Your Voice is Your Power

I’ve traveled all over the world; I’ve encountered different lifestyles, cultures, and women. Believe it or not, among them all, Afghan women are the most helpless and defenseless. They are hardworking and faithful and they support their husbands. Unfortunately they are taken for granted by their husbands and sometimes by male family members. They would love to laugh, work out of the house, go to school. But they are not permitted. Their rights have been restricted. Why? They have been told by their mothers: “You are a girl. A girl is supposed to stay home, not laugh, not talk.” What a pity.

Almost 30 years ago, my father was talking to us. He said: “How I could have been so stupid?” Since my father was a highly educated and powerful man, and our family’s role model, I thought: “oh God, why did my father say that?” As I wondered, my father’s strong voice broke the silence. He said: “Why did I let my daughter marry at this age? She even didn’t finish her studies. It was the stupidest mistake I ever made.” My mother said: “Don’t worry, you asked her in-laws to let her finish her studies and they agreed.” He said, “Come on, it is not a solution. I should not have done this to her. I almost destroyed my daughter’s life and I will never forgive myself. It was a mistake—yeah, it was the biggest mistake.”

A few months after my sister began her first year at the Faculty of Literature, she came to my father. “Pa, I’ve decided not to go to school anymore.”

This news was like an explosion. My father stared at her without speaking, his mouth half open. Then he said in a very low voice: “Wha…what do you say?”

She said, “Yeah, Pa, I get tired. It is difficult to manage married life and go to the university.” Again my father didn’t answer, so she continued, “Actually, if I graduate and become a teacher, what will my salary be? 2000Afs. My father in-law asked me to stay home and he is going to pay me 2000Afs even from right now on.”

My father nodded and said: “I see…I see… so your father in-law advised you?”

“Yes, Pa, he has been so nice to me. He felt sorry for me and promised to give me money every month.” She seemed happy, and a smile covered her face.

My father nodded his head and looked from her face to the ground. His expression was disappointed and miserable. After a small silence, he inhaled deeply and started in very slow voice, “I have a question; you have to answer it.”

“Sure, Pa, ask me,” she said.

Looking at her through narrowed eyes, he asked: “How long will your father in-law be alive? How long he is going to live?”

“How would I know, Pa?” my sister answered.

“God knows, no doubt,” he answered. “But before making this decision, you should have thought about this. I didn’t know my daughter could be so foolish as to make a big life decision without even finding the courage to think. How could you—” Suddenly he raised his voice and said, “How could you think of money? It is not just about money. If it was just about money, then why I send you to school? I could have said: ‘we have money, so why go to school?’ Look at the great people. Look at the Wright brothers. When they were thinking of making a glider, they never thought of earning money. Thanks to their wonderful idea, now we travel in airplanes and we minimize the distance. Look at Einstein, or Edison; he discovered electricity, but not for money. He brightened up the darkness.”

“My dear daughter, if you are really going to the university to earn 2000 Afs, fine, don’t go. But my daughters are supposed to be responsible people. A responsible human being would never think of money, because you can lose money. A simple earthquake can destroy your house. Rain can destroy your land. But there is no power in the world which can take your knowledge from you. Knowledge is your biggest asset. If you have knowledge, you can raise your voice and no one can dim it. Your voice is your power. Do you remember the time you asked me why our neighbor beats his wife and his young daughter? And why they are not allowed out of the house? Why they are not allowed to work? At that time, I told you because they are not educated. Now have you got the answer? Or shall I explain it?”

My sister shook her head and said in low voice, “Not exactly.”

My father said: “Listen to me carefully. We are living in a Third World country. Our citizens are Muslims, but they are not educated. They are Muslims because their parents were Muslims. They never had the knowledge or understanding of Islam. For instance, they say laughing is prohibited in Islam. An educated person can use his common sense and say: according to Islam, anything which can affect your health, brain, family, society and etc. is prohibited—like drinking alcohol, smoking, gambling and etc. As we are all educated people, we know that laughing is good for the heart, so why it should be forbidden? Which verse of Holy Quran says that laughing is forbidden? Or that women are not allowed to work, or that girls don’t have the right to study?”

