This narrative has been published in partnership with the Guardian.
I cannot recall a single morning when I woke up after sunrise. Since childhood, they have called me the “morning bird.” For 35 years, my eyes open to the ceiling at every true dawn, and I make my way to perform my ablutions and prayers.Though moving toward the bathroom is difficult for me, I have completely adjusted to my physical limitations. In the beginning, these hardships and limitations used to bother me deeply. But I realized that I would only feel worse as long as I kept agonizing and complaining. Once I accepted my condition, life became easier.
My name is Rona* and I am living in Parwan. My life has always been confined within the four walls of our home. I do not know what the marketplace looks like, but I imagine it to be a glittering, vibrant place filled with beautiful fabrics and decorative threads waiting to adorn clothes.
After my morning prayers, I usually prepare breakfast. After all my sisters and my only brother got married, I became the sole caregiver and helper to my elderly and frail parents. My father was blind, my mother was weak, and I had to manage the chores slowly, step by step, all on my own.
Two years ago, to escape the loneliness after losing my mother, I chose to have my sister and her family live alongside me.
My entire life’s routine revolves around thread, fabric, and fulfilling the orders I receive. Twenty-five years ago, when I was 10years old and struggling with muscle pain and the paralysis of polio, I realized my world was different from others and full of hardships.
I realized my pace was slow and that I was viewed as a burden. I had to look for a helping hand to accomplish even the smallest tasks or to go outside. The pain I saw in my mother’s eyes made me realize how difficult my world was going to be. She never said it out loud, but I read it in her gaze.
Because we were a poor family living through times of war in a remote village, we had no access to doctors or vaccines. That was how I became a victim of polio. My legs bent at the knees. Still, I managed to walk just enough to handle my essential needs without bothering anyone else. My body and my height did not grow like those of average people.
To escape the pain that tormented both my soul and body, I would take a needle and plastic scraps to make clothes for dolls. Gradually, I won my mother’s trust and hand-sewed a dress for her. Her faint smile was a stamp of approval that helped me adapt more to this world. I still remember the first garment I ever sewed: it was a white cotton perahan tunban (traditional shirt and trousers) for my father. He made my heart swell with joy by saying, “Bravo, my daughter!”
Around that time, my brother got married and left for Iran. My sisters also married, leaving us in a mud house with aging walls. We got by with love, trust in God, pain, life, and the background noise of gunfire amid the civil war. Our financial situation was so dire that sometimes we didn’t know how we would secure our next meal.
I inherited a God-given talent through the mercy of the Almighty. I had never gone outside our home, nor did I have a teacher or guide. I could simply look at anything, discern its pattern, and create it. One day, one of my sisters showed me a dress sewn by a skilled tailor and asked if I could make one like it. Seeing that I could work like a master tailor, she promised to buy me a sewing machine so I could work seriously. She kept her promise.
From that day, I gradually turned to professional tailoring. My reputation spread by word of mouth, and clients began coming from more and more distant villages. Even my father, seeing that his daughter had become his pillar of strength, felt immensely proud. Eventually, I was earning a good monthly income, constantly searching for new designs every day to perfect my craft. On this journey, I both learned and sewed. When I saw that beaded bracelets, trouser waistbands (band-e-tunban), lacework, and Afghan embroidery (shisheh-dozi) were also popular, I ordered the materials and began teaching several students to work alongside me.
When clients arrived, their first look was often searching and skeptical as they asked, “Is the tailor here?” When I told them it was me, they would place their orders with looks of disbelief and curiosity.
When they saw me using a pen and paper to write down measurements, they would ask, “How are you literate?” They had no idea of the immense pain and hardship of that process. To read, I became a student of my own students; in exchange for teaching them tailoring, I had them teach me writing and composition. Even today, every morning I study the Quran to ensure my journey of learning never stops.
The only ones who truly believed in me were myself and my Creator. The same goes for who supported me. People loved me, but they doubted my abilities. I changed their minds through my creativity, my sewing, my beadwork, and my designs.
Sometimes I had so many orders that I would earn 6,000 or 7,000 afghani a month, helping support the family. Ever since my father lost his sight due to old age, I ran the household myself. I kept thanking God for giving me the strength to do so. Despite my legs and skeletal structure being ravaged by polio, I never looked down on myself.
I visited the doctor many times, but due to our poverty, my financial means were only enough to buy painkillers so that the bone pain would subside enough to let me carry on with my work.
Sometimes, I would design necklines and patterns that amazed even myself, making me incredibly proud. My art ensured that people did not look at me with pity or condescension; instead, they looked at me as their trusted tailor.
Every day, after eating breakfast and heading to my sewing machine, I try to get accustomed to using a pen and notebook, slowly studying schoolbooks year by year. My students, who come from 2 p.m. to 5 p.m., help me with this. In the afternoons, I sew while teaching five or six students. This number used to be higher, but after the arrival of the Taliban, the attendance of girls decreased.
My life continues. I still use my mobile phone to learn and find new designs. I buy small internet packages, and in the evening after dinner, when everyone goes to bed, I lie down and search for dress patterns. Every night, praying for the souls of my parents, I thank God for giving me the strength to believe in myself.
Five years ago, using the money I saved over 20 years of tailoring, I bought this small garden plot. I asked my sister and brother-in-law to help me build it so we could live together. Now, I have my sister by my side, and we live happily together in a home we built with the sweat of our brows and the blisters on our hands.
* Rona is a pseudonym. Hura Omar is the pen name of a Zan Times journalist who is based in Afghanistan.
