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The life of a child given away as compensation

My heart pounds every day when I leave my home and make my way to Pul-e-Surkh near Kabul University. I worry that the Taliban might stop beside me and drag me into their vehicle once again. I am exhausted from being imprisoned by the Taliban and having to explain why I work as a street vendor. The first time they arrested me, I managed to free myself by crying and pleading. Now, I hide behind walls and in the alleys of Pul-e-Surkh, waiting for their vehicles to pass. I cover my face with a black veil before stepping onto the street to sell pens.

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I know my appearance makes people suspicious. Some think I am a beggar. Selling pens is the only job I can do right now. I wish I had a better job but I have to bring food home and buy medicine for my mother-in-law’s wounds.

Every day at six in the morning, I walk from Company (a neighborhood in Kabul) to Pul-e-Surkh. I can’t afford bus fare and sell pens along the way. At six in the evening, I walk back home. When I say “home,” you might imagine a house with a roof, windows, and doors. We live in a tent. In the winter, we don’t have enough fuel to keep warm. My husband and I use our meager income to cover basic needs. We barely manage to buy oil, rice, and flour to keep from starving. My mother-in-law takes my earnings and sometimes gives me a little money to buy a scarf or clothes. She is sick, but we can’t afford a doctor, and no one will treat her for free. 

I was 12 when I was given in marriage. Now, I am 14. At first, I had no understanding of what marriage meant. I never imagined I would be separated from my family while so young but my family had no choice. My uncle had an affair with my husband’s sister, and the two ran away together. In exchange for their daughter who had eloped with my uncle, my husband’s family demanded me. 

My family gave me away as compensation. My uncle and my sister-in-law live in an unknown place, but I am here, paying the price for their actions. At home, I have no authority — I do whatever others tell me to do.

My husband is also a victim of his sister’s decision. We were both children, and now we are unwillingly married to each other. My husband was also a pen seller. Sometimes, we went together to the market; other times, he worked in Sar-e-Kotal. Occasionally, instead of selling pens, he sold water.

I buy pens for five afghani each and sell them for 10. My daily earnings are unpredictable. Sometimes, I sell a full pack of 12 pens; other times, I sell much less. On days when I sell a few extra pens, I return home happier. 

After the Taliban arrested me for working on the streets, I was terrified and didn’t want to work anymore. I stayed home for a few days, but my mother-in-law told me I had to work, or we would go hungry. I had to return to the streets. Now, I am extremely careful though the fear of being arrested and imprisoned by the Taliban is always with me. I don’t know whether I should worry about putting food on the table or about how to escape from the Taliban’s prison.

When Taliban forces arrested me near Kabul University, they took me to an unknown location. My husband and several other child labourers were also detained. We remained in Taliban custody for two days. They gave us very little food, and we were constantly hungry. Some of the children were beaten.

“Do not work. Stay at home. We will help you,” the Taliban told us. But they did not help us at all. Instead, they made us pledge that we would never work again and threatened that they would torture and imprison us if we were caught on the streets a second time. 

During their interrogation, I begged and cried, explaining my desperation about how I had a sick person at home with no one to feed or care for them. After two days, they released me but kept my husband in prison.

I dream of becoming a mother one day. I haven’t yet thought about how many daughters or sons I would like to have, but my mother-in-law wants me to become a mother soon. I always miss my own mother. I am not allowed to visit my parents’ home, which is far away, but sometimes she secretly comes to see me.

Whenever I see children walking to school, I wish I were one of them. More than anything, I want to become a doctor. I have never been to school, but I know that education is something very good.

I wish no other girl has to suffer the same fate as mine. I hope no one else is given away as compensation like I was. 

This is the story of a child who was given away as compensation and now sells pens on the streets of Kabul to survive. It has been written by a journalist under the pseudonym of Shamsia.

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