He went on: “Prophet Mohammad PBUH says that parents have to seek their children’s agreement before arranging a marriage. They are not allowed to force their children to marry. Since our society is a patriarchal society, they say that in Islam, men are allowed to have four wives. But where does Islam grant permission to marry four times? Now, who can answer these questions? Of course, an educated woman can answer them. If you are educated, you can fight for your rights, you can achieve your goals. When they say that men are women’s guardians, don’t be upset; it is true. If the woman is uneducated, of course a man has to be her boss and the decision-maker and the powerful person in the family.”

“If you want to be powerless and incapable, stay home. Do not go to the university. But if you want to be strong, powerful and someone who can fight for her rights and the rights of others, then follow the right path and go to the university. Try to be the pride of the family and make your children proud.”

My sister graduated from the Faculty of Literature even though she gave birth to two children during that time. It is challenging to go to the university while you are pregnant and have children. She didn’t give up. She could have worked in office, but she chose to be a teacher. She taught married women at a vocational school in Afghanistan. Her goal was to teach women how to defend themselves and she tried to convince them that silence is death, that to laugh is to live, that to live is to have freedom, that freedom is power, and power is education.

By Elay

Refugee Camp in Holland – Part III: Ali’s Story, Continued

Ali spent a few more months in jail, and then he got a letter from the judge saying it was a mistake. He was not involved in this particular case. But when he was released from jail, he was not happy at all. His head hung between his shoulders, as if his soul had flown out of his body. His wife and in-laws were waiting for him. He took his young son in his arms and start crying.

His in-laws suggested he go to Europe and seek asylum. Since he was not rich, he couldn’t afford it. They had to pay more than $15,000 to smugglers to take all three of them to Europe. His in-laws offered him some money and said, “You can go alone. We will take care of your wife and son. Once you have your citizenship, you will be able to bring your family to Europe. All Iraqis have done it.”

Although he was not guilty of any crime, according to Saddam Hussein’s government, still his in-laws were afraid because they couldn’t find out who set their house afire. It was not an accident; someone has done it on purpose.

After a long journey, he reached Holland, but after three interviews, the Holland courts rejected his asylum plea. They said: you were not a politician or antigovernment activist. The government released you from jail. Your government says your house burned because of gas leakage. You couldn’t prove to us that your life was in danger because of religion, race, or politics. According to the Geneva Agreement, a refugee is someone whose life is threatened or in danger in their home country because they are an anti-government activist. Sorry, we can’t consider you a political refugee.

He had to return to Iraq. The day he found out, his roommate offered him drugs to get high and forget his sorrow, but instead, he got mad. He couldn’t forget that he had to pay his in-laws back, and he didn’t have any money, any house, nothing left. That was the day he began breaking windows in the middle of the night.

Translator for Refugees

Dear reader, I have dozens of stories like this to share with you but, as I promised, I have to write about myself. After that terrible night when Ali was arrested, I tried to catch up with my life. My daughter was going to school. I became a volunteer translator for Afghans, Iranians, Russians, and Pakistanis. My husband was taking care of my younger daughter while I was translating for my friends.

I got close to almost everyone. I knew that Afghans had a good chance of getting their citizenship. Almost all Afghans got their citizenship within eleven days, but the maximum was about three months. I had hope of getting my citizenship soon too.

Once a week, we had to go to the police station in the refugee camp and sign ourselves in. It showed we were present in the camp. If someone was absent, he or she lost one week payment. (The payment was 14 guilder—the currency of the Netherlands at the time—per person per week.) Three absences meant closing the file. After closing the file, the person must return to his country or go back to the immigration police and reopen the case.

One day I took my four-month-old baby in a baby carriage outside for fresh air. I saw one of my Afghan friends had her baby in her arms and was running towards the social worker’s office seeking medical help. I asked other ladies who were outside to take care of my child. I went to the office and saw she was crying. Her baby wasn’t breathing properly.

They called an ambulance and asked me to go with her. Everything happened so suddenly that I couldn’t go back to my baby and ask someone to take care of her. Since my husband was not in camp that day, I told the social worker to ask one of the Afghan families to take care of my baby. She said, “Sure I will.”

