New Year’s greetings to our regular readers and new ones as well. We picked up steam as 2009 ended. Stronger pieces than ever were turned out by our Afghan writers, guided by our generous teachers who squeezed in time for this project even through the holidays. Only a handful of the blog entries can be highlighted below; please use this as a starting point. Consider circulating this newsletter to anyone you think might be interested; supportive comments mean a lot to these women, many of whom are claiming their own stories for the first time.
In addition to many generous donations from individuals, AWWP received a grant from the Smith Richardson Foundation. For this, we are grateful both to the foundation and Project Director Ann Blackman, who has been reaching out in all directions to help secure laptops for our writers and fund a women’s only Internet café in Kabul. Fundraising efforts continue, and we hope to see the Internet café made a reality this year.
Several news organizations reported on our work over the last month. I’ll quote from one, Elan Magazine: “Even before the war in Afghanistan began in 2001, I’ve been wary of white women bemoaning the plight of Afghan women from the cushy seats of their living room sofas. It is the sort of misguided Western feminism that looks down on the Muslim woman as an object of pity …But this week, “Al Jazeera” reported on a project called The Afghan Women’s Writing Project which might actually make this cynic into a believer.”
I told my mom: “Please give me a chance. I don’t like this man. I can’t marry him. If you want to sell me, then I am ready to buy myself … I am like a piece of cloth. I cost little. Who will buy me?
I was helpless, but mad. I shouted: “Open the door and come help me. My mom is in a coma,” and I knocked on the door with a stone. After a few minutes, he opened the door, saw I was crying, and came out. “Where is your mom?” I pointed and he came and I took my mom’s hands and he took my mom’s legs, and in this way we moved Mom to the emergency room.
One day, one of my friends asked me, “Why are you crying?” … I just looked at her and said, “I am a loser.” She laughed very loudly and said, “No, you’re not a loser. You’re the best. You just have to kill silence. You have to speak up.”
Sitara’s father forbid her to attend school … The day she got burned, it was her father who burned her, her father who killed her. When he burned her, he forbid her to go to the hospital because of the male doctors there.
During the second night, I awoke at midnight to hear 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?”
Everyone else ran for three hours, but I could not run more than two laps. I fainted in the first hour and could not move. When I opened my eyes, I was in my warm, cozy bed, and I had not made it onto the team. I was very discouraged.
Maxinne Rhea Leighton is the author of the award-winning “An Ellis Island Christmas.” She recently completed her masters at New York University.
When I began my teaching rotation, I had just returned from a trip to the Middle East. While there are many things about this trip and my travels during the conflict in the former Yugoslavia that are similar, the most important, within the context of my teaching rotation, is this: there exists at a core level, an inexorable place of understanding between women, and their stories, that transcends a common language or place of origin. In working within this four-week module, there was never a sense of there not being enough time to develop the work or to get to know each other. Rather the immediacy of both the writing and the exchanges between “student” and “teacher” produced work and “conversations” between us that bypassed the intellect and went straight to the authentic voice. Though the time in the rotation is transitory, the experience with the women you are working with is not. I credit not just these women but Masha, who with an almost invisible hand asked the question periodically, “Is it blog ready?” This gave a critical anchor and momentum to the work. It is also a good way to transition an experience focused on one individual’s voice, and opening it up to the larger AWWP community. As the work is shared on the blog another level of exchange happens between the women. It’s a good structural framework for building strength and reliance from within. I think that is really pretty fantastic. It has been a great privilege to work with you –Yagana, Fatima, Masha and Ted. Thank you.
Susannah W. Simpson is a teacher and poet who spent her formative years in Kabul. Her poems about Afghanistan have been published by Nimrod International and Weber: Contemporary West.
I do not own a Blackberry, an IPod or even a plasma screen TV and I will text a message on my phone only if I am really pressed to do so. An electronic Luddite at heart, I bought up all the classic movies on video cassette when my local video store was going out of business. Yes, I still watch movies on my VCR. So when an opportunity came along to teach “on-line” for the AWWP, I was a little skittish. I asked myself, “Do I have the techno skills?” As a result of participating, I have a developed a new and profound gratitude for the internet and for its attendant technology and I have never been more convinced of the importance of the phrase: “Keeping lines of communication open.”
I am stunned by the immediacy and power of writing to one another some 6,731.43 miles away. Given the stumbling blocks of distance, politics, and culture, in what other fashion could I read the intimate thoughts and feelings of my sister writers in Afghanistan? In a matter of minutes, our messages reach around the planet and weave bonds of recognition and sameness. If isolation is a soul-killer then this internet-based program is most assuredly a savior. My life has been softened and enlarged by this (albeit electronic) experience, and as corny as this may sound, I now look up at the moon, think about moonlight over Kabul and feel a personal connection to the women writers in Kabul. How is this anything but a blessing? Thank you for this.
Contact AWWP:
For more information on the Afghan Women’s Writing Project please contact:
The Afghan Women’s Writing Project Masha Hamilton, Project Founder
686 Sterling Place Brooklyn, New York 11216
Phone: 917.821.6119 / Email: masha@mashahamilton.com
The Afghan Women’s Writing Project was begun as a way to allow the voices of Afghan women – too often silenced – to enter the world directly, without any mediation. This project is possible only because of the outstanding American women authors and teachers who generously donate their time and energy. Additionally, the tireless contributions of webmaster extraordinaire Jeff Lyons, web designer Rose Daniels and our technical director Terry Dougherty have been crucial. Photography thanks and credit goes to Kathleen Rafiq and Heidi Levine. Our inspiring partners are SOLA and the Peter M. Goodrich Memorial Foundation; please visit their websites.
Donations:
Online Donations for Afghan Women Writers:
Many of our students and women writers, especially outside of Kabul, cannot get to an Internet cafe due to security considerations. A laptop at home and a jump drive would allow them to write their pieces, and then ask a male relative to send the work at an Internet cafe. A $20 donation will buy a flash drive and $500 in donations will buy a laptop for our women writers. No contribution is too small. Thank you for considering it.
Your tax deductible credit card donation will be handled by The Goodrich Foundation’s secure Paypal payment.
To stay informed about the latest news, events, and other developments with the Afghan Women’s Writing Project, please CLICK below and join our mailing list. We appreciate your support.
I told my mom: “Please give me a chance. I don’t like this man. I can’t marry him. If you want to sell me, then I am ready to buy myself … I am like a piece of cloth. I cost little. Who will buy me?
I was helpless, but mad. I shouted: “Open the door and come help me. My mom is in a coma,” and I knocked on the door with a stone. After a few minutes, he opened the door, saw I was crying, and came out. “Where is your mom?” I pointed and he came and I took my mom’s hands and he took my mom’s legs, and in this way we moved Mom to the emergency room.
One day, one of my friends asked me, “Why are you crying?” … I just looked at her and said, “I am a loser.” She laughed very loudly and said, “No, you’re not a loser. You’re the best. You just have to kill silence. You have to speak up.”
