I see from / the windows of my burqa / but I do not see. / Where is the sky?
The world is not so big for me
The Cemetery of My Identity
February 19, 2010 6 Comments
Poor Orphan
February 18, 2010 Leave a Comment
A Disabled Girl
February 18, 2010 2 Comments
“Then I went to my new husband’s house. When I arrived, a few women welcomed me. I went to my room and sat waiting for my husband. Suddenly the door opened and an old man entered. He was around 55 years old. I said: ‘Hi uncle!’ He looked at me for one second and then he slapped me. I fell down and I said “Why? What is wrong?’ He said: ‘I am your husband, not your uncle.’”
Change Our Story
February 18, 2010 Leave a Comment
Do Not Shake My Hand, Please!
February 17, 2010 4 Comments
“I did something I should not have,” she said, lowering her eyes. “There was a foreign man in the interview. He gave me his hand to shake. And Freshta-jan, I gave him my hand. I didn’t want him to think I am dark-minded, like a Taliban. He doesn’t know that me shaking his hand is forbidden by our religion and culture.”
The Day They Took My Father
February 16, 2010 20 Comments
I saw the two armed men standing beside my father’s bed. One removed the blanket from his face, holding the gun in his other hand. The other had a machine gun. Suddenly, he woke up. I will on no account and by no means ever forget his anxious look and worried face. Then his expression changed as if he knew what was going on.
Leaving Home for Kabul
February 15, 2010 2 Comments
I will never forget the day I left the room of my childhood to go out into the world of adulthood. I was nineteen years old and headed to Kabul to study on my own. I felt happy but, at same time, sad. I couldn’t believe I was departing. Everything was in its place, and I was leaving almost everything behind. I cried but felt I couldn’t tell anyone that I would miss my room. I was supposed to feel happy going to a new world, so I tried to leave my sad face behind too.
My Country
February 14, 2010 1 Comment
La Stampa: translation into Italian of Sabira’s poem
February 13, 2010
Fatima, Victim of Caprice
February 13, 2010 3 Comments
I lost my mother when I was 18 and was the only girl in my family, living with my father and seven brothers. I worked as a tailor earning enough money to satisfy any personal needs. My father, a civil servant, was kind and did not press me into accepting any of the many marriage proposals that came my way. I did not tell my father, but I had my own idea of the type of man I wanted to marry—my very own dream person. I was determined I would hold out marrying until I met the person who was exactly like the one I had created in my mind.
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