I went with her to hospital, translated for her, and the doctors’ helpful hands helped the baby survive. She asked me to thank the doctor for his wonderful job. The doctor said, “No, you must thank your translator because she helped us a lot. Without her, we wouldn’t be able to do anything.”

I was happy and proud of my work. When we came back to the camp, it was almost dark. I was walking with her inside the camp. I saw a few kids playing in the yard, two of them along with my older daughter were running and pushing the baby carriage. I stopped walking for a moment and thought: are those my children? I started running toward them. When the kids saw me, they said, “Aunty, aunty, you were not here. Your kid was crying. That is why we are running with her, to make her calm.” My daughter, her mouth almost frozen, asked me, “Mom, where have you been? I came from school and our door was locked. I came to the yard and saw my sister in her baby-trolley crying. I tried a lot to make her calm but she was cold and was crying. She is hungry. I didn’t know what to do.”

I took my daughter in my arms and she was ice cold. I asked her to run with the baby carriage toward our cabin. I opened the door and first fed the baby and then my older daughter. Once they were calm again, I felt so angry. My blood was boiling. It was not fear at all. I went with an Afghan refugee to help her, but there was no one to take care of my daughter. Both of my daughters caught colds. The next day, everyone shared their apologies. They said there was a big misunderstanding. My decision at first was not to help others. But I couldn’t see people suffering, especially elders and children.

TO BE CONTINUED…

By Elay

Refugee Camp in Holland – Part II: Chicken and French Fries

When the policeman called our names, I didn’t know what would happen next. As I packed our few things, I worried: what will be the next step? My husband, who is always optimistic, said, “Don’t worry. They are going to transfer us to a better place.”

I said, “How do you know?” He made a confident face.

As we left with an immigration agent, my daughter’s hand was in mine and she was almost running to keep up with us. “Mom, where are we going again?” she asked. “Are we going to eat proper food?”

“Maybe, I don’t know,” I said.

“Yes, dear, we are going to McDonald’s,” the immigration agent said.

She began laughing while she was running. “Oh, McDonalds. Burgers, chips.”

The agent guided us outside, where we could breathe fresh air. We’d been inside so long that our eyes were sensitive to the sun. When I saw the waiting taxi, my heart started beating hard. Thank God, we are leaving this place. The agent’s loud voice cut off my thoughts. “Okay, we are going to transfer you to a refugee camp which is located in S’Gravendeel, 45 kilometers from here. I hope you like it. If you don’t…” he shrugged and said, “I can’t do anything, you have to like it. You don’t have any other choice.” It was his way of joking.

I said, “Thanks, sir, I am sure we will like it.” We sat in the taxi. As we drove, everyone had their own dreams. At this stage, my only wish was to go home, take a hot shower and sleep. My daughter was dreaming of having a Big Mac. Since the taxi was hired by the immigration office, we couldn’t ask him to take us to McDonald’s, so I told my daughter, “Once we reach our destination, we will go to McDonald’s.” God knows what my husband’s dream was. Our baby was sleeping like a doll.

After an hour’s drive, we finally reached the refugee camp. A kind lady was waiting for us at the gate. She welcomed us and guided us to an office. She told us that this was actually a summer vacation camp, and the owner allocated it to the refugee department. First we had to fill in some forms. Then they gave us some bed sheets and she showed us our cabin. It was wooden and dark from inside, but we were delighted that we had our own toilet. The people in that camp, especially our fellow Afghans, welcomed us and started asking us questions. After giving interviews to the police—when, how, where, did you arrive, and hundreds of others—I was so tired of questions that I couldn’t answer them. Among the Afghans, there was a small family, two sisters and their sister-in-law and her three kids. They didn’t talk too much. They offered us tea. I said “Yes, please.”

