On a dusty summer afternoon, I stood against a cracked wall, watching people hurry by. Women and men passed me as if I were invisible. My hand rested on my little boy’s shoulder to keep him close in the crowd. My daughter stood behind me, quietly whispering something to herself.
It had been a long time since I dared to stretch out my hand or ask for anything. Ever since the day the Taliban shouted at me and drove me away from the bakery, I couldn’t bring myself to beg again. That day, one of them barked at me:
“If women want work, they should stay home! If they want bread, let God provide it!”
But I had no home to go back to. No roof under which to call on God. Not even an old rug to sit on and hold my knees. That torn tent on the edge of the bus terminal was all we had now.
One day, when I decided to take quieter streets, hoping to find work in someone’s home, one of them blocked my way. He looked at me with merciless eyes and said:
“A wandering woman is like a stray dog. Shame on you!”
That day I turned back and collapsed behind the same wall. My daughter placed my head on her knees and said:
“Mama, can we go somewhere else tomorrow? Everyone here just curses at us.”
I didn’t know what to say. All I could manage was: “Tomorrow… maybe.”
I have no husband. The year our city filled with smoke and explosions, I saw him in pieces at the hospital. Since then, no one brings us bread or pays the rent. I heard a few times that the Taliban give aid to women, but every time I went, they said:
“Your name is not on the list. Leave.”
At night, I often wake to the sound of my children crying. Their empty stomachs pound on my chest like a hammer. I’ve stared at God so much and received nothing that now I feel ashamed even to pray.
A few days ago, when I went back to the market to try and find work, a man said to me:
“Why do you bring your children? Let them play in the alleys.”
How could he know that if they’re not with me, the Taliban might take them? How could he know that if I’m alone, someone will come and say:
“A woman like you should not be outside.”
Still, I wander this city. With bare feet, smelling of sweat and dust, carrying a lump in my throat that falls asleep with me and my children each night.
I am still alive. Still a shadow on the pavement.
I have no work. I do not beg. But every day they pass by me with looks full of contempt, never knowing that I’m just a woman who wants her children to eat… without fear, without humiliation.
