Neither work or begging allowed: A woman head of household is trapped in poverty and fear
A month ago, I had a sack slung over my shoulder and my 10-year-old son was beside me while my daughter held my hand. It was the middle of a typical scorching day and, after collecting a few cans, the three of us were sitting in a downtown square when a Taliban vehicle pulled up.
As soon as I saw them, I was gripped by fear, having heard how the Taliban round up women beggars and torture them. This day, they grabbed several women and threw them into the vehicle. I was near a money exchanger’s stall when two or three Taliban women officers covered head-to-toe in black approached, clearly wanting to arrest me. I resisted. They scratched my neck and throat as they tore at my outer garments. I was left standing in only my underclothes.
As they were pulling me toward the vehicle, the male Taliban shouted in Pashto, “Round up these shameless, street-roaming women. They disgrace the Islamic Emirate by begging. Let them be a lesson to others.” Though the three women tried to get me into the Taliban vehicle, they failed as I screamed and cried, while begging not to be arrested.
Had I not resisted, they would have taken me to prison, and my children would have gone hungry in the tent for two or three nights. After the struggle, I ran away weeping and trembling, leaving my headscarf behind. My children dropped the valuable sack of cans to run after me, carrying the scarf. They were terrified.
“Where are you taking our mother? What did she do wrong?” my children had been screaming as the Taliban attempted to arrest me. Sarafi Square in Nimruz city is always crowded. Many men watched the scene unfold, but no one intervened. No one even tried to help me cover myself. Most of the men just sneered and laughed at our misery.
I hid behind a shop in a quiet alley to catch my breath. Then, ignoring the aches in my body, I walked all the way back to our tent in the bus terminal, cursing the Taliban along the way. When I entered the tent, my blood pressure dropped, and I collapsed. My daughters panicked and circled around me, but we had nothing but a few drops of water. There was no food that day. We waited until nightfall, and then borrowed a loaf of bread from a neighbor. With that, we managed to calm our hunger and went to sleep.
Since that incident, I’ve been too afraid to go out begging. Previously, I would take my 10-year-old son and 12-year-old daughter to collect Pepsi cans, bottles, dry bread, and old shoes. We bought our dinner by selling those itemsWe usually made 200 to 300 afghani a day, but on some days, only 50. I sold the cans for 25 afghani per kilo. On days when there weren’t enough cans, I’d get tired and sit in a corner. Sometimes, seeing my condition, people would give us a little help.
That last day of begging and finding items to sell, we had only collected a kilo of scrap. We sat in Sarafi Square, hoping someone might feel compassion and give us bread. When I don’t, I’m forced to continue collecting trash so we can survive the night.
One time, the Taliban saw me again near the market and scolded me for collecting cans. I asked, “Where should a woman without a provider find bread? Who will help her?” One of them replied, “The Islamic Emirate helps you; we give monthly wages.”
One day, I overheard a woman sitting outside a bakery saying that the Taliban had forcibly taken women beggars from Nimruz city and imprisoned them in an underground cell for three nights. They warned them never to beg again.
The Taliban do not allow women to work, to study, be out on the streets, or in the marketplace. They don’t let us work, and they don’t let others help us. So what is a woman without a provider supposed to eat? How is she supposed to feed her children? They tell us, “You are begging and bringing shame to the Islamic Emirate.” Let the Emirate fill our stomachs, then we wouldn’t need to beg.
My husband was martyred 10 years ago in a suicide bombing in Nimruz city. Life was better back then as I didn’t have to throw myself into fire and water just to feed my children. Two years ago, I tried to cross into Iran with my children to build a better life. But it didn’t work. The Iranian border forces opened fire on us. Terrified, we turned back. With the help of compassionate people in Nimruz city, we set up a tent for ourselves.
A week after that incident at Sarafi Square, I borrowed some money from a friend for bus fare to Kabul. Now we’re suffering the same misery, only in a different city. There is no work here either, and no help. We’re staying at my cousin’s house, and I don’t know when she might ask us to leave. I have no idea where we’ll go after that.
Hamasa Haqiqatyar is pen name of a freelance journalist and a Zan Times mentee in Afghanistan.