My daughter said, “Mom I don’t want tea. I want to eat.” I couldn’t keep my promise to take her to McDonalds, because S’Gravendeel, where the camp was located, is a very small town far from everything. We heard from other Afghans in the camp that we would be served dinner at 5:00. When the time came, my husband went to get food from the kitchen. We were served fried chicken and French fries, and since my daughter loved fries, she was very excited and wanted to eat with both hands. She was trilling. I was happy too, since I thought they would serve the same menu or better than this every day, but the other days were terrible. They only had chicken and fries once a week. Anyway, our first night was wonderful, and on the second day I went outside the cabin and had a look around our neighborhood. There were almost fifty cabins, and it was nice.

Ali’s Story

During the second night, we were sleeping. It was midnight, cold and quiet. I heard someone screaming and swearing in Arabic. I didn’t understand a single word, but I knew his blood boiled with anger. I sat up and asked my husband, “What is wrong?”

He said, “Don’t worry, some Arab is drunk,” and I wondered: “An Arab is drunk?” Because they are Muslim, they are not supposed to drink.

A terrible sound of breaking glass interrupted my thoughts and my daughter ran from her room, saying, “Mom, what is this? What is wrong? Why is this man screaming and why did he break glass?”

I took her in my arms and said, “Don’t worry, dear, Papa will find out.” Then we heard again his swearing and glass breaking; the sound was getting closer and closer. My heart was beating fast, and my husband wanted to go out of the cabin to find out what was happening. My daughter and I were trilling, and I said, “No, don’t go, it may be dangerous.” Right then, I saw the family who had offered me tea on my first day at the camp (and who had no male family members) running toward our cabin with their kids in their arms. My husband opened the door and they jumped in. They couldn’t speak and their faces were bleak. The sound was getting worse and closer. I asked, “What is this?” They were frightened. They didn’t answer me.

The sound was so close; it was only two cabins away from us, and there was a distance of almost ten meters between each cabin. Then we could see him; he had a cricket bat in his hand. He tried to break our neighbor’s window. Then we saw a few strong policemen attack him from behind, take the bat from him, push him down and handcuff him within a fraction of a second. We were amazed; my God, they were so fast, like in Hollywood movies. I have never seen police in Afghanistan work like this. It was a totally different way of arresting someone. The police didn’t beat him. He was not struggling any more. A policeman helped him up. Everyone started breathing and making tiny movements.

My daughter took a deep breath and said: “Look, Mom, the policemen took the bad guy with them. Now nobody is going to break our windows.” Her words broke the silence in our room.

The other kid, emerging from her mom’s arms, said, “He was not a bad man. He was nice to us but I don’t know what happened to him. Why did he break the windows?”

Her mom said: “Sorry to bother you this late. Once he reached our cabin and start breaking our windows, I took my kids and ran away and came to your house.”

I said, “No, no. Please, it’s fine. Your kids were scared. Did you know him? Why he has done this?”

His name, she said, was Ali Al-Hussein. “Almost everyone in this camp knows him. We have heard a lot about his case and his problems. He always gave candies or lollypops to my daughter; he loved her so much. Once I told him ‘Please don’t give sweets to my daughter,’ and he looked dreadfully at me and said, ‘She is nice. I like her.’ After a few second silence, he said, ‘She looks like my daughter. May Allah take care of your daughter. It is so difficult to lose your four-year-old daughter. She was very sweet and innocent.’ Tears welled up in his eyes. He was shaking his head while he walked away.”

“How did his daughter die?” I asked.

“He comes from Iraq. He is Shia. He had a daughter of four and a son of two. He lost his daughter, his mother and his brother while he was in jail in Iraq.”

“Why was he in jail?” I asked.

She told me Ali was arrested in 1993 by Saddam Hussein’s government. He said there was a Shia leader in their town, and everyone respected him, but in 1992 he was arrested with almost twenty-five people from his town. One of them was Ali. He was not involved with the leader, but since he was an educated and bright man, they took him to the prison too. When he got arrested, his wife was pregnant with his son. In jail, they tortured him and gave him electric shocks; they even gave shocks on his tongue. That is why he couldn’t talk properly. One day in 1995, his wife came to visit him in jail. She had dark circles around her puffy eyes. When he looked at her, she started crying. Her legs were shaking; her lips were dry. Ali understood something was wrong. He was holding his wife’s shoulders and shaking her, saying, “Tell me what is wrong? Tell me, talk to me.”

