This is a story about Farzana, translated by her daughter Zarghuna and written up by Maya Evans.
When I was six, life was good; I didn’t know anything outside my mother and father’s world. In the village where I lived it was possible to see the mud houses from far away. The Baba Mountains stretched forever into the distance. In spring everything was lush green, the water flowed from the mountains feeding the stream in front of our house, all the time you could hear water flowing. People worked hard on the land every day in the mountains herding sheep and goats or working in the shops at the Bazaar. Women made bread in tandoors. Life in the village of Topi was hard but people were happy.
I had just started school for maybe a month when the war started. The Russians had come to Bamiyan and it was the beginning of war for Afghanistan. When the helicopters started to drop bombs on our village the people fled to the mountains to live in caves. Sometimes two families would live in a cave for two or three months. We loaded food and blankets onto a donkey and crossed the rocky mountain paths to the safety of the caves. During the day the men would go out to cut alfalfa and the women sometimes travelled back to the farms to collect vegetables. I stayed in the cave and played with my dolls and my siblings, an older sister and two big brothers.
It took a long time for the Russian war to end, maybe two or three presidents passed. It was hard growing up under constant pressure. People were always afraid and they couldn’t travel freely. When I was 12, I got to travel with my grandmother to Kabul when it was under the control of the Russian “iron fist.” Although Kabul was full of Russians then, and “bad men” who would beat people, Afghan women wore short skirts and sometimes didn’t wear head scarves. I remember once being on a bus and a woman admired my handmade scarf from Bamiyan. The woman stroked it and said she had never seen a scarf like mine and asked me to bring one back from Bamiyan for her.
Kabul was clean then, not like today. The rivers, which now contain more rubbish than water, were a source of life and leisure for Afghans, with people fishing on the banks and even swimming. The streets weren’t crowded and the air was clean. I remember seeing the Russian tanks leaving to fight in the Panjsheer valley. When the soldiers left they were happy, but when they returned they were beaten, carrying their dead and wounded from a battle. This victory made the Tajik Commander Ahmed Sheer Mahsood’s name, forever glorified in Afghan history as “The Lion of the Panjsheer.”
After the war, people were very poor and there wasn’t much food. Many Afghans became refugees in Iran, including my two brothers. One of my brothers travelled on foot in women’s clothing to avoid being forced to become a fighter. Those still living in the village returned to work on their farms, growing potatoes and wheat, and keeping cows. My grandmother and I planned to follow my brothers, but my older sister, who had recently married in Kabul, fell pregnant, so my grandmother stayed to help her with the baby.
By the time that war ended, I was 13 and it was decided that I should marry. It was autumn when I married. It was an exciting day and although it wasn’t my decision, I realized I had to accept it. My husband Rahmony was around 19 years old and was handsome and kind. We had grown up in the same village so I already knew him. Everyone knew everyone in the village as there were only around 32 families.
My mother and father-in-law brought candies to the wedding and threw them in the air like confetti. The women played the doryha drum and danced, while they sang a special coming of age song. When I went to live with her husband’s family, it was very difficult as it was a big family, he had three brothers and four sisters plus grandparents. One of the brothers had already married so his wife also lived in the house. My husband was gentle and he would sweep the floor and cook. His brother would say he was not a real man, but I loved him and appreciated his kindness. Unlike other husbands he never beat me.
Every day I washed the clothes, collected alfalfa off the land, and milked the sheep and cows. The alfalfa naturally grew near the potatoes and wheat and we knew that the crops would grow strong if the alfalfa grew. The men were all farmers and would spend the day working on the land.
Then the fighting started again and many of the men joined the Mujahuddin, but not Rahmony, he stayed to work on the land as he didn’t like the violence.
The men would mainly fight each other in the mountains, but sometimes violence came to the village. I often saw flame throwers – canisters of gas propelled through the air by a flame. The fighting was between five groups and they would fire at anyone who was walking around. The different groups were drawn up along ethnic lines and were supported by different countries. “Nasar” were helped by the Americans; “Harakat” and “Scepor” were backed by Iran; “Jamyat” were Tajik and Pashtoon; and there was also “Shora.” They all fought in the “Jang-e-dohkhely” – the “war inside.”
I heard from the people in my village that America was a country far away, but I didn’t know where. I heard the names of other countries, like Iran, Russia, and Pakistan, but only when people in the village talked about where the weapons came from.
I was 15 when my first child Khamed was born. Life was hard because of the Mujahuddin, but because of my husband Rahmony I was happy. A year later my second son Lolla was born, then four years later my first daughter Zarghuna was our third blessing.
After the Mujahuddin things weren’t clear. Najibullah became president, and I thought he was good for the people. I remember listening to the radio at home, being warmed by the flames of our stove. I heard Najibullah’s voice crackling through the radio, with his message urging for peace and asking the fighters in the mountains to come down, to have peace and life. But they did not listen. I didn’t understand why they continued to fight, maybe it had something to do with the business of weapons, but I don’t know.
By this point my second daughter Karima had arrived, and then my younger sons Abdul and Arif making six. Life for me was the same; I still went out to collect alfalfa for the cows, washed clothes, and looked after my family. My eldest daughter Zarghuna adored her father and never liked to be separated from him. Sometimes he liked to sleep outside under the stars, and although she was afraid of the worms in the ground, she would insist on sleeping next to him, lulled to sleep by the sound of the stream running past their home. Rahmony was keen for his daughters to attend school. It was he who enrolled Zarghuna at age six, and it was him who often fetched her from school.
And then the Taliban came to Kabul.
