The gentle autumn winds swirl dust along the roads of Mazar-e-Sharif, the capital of Balkh province, setting it dancing in the air. Beneath the scorching sun on a street that leads to the Shrine, women in faded burqas lay out second-hand clothes that carry the scent of poverty and age on plastic sheets. While most passersby move by, indifferent to the wares on offer, a few touch the fabric of the garments and then offer a few afghani for specific items.
Among the row of female vendors is an elderly woman named Marjan.. Her back is bent, her hands are cracked, and the lines on her face resemble well-worn pages of a book. Dust has settled into the folds of her worn burqa as she arranges a modest spread of a few shirts and trousers, keeping an anxious eye out for customers.
By midday, Marjan pulls a rough tarpaulin over her head to shield herself from the fierce sun. Marjan’s husband is dead, leaving her to support a family of five. Her stooped shoulders symbolize the full weight of that burden.
“I am Marjan, a widow in my mid-fifties. I’ve been doing this work for eight years,” she says quietly. In addition to the struggle to earn bread for her family, she must care for a disabled son.
Although she labours from dawn to dusk every day, she still cannot cover all the household expenses. This hardship has driven her three other children onto the streets of Mazar-e-Sharif to beg. After long, punishing days, Marjan has often returned home empty-handed, meaning the entire family is hungry as they curl up in bed.
“There are days when we have nothing at home. If we have flour, there is no salt; if there is salt, there is no soap,” she explains. “Even our electricity was cut off because I couldn’t pay the bill. We spend the nights in darkness.”
Marjan holds out a hand, showing bones that never set properly after being broken: “I can’t wash clothes for people. My eyesight is failing, too. The doctor says I need surgery — but where would I find the money?”
Each day she sets out her small stall on the street, hoping not to encounter municipal officers and parking attendants who have repeatedly forced her to pack up. According to Marjan, these officials extort the women vendors, demanding money to let them continue selling.
“They say, ‘Give 20 afghani.’ I haven’t even earned 10 afghani yet — where can I get it? If I refuse, they throw my tarp into the street,” says Marjan.
Among the street vendors who work alongside Marjan is Fariha, who also sells second-hand clothes. She arrived three months ago. Like the other women, she hopes to earn enough by selling a neat array of colourful garments to buy bread for her children.
She has to sell her wares on the roadside because she can’t afford the shop rents in the city. “I buy clothes from people, each piece for 30 to 120 afghani, and then sell them for maybe 200 or 250,” Fariha tells Zan Times.
Though Fariha smiles as she talks, she cannot hide her worry. Like Marjan, she is extorted by municipal officers.“Every day we have to be ready to pack up our stall. Sometimes the Taliban come and say, ‘Pay 300 afghani.’ If we don’t pay, they chase us away,” she says.
A few steps away, a girl stands beside a small spread of children’s clothes. The wind catches her floral scarf, and she bites it between her teeth while her eyes search for a customer to buy one of her second-hand garments. Nasreen, 12, grew up in Mazar-e-Sharif. Poverty and her father’s disability pushed her onto the streets of the city when she was eight in order to help support her family.
“I went to first grade. Then my father said I had to help. Now I don’t go to school. I can count money, but I don’t know how to read or write,” she says, her childish voice aged by hard work and sorrow.
Nasreen gazes into the distance and speaks of dreams lost amid the noise of the street and the weight of poverty. Like millions of other children in Afghanistan, she longs to attend school and study so that, in her words, she can “grow up to be an educated woman.” Instead, she stands by the roadside thinking only of earning enough for a piece of bread, far away from the childhood games and classrooms of her dreams.
The daily expenses of Nasreen’s family of 10 depends on her small stall.“We earn up to 500 afghani a day. Our house rent is 2,000 afghani,” she explains. “If the market is bad for a day, we all go hungry.”
Car horns blare as women haggle with customers who carefully examine garments and try to find bargains. While one customer presses a few coins into a little girl’s hands, a nearby woman calls out, ““Come on, come on, pay the money! It’s getting late.” She is the collector. The women dare not protest as they hand over their earnings. protest.
One of the customers that day is named Marwa, who is looking for children’s outfits.
“New clothes in the shops cost 1,500 afghani. We can’t afford that. Here, we can buy something for 100 afghani. Maybe it’s second-hand, but with the economy the way it is, there’s no other choice,” she says.
Marwa adds that she would love to purchase new clothes but must also think about food and other expenses, which is why she has come here. Picking up a green dress from the plastic sheet, she inspects it and says, “It’s not just me; many families are like this. We buy second-hand because we have to. Sometimes you can find something nice. But some people are rude — they come, toss everything around, and buy nothing. It’s harassment.”
According to a United Nations report, more than 22 million people in Afghanistan will need humanitarian assistance this year. Among the most vulnerable are women who are heads of households, especially in major cities. Since the Taliban takeover, women’s economic participation has dropped to its lowest level, and unemployment has soared, driving many deep into poverty.
With jobs disappearing, many women and girls have turned to informal work as they are the few livelihoods that have not yet been explicitly banned for them.
The heat climbs past 38 degrees as the sun reaches its zenith. Sweat drips down Marjan’s face as she packs up her small stall. She has only a single piece of dry bread for a meal:
“I ate half in the morning and the other half with hot water for lunch.”
Her bent figure disappears into the crowded street, a torn tarpaulin slung over her shoulder, a trail of dust behind her. The noise of traffic continues as other women prepare to set out their stalls again tomorrow. These streets are their only workplace — even as the city itself barely notices their presence.
The names of interviewees and reporter have been changed to protect their identities.
