My mother felt she wasn’t brave enough to adapt to the oppressions of life under the Taliban. Sara was only 16 then-she’s a dreamy girl who likes adventure and wants to be a pilot when she grows up. How could I leave my mother alone? If one of us girls stayed behind, which one should it be? But I didn’t want to leave, especially when I looked at my mother’s face, at the lines across her forehead, her white hair that made her look older than her five decades-proof of how hard the life of an Afghan wife and mother is. I knew that my family would be targeted-I had two older brothers who had worked for the Americans and had already been evacuated, and I was a woman with a job. We sat on the floor of my small bedroom with its red-and-white curtains and tried to talk about what to do-me our mom my youngest sister, Sara and another sister, Asman. How could I leave my mother alone? If one of us girls stayed behind, which one should it be? What if the sister who stayed was killed? What if the sister who tried to escape was killed? Now, suddenly, I had to choose between my loved ones. It wasn’t safe to commute to work anymore, anyway none of us left the apartment except to go to the food shop just downstairs. When the government disappeared, my job at the newspaper disappeared too. embassy: me, my younger sisters, and our mother, as well as our father and stepmother and their five kids. My family gathered in my mother’s apartment, near the U.S. Suddenly they were everywhere, patrolling the streets of Kabul. But I had never actually seen a Talib before. I had heard about the Taliban all my life.
I would silently stare into his eyes so that he could feel the homelessness of a young woman. If I could meet Ghani today, I would have nothing to say to him. Once he’d left his people behind, Europe and the United States abandoned us too. On August 15, the government collapsed, the security forces disintegrated, and the president, Ashraf Ghani, fled. I knew it would not have been possible if the Taliban had remained in power.īut now the Taliban were back. I knew that the life I was living would not have been possible if my father hadn’t worked hard to bring our family to Kabul. As far as I know, there has never been a journalist from Tolak, certainly not a female one.
My father is from Tolak, a remote district in Ghor province, where, even after the fall of the Taliban 20 years ago, women were still flogged and stoned to death.
I wrote about how they lived, the problems they faced, the joy they experienced regardless. I loved writing about people, especially the poor, whose voices were rarely heard. I was 21 and had recently started working for a newspaper, which had me traveling around the city reporting. People were going out to sing and dance music played in restaurants and taxis. And yet, inside the city, schools, offices, and cafés were still open. We knew the Afghan National Army was getting weaker-on the battlefield, scores of soldiers were dying-and the front lines kept getting closer to Kabul. Just a few weeks earlier, my life had been relatively normal. We would need to pack, then take a taxi to a secret location, where we’d meet the buses that would drive the evacuees to the airport. She said we had 20 minutes to decide whether to stay or go. “These are the names that they offered me,” she wrote.
View Moreīut there was nothing she could do. Check out more from this issue and find your next story to read.
0 kommentar(er)