His wife said, “Our son was sick; I didn’t sleep the whole night. After morning prayers, I went to hospital. I was in hospital until 9:00 a.m. When I returned home, I saw a crowd around our home. I thought you may have come back. Then I thought, why everyone is looking at me with their frightening eyes? I didn’t have the power to walk. My legs were shaking. I put my energy and power together to walk faster. Everyone was quiet like a statue. When I reached where my house was supposed to be, I saw my mother and sister crying. They started yelling loudly and said: ‘Oh, my poor daughter, you lost your everything. What is wrong with your fortune? You become lonely, even your husband is not with you so that you could share your sorrow with him. Oh, my poor girl.’ I was looking for our house, but there was no house anymore, just burned off pieces of our house. In a few hours my house burned down. They told me I lost my daughter and my in-laws.”

Ali was crying and yelling, “Why, Allah, why? What was my baby doll’s fault? She was innocent like a bird. Why, Allah, why?” He was smashing his head against the wall and crying. A few guards and detainees came to calm him, but he was crying, and saying, “Sakina, my sweetheart, my angel, I was dreaming of coming out of jail and visiting you. I wanted to see you growing. I was wondering how big you had become.” Even the guards and other detainees were crying. Perhaps the sky was crying too. His words had touched the entire sphere.

TO BE CONTINUED…

By Elay

Music is Not Prohibited

We have a saying: music is the soul’s nutrition. It is so true. My soul always feels hungry to listen to music. Music is my companion in my loneliness.

Seventeen years ago, I left my motherland in hopes of having a safe and secure life. My family and I were very close. For the first time, I had to leave my family without any hopes of seeing them again. When I left, I was so depressed. I cried a lot. I wanted to be with them like a baby who always feels safe in her mom’s arms. Sometimes I looked at the sky with tears in my eyes and talked to the stars and moon: “You are so beautiful and calm. You kindle our dark nights. You make the dark sky glow with your borrowed light. You cover the whole world. Can you do me a favor? Please tell my mom and my sisters that I missed them so much. Convey my regards to them.”

I was very lonesome away from Afghanistan and felt like listening to music, but we didn’t have enough money to buy a music player. One night I couldn’t sleep. I went outside and sat in the dark. Everyone was sleeping, and there were no cars on the street. The silence of the night relaxed me. I could hear the voices of nature. I heard the wind blowing among the trees. It gave a nice sound like a viol. It touched my heart. I closed my eyes. I focused and tried to concentrate. Then I heard the sound of a waterfall and, far away, the distant tone of frogs. All together, it reverberated like Beethoven’s romantic and relaxing music, full of love, inspiration, delight, enjoyment and pleasure. It is not necessary to understand the language of the singer; your soul and heart can feel the inspiration of the music.

At that point, I realized I had relaxed and my head was not heavy anymore. I realized that the world is so beautiful, nature is full of cheer, and those voices which were created by nature calmed and delighted me.

When I came back to Afghanistan after seventeen years, my lovely mother had suffered a terrible sickness and died, and my sisters had gone to other countries. As we Muslims believe in destiny, it was my destiny to be lonely and far from my family. When I feel lonely, I always listen to music.

I don’t understand why fundamentalist Muslims say music is haram (religiously prohibited.) I asked them, but no one had a proper answer. They said: “God prohibited it and we don’t want to listen to it.” Unbelievable. If music is rest-giving and soothing, then why is it prohibited? When nature creates music with waves, blowing wind, singing birds, then why is it prohibited? I am Muslim but will not believe it. God created the world, the birds, the water, the sky and human beings. All these elements make sounds. God will never make a mistake. Music is not prohibited. God created it.

By Elay

Refugee Camp in Holland – Part One

It was a cold winter day when we arrived. The city was still and calm, the roads nicely asphalted and lined. We walked towards the police building where we had to submit our request. Going to the police frightened me. I had a painful picture in my mind. I had the feeling I was going to jail, or that they may treat us like criminals. In my confused mind, I likened those organized roads to Kabul’s dusty, chaotic roads.

