My name is Anqi. I am an editor at a book publishing company in China and I am writing this piece to explain how a letter became a book, one that tells the stories of Afghan women to Chinese readers.
In October 2024, I read a piece titled “A letter from an Afghan woman.” It was published in an online Chinese media. My first reaction as a woman was shock and anger; I wanted to help the author. Then, as an editor, I thought I could help by publishing a book.
I knew one of the editors at the media outlet and immediately reached out. I met Hong Weilin, the reporter who co-wrote that piece with Khadija Haidary. She connected me with Khadija.
We exchanged hundreds of emails and struggled for months in different stages of the publishing process. But the outcome was worth it. It became a book with a similar name: Letters of an Afghan Woman. The book is a collection of stories about everyday life of women in Afghanistan.
It wasn’t easy to publish her work as a book by an Afghan female writer is inevitably tied to concepts like politics and religion. That’s why I was very anxious during the censorship review process; I had even prepared myself for the ISBN to be blocked. Fortunately, the process went very smoothly and 10,000 copies of the book were published.
Recently, the book won the One‑Way Street Book Award for Book of the Year 2025, which is a prestigious literary prize in China. I myself received the ‘Best Editor of the Year’ award for editing and promoting this book, having never imagined we would achieve such remarkable results. Also the book was selected among 100 books most favored by 100 Chinese editors and it was showcased in an exhibition in January 2026. It was my personal favourite.
Initial steps
The early stages of the editing and publishing process went very well; both the company and my manager supported the choice of this subject. When I sent Khadija the proposal for the book, I realized she didn’t just have the desire to write a book – she had already written it! Of course, when she was writing these stories, she never imagined they would one day be published in China. What deeply moved me was that, before signing the contract, she sent me the complete manuscript (written in Persian). I was shocked as these writings were her only asset and yet she shared them with me unconditionally.
Khadija said she wanted the people of China and the world to read the stories of these Afghan women. Her only wish was for people to know the conditions they live in as their voices have been stifled. She believed that if no one speaks up, no one will ever know their situation. It was like a desperate cry for help.
I thought that I had to be worthy of her trust. Of course, there were challenges: my English isn’t great, and hers wasn’t perfect, either. We communicated via AI translation and email. Given the distance between our countries and having no prior connection, I was worried about misunderstandings or linguistic gaps; I even feared she might think I was a scammer!
Because of this, I sought help from Li Qing, a veteran editor with extensive experience in foreign book publishing and who greatly assisted me.
The first challenge
At the time of signing the contract, I never imagined that the two hardest parts of this project would be processing the payment and finding a translator.
Since Khadija was in Pakistan after fleeing Afghanistan, she couldn’t open a bank account in her own name and had to use her brother’s account. Normally, payments for foreign books are made to literary agencies; this was the first time our company needed to make an international wire transfer to a personal account. Our financial colleague went to the bank numerous times as she was very eager to send the money as soon as possible. After weeks of repeatedly going to the bank, we received confirmation that it was finally sent.
I knew Khadija desperately needed the funds. I followed up via email and realized the money hadn’t reached her. I worried it might have been seized by intermediate banks. The funds were in transit for more than half a month before finally being bounced back – the bank in China stated that the destination account failed Afghanistan-related filters. In addition, no intermediary bank would accept it. In the end, I reached out to the journalist at the outlet that published Khadija’s letter to ask how she had successfully sent the money for that piece.
After scheduling the exact time for the transfer, I sent Khadija the details. She told me that Pakistan was clamping down on undocumented Afghans, and she and her husband were planning to leave Islamabad for somewhere more remote where the police won’t come to their door everyday. They desperately needed the money. When she learned I would transfer it on Tuesday (we were emailing on Monday), she replied: “I will wait until tomorrow, and after receiving the money, I will leave the city.”
Receiving that email made my heart sink; it felt like a movie cliché where, before a mission, the hero waits to finish one last task, which usually leads to disaster. I was terrified she would be deported by the Pakistani police because of this money. I knew if she left Islamabad for a more remote location then receiving the money might become impossible.
The need for this money was time-critical, so I made the advance payment and transfer from my personal account. I felt like a hero though I knew this book had a long publishing process ahead, could face censorship, and there was a chance it may never be published. I thought I would consider this money a donation to an Afghan woman writer. If she could escape to safety, I could have that act written on my tombstone! Khadija emailed me on Tuesday to say she had received the money and had successfully left Islamabad.
Upon receiving Khadija’s email confirming the advance, I finally breathed a sigh of relief. The twists and turns of those months were not in vain; Khadija could move to a safe place, I proved I wasn’t a scammer, and I learned how to do international wire transfers!
Khadija once said in an email that I had saved her life and future; I saved a screenshot of that email. I am a very ordinary person, and being thanked with such intense words made me feel a sense of pride and satisfaction. This was the most meaningful thing I’ve done in my life. I even posted the screenshot on WeChat Moments.
The second challenge
In her first email, Khadija asked if I could find a Persian translator since she wrote in Persian. Full of confidence, I replied, “China has a large population; finding a Persian translator won’t be hard.”
It proved to be much harder than I anticipated. In my WeChat friend list, I had at least 10 people saved as “Persian translators,” but some raised their prices after a final confirmation while others promised a test translation and disappeared. The most common reason for which the translators refused the work was the author’s identity. Most people in China who study Persian work in governmental sectors, and this book was considered to be a foreign subject. At least four translation professors rejected my request due to professional considerations. Even though I repeatedly explained that this is a book of stories and doesn’t delve into other issues, their hesitation meant I couldn’t push further. We even posted ads on Douban (a popular social networking platform) but options remained scarce.
Ultimately, I found the translator on Xiaohongshu (a lifestyle social media platform). It felt like destiny; the translator himself was Afghan, had lived in China for eight years, and knew both countries well.
After the translation was delivered, I realized this was a book of short stories by an Afghan woman. They were stories about freedom, dreams, and mostly about love. However, because of the cultural differences, it wasn’t an easy sale. When we circulated the text within the company, some colleagues felt the writing wasn’t “mature” enough. For example, there was a story of a girl whose family holds a wedding ceremony for her without her knowledge and one of a gay man who is married with children but assaults a young boy in the same home. These shocking stories were not to the taste of the audience in China.
Before requesting any revision, I reread Khadija’s preface for the book. She wanted the readers to see Afghan women in a different light, as writers and storytellers. The fact that an Afghan woman forced to wear a burqa, had managed to write these stories at a time when women are banned from education and leaving their homes without a chaperone was a powerful story by itself. The words Khadija wrote are precious. This is the pain a woman had put on paper, and the only thing I thought I should do is defend her right to speak.
Therefore, I decided to present the author’s text exactly as it was written and leave the judgment to the readers.
This book began with a letter Khadija wrote to “Positive Connection” and took shape through hundreds of emails between us. The book is now on the market. It may still have flaws, but it has finally reached Chinese readers.
Khadija’s dream was for her voice and the voices of Afghan women to be heard by Chinese readers. My wish is for people to see and read this book. My ultimate hope is to see the women fighting for their life in Afghanistan have a chance to tell their own stories and be heard by readers globally.
Now, many Chinese women who are shocked and outraged about the situation of women in Afghanistan and who want to express support for Afghan women do so by purchasing and reading Khadija’s book.
Anqi is the chinese editor of “Letters from an afghan woman”
