"Women in the Chains of Apartheid: The Narrative of Women's Life in the Safe House"

Ahmad Shaker Mon Nov 2024 1 week ago 106

The night before, M.J. (Girl), who had escaped from the Taliban area and was killed with her child who was killed as a result of the rape of her brother-in-law, with a shattered psyche (he thinks everyone is an infidel, a part of her brain as a child due to brainwashing (Nani Babu), a woman who was responsible for financing the Taliban in the same village in Peshawar and was also preparing a group of 20 girls to wage jihad against the Kabul government. can be logical, but at night, his trained personality becomes active, and if they do not take care of him, he attacks the person whose jihadist mind has targeted him with the intention of killing. And in the upstairs house, where he sleeps in two rooms, he came to me with a knife to kill me. I'm almost not afraid anymore, I'm just tired.

I have my son, who is 8 years old, with me by the force of the mediator and the respectful attitude that the officials of the house have towards me (boys are allowed to be in a women's shelter with their mother until the age of 7, and most of it is non-Shariah). At every moment, I have to take care of my eight-year-old son so that he does not get hot with girls who are teenagers, otherwise we will all fall into sin, and this will cause moral tensions among sixty violent and abused Muslim women.

More than the religious sensitivity of women, the pressure of the assassination of the character of the Mullah community outside the shelter, which made the people of the house unworthy, criminals, and involved in a cycle of moral corruption (as a result of the long rumors, it was believed that the shelter was a sex market for civilian and government men at night. 

What is your crime for coming here? They knew that they had automatically created an atmosphere for each other to forbid vice and had formed another cycle of self-censorship, interrogation, control, and actual tyranny against each other, and they were grinding each other to the bone.

In the corner of the relatively large living room, where we usually gathered to eat and chirp (which were usually the bites caused by the traumas of the apartheid space and emptied each other), there was a 65-inch TV that was said to be turned on less.

The Herati girl (who had been interested in me from the very first day like Rosalia, the orphan child in the series "The Court Cook") opened her mouth to the painless complaints: "No one is allowed to watch TV because they think they are misleading, you have to wake up in the middle of the night for the prayer of repentance, and in the morning you have to pray repentance." The fog does not wake up. No matter how much M.Q. scolds and curses me, I don't wake up.

I ask, well, why?

He says: "My father married the 2nd wife and left us for God's protection, he cared about my brother, my sisters and my mother and I were left hungry and naked. I made a decision with myself. I decided to learn how to climb a wall and jump down heights away from the eyes of my family. A year later, I went to the hairdresser to cut my hair, there was a lot of money, and the barber who was chatting, I picked up my father's beard car, cut my hair, put on my brother's clothes, and hit the road with a bag of some bread, money, and my brother's clothes.

I asked, "Did you face any danger?"

He said: "I worked a lot, I did most of the bakery and hotel dishwashers until I joined the group of bag-cutters." Her eyes had a subdued ache that was reminiscent of the bitter experiences of a little girl in the wolf-filled alleys.

He said, "My father found my footprint and took me straight to the mosque." The mullah gathered the people and said, "This girl has been washed for a long time because she is nine years old. One of them got up and said, "Mullah Sahib, would you marry such a girl to yourself or to the man of your house?" He was expelled from the mosque. The mullah kept me to the mosque and sent me home for dinner. I was beaten and at four o'clock in the morning, they tied a tent and sent me to the mosque to start my school lessons. I had studied in school for five years, I was literate, I knew how to ride a bicycle, and I missed the school, its dry environment, and its harsh lessons, so I ran away again. At the end of that year, the women brought me here to the safe house. No one sends me to school here, I feel unemployed, if you didn't come yourself, tomorrow I would have decided to jump over the wall and go to work.

