Sexually harassed while job hunting in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan
My phone rang. It was an unknown number. I answered, and a man’s voice came through, “Are you Nargis? Yes! You have emailed us your CV.” I said, “Yes, that’s me.” He asked if I could come in for an interview at their office. I replied, “Yes, absolutely.”
I was so happy that I hung up without even getting the address. The phone rang again and gave me the address and directions. I thanked him and we agreed I would come to their office at noon that same day. I was overjoyed and wanted to scream from happiness.
Before the Taliban returned to power, I had studied accounting. I had tried so hard to find work, sending my CV to many places, but no one had responded. This was the first time I felt I was getting close to a job. I quickly told my mother that I had been invited for an interview. She was thrilled but worried about what my father would say. Then she reassured me and said, “You go, I’ll talk to your father tonight — he’ll surely agree.”
My father had a handcart he used to sell fruit or vegetables. After the Taliban took over, he was no longer okay with me working or studying outside the home. But my mother always used to say, “If only you could find work, at least you could cover your own expenses.”
I got ready. I wore a long black dress, put on a little makeup, and wrapped my scarf tightly around my face. I saw I only had 20 afghani. When I calculated, the fare to get there was 80 afghani. I asked my mother, “Do you have 60 afghani?” She didn’t, so she went to the neighbours and borrowed it. I kissed her hands and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll get a job and these hard days will pass.” My mother, eyes full of tears, kissed my forehead and said, “Alright my daughter, go now so you’re not late.”
I set out, my heart filled with excitement. I told myself, “Goodbye poverty!” I left the house energized and hopeful. It had been so long since I’d seen the outside world! Kabul was no longer the city it used to be just a few years ago. In some places, only a few women and girls could be seen. I wondered, where were all the women and girls who used to study? Those who just a few years ago were working, buying their own clothes, shopping for their homes, walking the streets looking polished and full of hope? You could see the fruits of their labour in the way they carried themselves. Where were those elegant ladies? The city looked dull and empty without them. It felt like half the population of Kabul had disappeared.
Lost in these thoughts, I realized the bus cleaner was collecting the fare. I paid and walked part of the way — from Kote Sangi to the end of the bridge — and quickly caught a vehicle heading to Haji Yaqub intersection. The car filled up and we drove off. I told myself, “From now on, I’ll travel this route every day for work.” I gave the driver the address, and he dropped me off near the office.
When I entered, I saw it was a beautiful place. I was captivated by the desks, chairs, and the tiled floor when someone said, “Hello, please come in!”
I replied, “Hello, I’m Nargis.”
Upon hearing my voice, another person from across the office welcomed me and invited me into another room. It was a small but lovely office. A man sat across from me behind a computer and gestured for me to sit. I sat down. He began by explaining the job and said, “Ms. Ahmadi, the job isn’t too difficult, and you’ll learn it gradually. How familiar are you with computers and English? This is a travel agency, and we work with computers and English.”
I said, “My English is intermediate, but I don’t know much about computers.”
He said, “That’s fine, you’ll learn on the job. But we have one special condition.” I asked, “What condition?” He said, “May I speak openly?” I said, “Yes, of course.”
Without hesitation, he said, “You need to be comfortable with me.”
I asked, “What do you mean by ‘comfortable’?”
He said, “When you come here, wear loose clothing. This room will be yours.”
Confused, I asked, “What do you mean? I came here for a job.”
He replied, “I called you for a job, too.”
I asked for clarification, and he said, “I’m being clear. This room is yours, and sometimes I’ll come here to spend time with you.”
I felt numb. My mind stopped working. I said, “What do you mean, ‘spend time’?”
He said, “You told me to be clear. I want you to be my girlfriend, but I promise I won’t cross any lines.”
I was speechless, shocked, while he shamelessly went on explaining the details of the “relationship” he wanted. I wanted to get up and leave. But he stood up, grabbed my trembling hands, and said, “Please don’t go!” My hands were frozen under the grip of his large, powerful ones. Then I pulled them away forcefully and ran toward the door. Just as I reached for the handle, he grabbed my other hand and pulled me into an embrace.
My whole body went limp. He leaned in close to my ear and said, “Please don’t go.” I shook my head, signaling “No.”
He said, “Fine. But if you tell anyone about what happened today, you’ll see another side of me.”
He let me go, and I ran outside as fast as I could. That beautiful lobby I had admired when I first arrived was now empty. My scarf had fallen off my shoulders. I quickly adjusted it. I was shaking, and tears were streaming down my face without stopping.
I had left home convinced that I was finally going to have a job and earn a salary. On my way back, my only wish was to return home. I told myself I would never look for work again. I would make peace with poverty.
On the way, I kept thinking someone might be following me. I hurried toward the bus stop. I waited for half an hour. Each moment passed so slowly —i t felt like every minute stretched into an hour. Finally, an empty bus came and the driver called out, “Kote Sangi.” But the emptiness of the bus scared me. I couldn’t bring myself to trust the driver. It was as if I had lost all trust in men. I shook my head and the bus drove away.
A few minutes later, another empty bus came. I was still weak and trembling, so I got in. The driver noticed my condition in the rearview mirror and asked, “Are you okay, sister?” I snapped angrily and loudly, “Are you a doctor?” He flinched and said, “Sorry.” The bus sped up, and I leaned my head against the window, staring outside. My father’s words echoed in my mind: “You’re no longer allowed to work or study!”
There was a storm raging inside me. A voice within me whispered, “Your father knows his kind.” I thought about how the Taliban also came from among Afghan men and how many in our society were working with them. I wasn’t even aware of my surroundings until we reached Kote Sangi.
As I got into another bus heading toward Barchi, my mind was stuck on that bitter incident. I wanted to cry—for myself, for the hardships I had endured, for the dreams that now seemed farther than ever. I asked myself, “Why is it so hard to be a girl? Why are all paths closed to us?” A thousand other whys.
Somewhere along the route in Barchi, I heard a woman’s voice asking, “Are you okay, my daughter?” That question made me feel worse. I wanted to scream, “No, I’m not okay!” Instead, I quietly confirmed that I was a little sick.
When I reached the alley near our house, I saw my mother standing at the door, waiting. I asked myself, “What will I tell her? What if she asks what happened? What can I say?” When she saw me, she rushed forward, full of excitement. As she got close, I broke down, threw myself into her arms, and sobbed. My mother was shocked. Almost screaming, she asked, “What happened? Why are you crying?” But even to my mother, I couldn’t open my heart. I was afraid that the shame and dishonour would crush her. So I said, “Nothing. They didn’t hire me.”
She took a deep breath and said, “You’re crying over that? Don’t worry, something will come along.”
Names have been changed to protect the identity of the writer.
