When I study, I feel like I leave this world behind. I go to a place where my mother no longer aches, and my sisters are not hungry. I’m Nazanin, I’m nine years old, and I’m from Kandahar. My favorite books are Life Skills for Grade 3 and Dari Language for Grade 4, which I borrowed from the girl next door. I treat them like treasures.
Four years ago, my father died in a traffic accident. I was only five. That was the day everything in our lives changed. I’m the eldest of four girls — Fariba is seven, Rokhsara is four, and little Samira just turned two.
After my father passed away, my mother Zuleikha remarried my uncle, but he suffered from mental illness and soon disappeared. No one knows where he is. My mother is 35, but walks like an old woman. She’s worked for years to keep us fed — washing clothes, carpets, and blankets in people’s homes. Now she has a slipped disc and can barely stand. She still tries to help by baking dry bread for families who don’t have ovens or sewing simple children’s clothes. But it brings in very little — sometimes just 200 to 300 afghani (about $2 to $3).
When she could no longer work, it became my turn.
I wake up at 5 a.m. every day. I wrap my scarf tightly to cover my face and walk to people’s homes in our village. In some houses, I wash clothes. In others, carpets or blankets. I can’t wash carpets alone — my mother comes with me or we join other women. But I wash the clothes by myself. In summer, the heat reaches 41 degrees. My hands burn as I carry heavy water from outdoor toilets and scrub under the sun. At the end of the day, I might be paid in dry bread or a handful of flour. One family pays me 300 afghani a month. Altogether, I make less than 700 afghani ($8) a month — not enough for even tea and soap.
We live in a single mud room at the edge of the village. There is no electricity, no running water. We’ve stretched an old sheet over the roof to block the sun. After work, I return home to cook bread, put my sisters to sleep, and take care of the rest of the housework. When I’m too tired to move, I lie on an old pillow in the corner, stare at the ceiling, and think of my dreams.
I went to school for three years, but had to drop out in fourth grade to work. Still, I never stopped learning. For a while, I attended a religious school and practiced reading and writing. Now, when the neighbor girl — who is a teacher — has time, she teaches me and lends me books. Some nights, when everyone is asleep, I read under the faint beam of a flashlight. In those moments, I feel like my mind is flying.
But I am always afraid. In Kandahar, the Taliban have banned women and girls from working. If they see me, they’ll arrest me. Once, when my mother and I were walking to a house, two men on a motorcycle — wearing black vests and carrying guns — saw us. One of them shouted, “Why is this girl on the street? Doesn’t she know it’s forbidden?” My mother tried to explain, but the other man yelled, “If we see you again, we’ll take you both!” Since then, we’ve only walked back roads and quiet alleys.
Even some of the local men harass us. Once, as I left a house, a man from the village said, “Why does this girl go into people’s homes? Doesn’t she belong to anyone?” I said nothing and walked away quickly. I don’t want anyone saying anything bad about my mother. I don’t want anything to stop us from surviving.
My biggest wish is for my mother to get well — to walk tall again, to cook warm bread for us, and to smile without pain.
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the interviewees and writer. Sana Atif is a pseudonym for a Zan Times journalist in Afghanistan.
