This narrative has been published in partnership with the Guardian.
My name is *Nazanin. I am 42 years old and the mother of four children: two daughters and two sons. For the past 21 years, I have worked as an orthotics technician in the physiotherapy department of Faryab Provincial Hospital, making orthopedic assistive devices, casts, and plastic prosthetic limbs for women and children with physical disabilities.
After graduating from high school in 2005, I enrolled in a training program for prosthetics and orthotics technicians serving people with disabilities. For four years, I worked while also obtaining hands-on training, which is how I entered this profession.
Every morning, I begin my day with prayer. After praying, I wake my two sons, who leave for their classes at six o’clock. I prepare breakfast — whatever God has provided us in today’s Afghanistan. Usually, it is just tea and bread, but we make do with what we have. I also get my husband ready for work, laying out his clothes and his shoes or sandals.
My younger daughter is in second grade. I take her to school in my rickshaw.
My older daughter is forced to stay home. She is 13 years old and was no longer allowed to attend school after completing sixth grade. It breaks my heart as she was always the top student in her class. She stays home alone. For the last two years, she does all the housework and prepares meals for her father and for her brothers and sister. It pains me that I cannot do anything to help my daughter continue her education.
I constantly worry about her being alone and call her several times during the day to check on her. Since the Taliban’s latest order restricting women’s use of smartphones, my anxiety has only grown.
No one truly understands a mother’s fear. Every time I close the gate behind me, it feels as though my soul remains on the other side with my daughter, while only my body goes to work.
I arrive at work at eight o’clock every morning. I greet my colleagues, put on the white coat that our cleaner washed and ironed the day before, and check how many orders we have for casts or prosthetic limbs. I take the patients’ measurements, then join my colleagues in the workshop, where we make the casts and fit prostheses. Each day, my work involves producing several casts or artificial limbs.
From noon until one o’clock, we have our lunch break. I eat whatever meal has been prepared, perform my prayers, and then return to see the patients who have come here hoping for the chance to walk more easily.
Three times a week, we are required to attend religious lessons organized by the Ministry for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice. A young woman comes to teach us. The sessions are time-consuming and feel meaningless. She explains how to perform ablution, how to pray, the importance of wearing the hijab, avoiding interaction with men, and other things that we already know as Muslims who have grown up in this society.
Some days, I grow tired of everything. I think about my daughter and wonder what she is doing. How long can she keep herself busy with housework? How much English can she study? How much television can she watch? I worry that she might harm herself. I worry that she might lose hope.
Then I remember a woman who could not even make it from the corner of her room to the front door of her house. I am trying to help her stand on her feet again. When I remember the hope and excitement she felt at the thought of walking again, my work regains its meaning.
I tell myself that there are so many women who need me and who dream of walking independently and doing everyday tasks on their own. I spend my days standing at work, and it reminds me what a blessing it is simply to have legs that can carry me.
I also think of the joy on a mother’s face when her child takes steps with the help of the assistive device I have made. Those moments fill my heart with warmth. I remind myself that my daughter needs a mother like me — a mother who helps others — so that she can grow up learning courage, compassion, and the importance of serving those in need.
In 2017, a young woman who was the mother of seven children and wife of a farmer received a prosthetic leg. She lived in a remote mountainous district of Faryab. Before receiving the prosthesis, she had to crawl to do her daily tasks and was unable to work on her land.
Now, she can work powerfully on those uneven fields. When we fitted her with the prosthetic leg and helped her walk again, she said to me, “Nazanin-jan, here the ground is cement, so walking is possible. But over there, the ground is rough and unpaved. How will I manage?”
Later, when she came to the city to collect her disability allowance, she visited us to have her prosthetic leg repaired. She happily told us, “I went to the market. I saw the market up close. I work on my land now, and I no longer think about the fact that I once did not have a leg.”
When the Taliban came to power, I was left without a clear future and without work for some time. We thanked God countless times when they eventually told us to return to our jobs, because we were working with women and children with disabilities. They need our services.
Every day, I worry about new challenges: restrictions on clothing, the ban on using mobile phones, and the fear that I could once again be forced to stay at home. I worry especially for my elder daughter — that something might happen to her while she is alone, or that someone might harm her.
My entire workday, from eight in the morning until four in the afternoon, revolves around plaster, molds, plastic prosthetics, scissors, screws, rubber, glue, and other tools. Then, I wash my hands, dry them with a towel, take off my white coat, and hang it on the back of my chair.
When I return home, I ease my exhaustion with the tea my daughter has prepared for me. Still, I am not only a technician in the prosthetics department; I am also a mother and a wife. When I am at home, I do the laundry, clean the house, cook meals, and bake bread. In the evening, when my husband returns from work, he comforts me about our daughter. He says, “Are you worried? Are you anxious? Well, this is something that has happened to all girls.”
He takes both of our daughters out for a walk and buys them ice cream or something small. He says, “At least let their faces light up a little.”
At night, my daughter helps me spread the tablecloth. We sit together happily, share a meal, and I ask about my children’s day and how my daughter is doing. Afterwards, I clear the table, take the dishes to the kitchen, and wash them.
I prepare my clothes for the next day, arrange my children’s clothes, and iron them. Then I perform ablution, pray, and ask God, “Please, let the situation in our country change. Let girls return to schools and universities. How long can they remain at home?”
As a mother, I feel there is nothing I can do.
*Tomris Tamga is the pen name of a Zan Times journalist based in Afghanistan.