When we entered the building, despite my fears, the policemen were nice and patient towards us. A nurse came to me, smiling, and said with a peaceful voice, “May I help you?” She took my three-month-old baby in her arms and said, “She is so innocent and nice.” She guided me to a warm room especially designed for children. She gave my four-year-old daughter cookies, and asked, “What is your name, gorgeous?” My daughter was looking at the nurse with a surprised expression and shook her head. I said: “Nilab, she is asking your name. Please tell her what is your name.” My daughter answered in trembling voice: “Nilab.”

“Beautiful, beautiful name,” the nurse said, and asked me if my daughter wanted to play with toys. Again, Nilab shook her head; she didn’t want to play; she was not used to playing with toys. The nurse turned to my baby, and said softly, “Oh dear, you are tired, you need a bath.” She began giving my baby a bath. She changed her clothes and diaper. While she was doing this, I was looking at all those items for kids: a small bath, soft beds, toys for different ages. On one wall hung kids’ drawings. One of those drawings was horrible. It showed fire, demolished houses, injured people, a lady’s dead body and a crying child. Can you imagine a child drawing an awful picture like this? You could read the child’s mind so easily. I was thinking about children growing up in war. Do these children ever have a toy? Do they ever have a bath with warm water? No. Suddenly I wanted to talk to the European children and tell them, “You are lucky. You are in safe hands. You should be thankful for your governments.”

I was struggling with my thoughts when that nice voice interrupted me: “What is her name?” I asked, “Whose name?” “Your daughter’s. She is amazing. She has got sharp eyes.” “Laila. Her name is Laila.” “Beautiful, beautiful name,” the nurse said and added, “While the baby is sleeping, you can leave her here. Once she wakes up, you can take her with you.” Since my baby was in deep sleep, I asked the nurse if she could look after her. She said, “Of course, that is why we are here.”

She guided us nicely to the waiting room. I wanted to take hot shower and have a rest, but it was not possible. They had just two big sleeping rooms for men and women. In the waiting room, the chairs were uncomfortable and small. After two days, my whole body was stiff and in pain.

When I entered the waiting room, everyone was staring at me as if I had bad news for them. Between those worried eyes, I saw my husband with his half-opened mouth and an anxious look. “Where have you been?” he asked. “In child services. Why? What is wrong?” “I thought they called you for an interview,” he said. But it was not that easy. When we spoke to others, we learned everyone had been waiting for their interviews for more than 48 hours. My God, I thought, how can I spend two days in this waiting room on these plastic chairs?

They didn’t serve warm meals, just a bottle of cold milk, an apple, two slices of bread and a piece of cheese. We were not allowed to go outside the compound, so we couldn’t buy our own food. I hate milk products and so does my daughter. When I shared the problem with the guards, they said, “Sorry, we can’t do anything.” So we didn’t eat proper food for more than 48 hours. I felt cold from the inside. By the second day, my daughter was speechless. She was watching me but never said anything, as if she understood the situation. She didn’t mention that she wanted to eat.

On second day, they called us for an interview. The interview was strange. They asked odd questions like: “Why did you leave your country? Couldn’t you live in Pakistan?” I was upset and mad. I said, “Don’t you know what is going on in my country and who is responsible? Haven’t you read Geneva’s agreements for refugees? First you have to read them, and then ask us questions like this. No one will never ever leave their motherland and chose another country. It is like replacing your mother with another. No one will prefer another mother, even if this mother is kinder, nicer and richer than your own mom. Believe me, sir, we are not here because your country is nice, modern and rich. I love my destroyed country more than Europe. You should know, sir, who is responsible for destroying my motherland, who killed our parents, our youngsters.”

The interrogator listened with unfeeling eyes. Then he said, “These questions are part of our investigation. You have to answer them.” So I said, “No, sir, I couldn’t live in Pakistan, it is not safe.”

There were many other odd questions and odd answers. Then they took our fingerprints and gave us ID cards. On the third day, we were in the waiting room when a policeman entered, called our names and said, “Follow me.” God, I wondered, what will be the next step?

By Elay