Afghan Women's Writing Project
Heaven is beneath a mother’s feet,
sing the Afghan men softly sing into our ears.
That winter was cold and icy. Your room was dark even with the small lantern, but you and grandfather brightened the surroundings with your kindness, stories, and the prayers.
I am one of those women with a wild imagination.
I want to see women running in the park,
unburdened by worries that someone may judge them.
Some comments praised the singer for her beauty or expressed their love for her, but many expressed hatred.
You are not here to drink tea with me and laugh at our favorite show
We had been living outside of Herat in the house my father built for only a few months when the Taliban took control.
A few months after we arrived, on a night filled with fear and gunfire, the Taliban reached Herat. From our house, we could see the hills where Ismail Khan’s forces were fighting the Taliban.
I sit at the corner of my room
Staring at my pale chicken soup
My books scattered around me
“Women are like a jar of honey, the jar should be always closed; otherwise men, who are like flies, will gather around the honey,” the man tells me.
I felt a rebellious energy inside me. I pulled back my hand with strength. I stood, without any thought and fear, and I cried, “I want to get off.”
History is changed by the small actions of ordinary people. —Zahra A.
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