighbour, who had emigrated from Afghanistan with her family. They sent me 5,000 afghani every month for a year. Then I lost my phone, which had their contact information. I never heard from them again.
One of my relatives worked as a house cleaner, so I went to her, pleading for help to find me a job. A few weeks later, she told me she had found work for me. But then she added, “You know the Taliban are in power now. The house where I’ve found work belongs to a Taliban. The man is an official in the Emirate.”
I told her I was scared and couldn’t work in a Taliban household. I worried that if they ever found out I was the widow of a soldier who fought against them, my situation would become far worse. But she reassured me: “You have nothing to fear. The men in that family are away during the day, and when they are home, they stay in the guest room.”
I needed the money, so I went with her to the Taliban’s house. Outside the house, two or three Taliban men stood guard with guns. When we entered, a young woman opened the door and greeted us. She showed me around the house and explained my tasks, saying I needed to come two or three days a week to do laundry, wash dishes, and clean the house.
The first time I saw a very young woman who had large eyes and henna-stained hands and feet, I thought she was the daughter of the Taliban owner. But as we talked, I realized she was his third wife.
The fear that someone in that family might find out I am the widow of a National Army soldier has always been with me. Over time, I’ve become more familiar with the women in the family. The second wife is a kind woman who likes to talk. Although her Dari isn’t fluent and I don’t speak Pashto, we still manage to have conversations.
One day, she told me about the family: “There were two of us co-wives, and a year and a half ago, we became three. In our tradition, there is no divorce. No matter how difficult things get, we must endure it. I have three children. The eldest co-wife has five, and the youngest has one. No matter how big our family gets, we don’t get separate homes. We all live together.”
It has now been a year and a half since I started working in this house. In addition to my wages, they occasionally provide me with groceries. So far, I have never encountered the owner himself, but I’ve become familiar with many of the dynamics within the household.
Sometimes, I notice that the women fight and argue among themselves. I stay out of their conflicts and focus on my work — washing clothes, cleaning dishes, and tidying up their house. I know the work is risky, but I need to support my children.
Names have been changed to protect the identity of the interviewees and writer. Tamanna Zamani is the pseudonym of a female journalist in Afghanistan.