I gave him the book of Deruza from among my books that I had brought with me and asked him to teach me how to ride a bicycle, which made him proud. I called Zahedeh to bring me a cheap second-hand bicycle, which he brought two days later. He spent fifteen days teaching it to me, and I was deliberately lazy so that he would always engage in conversations with me that had been in his heart for years. Four women, who hid their yellow colors and tired eyes under thick makeup and were called masters, would come in the morning until 4 p.m. and spend time with the women. Master S.A. seemed to be the most authoritative of all, and he followed most of his clothes, watching television, talking secretly, and appointing spies among women.

Trainer M.J., who was a police in the Ministry of Interior, used to work in that house in the morning to check the prayers, clothes, and curses forbidding vice, and he would curse most of the teenage girls, who were seven or eight, for salting their breasts as they descended the stairs, so that the twelve-year-old girl would take off her new pacifiers after the first humiliation. When the master was coming down the stairs with the runner, he burst into tears. Master S.A. was a young woman with a dice on her head and two children. Most of the time she came every day and stayed at night, she was a poor girl who had a poor family who had a defective son (who had lost all his genitals and testicles in the bomb explosion) who had been enslaved in order to meet the needs of her family. Now, he was under the control and supervision of the man all the time, lest he interacted with anyone, and he was subjected to psychological torture every day and physical torture once or twice a month.

One day, I wore a Borqa, went to the bazaar (I wore a Borqa, in the last two years of the republic's term, to hide my identity) and bought things for women from the handy sellers. I bought Negin Red earrings and rings because they were white and they definitely showed it. I distributed the gifts, but I saw that N.H. did not come to eat at night and had closed the door of the room behind him. I asked him what had happened, why had he imprisoned himself?

N.H. took the beautiful woman from Paktia because her beautiful hands attracted the gaze of strangers while taking water from the spring, the husband and his brother decided to cut off N.H.'s hands and ears with knives to prevent any kind of sin and dishonor. And unaware of this tragedy, I had not listened to him, and his traumatized hands had bought ornaments, refreshed his wounds, and conveyed a sense of insult to him.

On my Facebook I had to curse the terrorists, on my phone I was looking for solutions with dozens of women who were looking for a way out of their husbands' poisonous homes, and at home I was tolerant of dozens of traumatized women and children who were frightened. They were staying.

The house was filled and emptied every two months. Different cases, different pains, but the same cause and reason.

The Islamic Republic's constitution was written on the basis of Sharia law that men had the right to beat women.

Women had to submit to the unconditional presidency of the man of the house.


Women did not have the right to divorce and if they asked for a divorce, they would lose their children and everything they had built during the period of housekeeping (I saw a 60-year-old woman who had been stoned to death by her husband at one o'clock in the morning and had called my mother with shaky legs on the side of the road without money or shelter to let her into her house for God's sake). They carried the rusty man of the house on his neck and gave birth like a cow, ate wood, gave sex service and cooked because they had to. The gender apartheid system would take away the pieces of their liver as soon as they protested and moved, from starvation to prostitution, begging, enduring servitude in the homes of relatives and relatives, or remarrying, which was a repetition of another endless bitterness.

I saw women wandering in the courts for ten years after getting their divorce papers, and some of them were psychologically shooting themselves in the brain.

The circle of male violence had helped to nurture violent women, so that there was no need for the man in the house to torture the family for civil liberties and the exercise of the woman's basic rights, and mothers-in-law, mothers, and women, who had little control over the kitchen switch, did not shy away from the values and legacies of gender apartheid that weakened violence against women and children.


A book from a woman in exile

To be continued

This picture is from six years ago, when I am 33 years old, I was made with my children after 20 years of struggle against gender apartheid in the assassination list of the Quetta Taliban Council, and I have made a black game: (Kill him and claim that the enemies of the homeland have killed him so that the government will be defamed and the government will kill him so that the blackened will be blacker) I am in a safe house and Farzaneh Vahedi, a photographer who has been following my activities for many years. She has come to see me.

Ahmad Shaker Sangi

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