I had heard from others in the village that the Taliban killed everyone, especially the Hazaras, but I did not believe these stories. Then, one day, men from the Mujahuddin returned to the village and said the Taliban were coming, and that even they were afraid. At first the Talibs arrived by car and then on horseback. They carried guns and long knives. I realised then that the stories I had heard were true.
There was no time, it was chaos. Rahmony and I collected up all our children, except for Khamed and Abdul who were missing. But the family had to flee for their lives – immediately. During the day we crossed mountains, and that night we saw the smoke of burning houses which the Taliban had set alight. We had nearly escaped to the safety of the mountain tops where the Taliban would not find us.
We were not the only family who were fleeing. In our group were Rahmony’s brother and his family, plus two other men. We walked for nearly a day when we became aware of the voices of Talibs close by, so we crouched in the shady shadows under an overhanging cliff. Everyone was frozen to their hiding space. Karima said that she was thirsty, but still we didn’t move as we could sense danger was near. The women were praying that the Taliban would not see them; we needed to stay hidden for just a few more hours and then dusk would hide our escape into the mountains where we would not be found.
A man whom we didn’t know happened to wander past; he wasn’t a Talib and he did not sense the imminent danger. He could see the group sheltering under the rock and called them to come out. His voice cut the silence of the mountains.
I had dressed my young son Lolla in my own clothing so he looked like a girl, but there was no disguising Rahmony, his brother, and the two other men. Zarghuna clung to her father as the Talibs ordered the men out of our hiding place. Rahmony took his scarf and wrapped it around seven-year-old Zarghuna, his daughter who never liked to be away from him; he told her not to be afraid and that he would always be with her.
Five minutes later we heard the sound of gunfire.
The Taliban told the women and children to return home. The shock left me unable talk and my legs stopped working. I had to go down the mountain by dragging myself along the ground. The next day we decided to try and find Rahmony, but it was snowing and very cold. We searched but did not find him.
Rahmony’s mother realized that the men had been killed so she went out to find the bodies. She discovered them not far from where we had been separated; holes were dug, and they were buried at the spot that they had been killed.
Rahmony, my kind and handsome husband, was gone.
Now I had to think about the lives of my six children. At first I didn’t want to tell Arif and Karima that the Taliban had killed their father; plus I still had no news about my eldest son Khamed and four-year-old Abdul. We asked the people returning from the mountains if they had seen them, but they had not. After 20 days, the people in the village said that they must have been killed by the Taliban, but finally after 40 long days, a cousin came to say that they were safe and at an aunt’s house.
Life was nearly impossible without Rahmony. Two of his brothers and his father had also been killed. I asked his remaining family if I could have his share of the land; one of the brothers agreed, but the other did not. But I was now the head of a family, and like an Afghan man, I claimed my piece of land. Security was still bad, the threat of the Taliban still loomed heavily, so we sold our remaining livestock and planned to leave. We bought two sacks of flour for bread and loaded up our donkey. I led my young family as we traveled for weeks; sleeping on hilltops and under the stars, dodging Talibs. Abdul was still a slow walker and Arif had to be carried, but still I kept my family together and safe.
Finally we reached the outskirts of Kabul, and found a kind woman who wanted to share her large house with a family which did not have any men. Her husband and father had both left for Pakistan, leaving her with three children and the house to look after. The room which we were given was beautiful, as the kind woman’s father was rich. Lolla, now 11, managed to get a job in a local shop, and also went to the mountains with Khamed to collect bushes to fuel the tandoor and sell to other families.
We stayed in that house for six months, until relatives in Bamiyan told us it was safe to return, that the Taliban had gone. We made the long journey back to our village, though by now it was winter so the journey was extra arduous. We collected wood and bushes during the day to burn at night.
When we returned to our house we found that someone else had been there. The pictures on the wall had been burnt, a box of clothes which we left in the corner had been thrown outside, and on the floor were bullets. My grandmother told stories of becoming a cook for the Taliban. They would call her “mother,” and bring chicken for her to cook or flour to make bread. The Talibs who occupied the village were different from the Talibs who first came and killed and beat women for not wearing socks. These Talibs accepted my grandmother, and even gave her a new scarf because the one she wore was threadbare.
When the Americans came, the Taliban left in cars with camouflage netting stretched across the roofs.
I remember food parcels being dropped from the sky and one of my neighbors running out into the field, unaware of a land mine which someone had planted during one of the many wars. Then foreign soldiers came but the village people did not ask questions. It was a time of peace, even though everyone was poor and many people had been killed or had left.
Things were expensive. Khamed worked on the land and Lolla sold things on the street like bubblegum, socks, matches, and walnuts – a walnut in its shell was 2 Afghanis (around two cents). Karima and Zarghuna worked at home washing clothes and collecting water from the spring; they also returned to school.
After so much travel and being hungry and scared, we found hope to be alive.
This interview took place when Farzana travelled from Bamiyan to Kabul for Zarghuna’s graduation ceremony. Today the roads from Bamiyan are extremely unsafe as they’re patrolled by the Taliban, ISIS, and criminals. If a bus is stopped people say they are travelling to see family or for hospital, if students or government workers are found they are likely to be executed. If foreigners are discovered they will be kidnapped or killed. A white flag on a house signals the Taliban.
Zarghuna is a member of the Afghan Peace Volunteers; she is the first person in her family to become a college graduate, the first woman in her village and one of the first APVs. She translated her mother’s story and added details from her own recollections. Farzana was extremely proud to see her daughter graduate.
This was also written the week a UNAMA report was published stated that a record number of 3,948 civilians were killed in 2016 and 7,920 injured. Since 2009, the armed conflict in Afghanistan has claimed the lives of 24,841 civilians and injured 45,347 others.
Maya Evans co-coordinates Voices for Creative Nonviolence-UK.