Shades of Dignity

© 2013 . All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/14/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-8210-8 (e)

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

Glossary

About the Authors

In loving Memory of my brother, Zahir Jan

In loving Memory of Dr A. O. Taiwo

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Mamnoon Maqsoodi

Najibullah Musafer

Mirwais Rikab

Farhad Ahmad

Dr Hameed Yar

Shakeer Asifi

Prologue

I sat on the cushion in front of Jasmine and began to tell her the story. To set the scene I began with my general observations about Kabul, the City where I spent my early childhood years, left when the war broke out, and returned to eight years ago.

The story was told to me by the carpenter, family members, and friends. I also obtained extracts from Parwen’s diaries, and some details are from my own recollection of events over a span of twenty years.

I told Jasmine to make herself at home, and asked if she would like some tea.

Shokran Hameed, perhaps later. Some cold water would be just fine for now. she replied, warmly. Jasmine Duffy was fluent in Arabic. Her calm and gentle voice seemed to balance her forthrightness. I had heard a lot about her and had seen her many times on TV. She was a renowned journalist from Canada; roughly in her mid fifties, with a physically fit appearance. Quite colourful. She wore a long dark pink skirt, a mustered colour flowing blouse with quarter length sleeves, and a matching headscarf.

Jasmine had come to Kabul to do a story about the life of Afghan women, an issue that has been close to my heart since I was a child of about seven years old.

As I approached the living room with her glass of water I noticed that she was adjusting her blouse. Then she began to fiddle around with her scarf. She looked quite uncomfortable, but then tilted her head backwards, stretching her neck fully to allow the breeze from the ceiling fan to cool her down. It blew through her thick, dark grey hair and unravelled her scarf. That’s better, she sighed, smiling, as I walked in.

Would you like me to turn up the fan? I asked, placing the glass down gently beside her on the oakwood stool my uncle had made.

Yes please, I’m not used to the dry heat.

For so many people, life here in Kabul is very trying and chaotic. Typically summertime is very hot, with hardly any breeze. Winter nights are worse; they are dreary with very brisk and heavy winds—very, very cold winds with speeds of up to one hundred kilometres per hour, gushing in between and towards the Afghan hills and mountains. The sounds of the gusts are terrifying. You can’t begin to imagine the depth of the cold the poor people of Afghanistan experience; it is not the kind you ever want to feel. There are constant electricity power cuts, and the shops and houses are sparsely lit with lanterns or candles, which only a few can afford to buy. Living in extreme poverty is unbearable. There is not enough money to buy blankets to keep warm, or even to buy fuel to heat up a small room. People in such poverty are always struggling to make just a small amount of money to buy the bare essentials—including food and sanitation items. Some people have to put up with desperate and uneducated people who act in the most inappropriate ways. Their foul behaviour is not an uncommon scene. Large families are also common. An average-size family living at the top of the hill consisted of a husband and wife and maybe four children. Maintaining an average-size family is difficult, especially when the main breadwinners—fathers and brothers—have been lost to war.

The top of the hill, which may sound like a beautiful place to some people, is covered by many homes. To call it a beautiful sight is far from the truth. It’s not a scene with beautiful landscapes, rape plants, dandelions, daffodils, nicely built farms and cottages, and farmers in appropriate farm gear. It’s a hill in Afghanistan, and it is different from anything people in developed countries know. In the winter, the winds, snow, rain, and muddy, stony surfaces make life very difficult for commuters, especially people who have to go up and down these hills regularly as part of their daily chores and business—children and grown-ups alike. Worse still, it is a nightmare trying to ascend this hill while holding buckets or kegs of water fetched from water pumps at the bottom of the hill—where all the real action takes place. Yet water is essential; it is used for drinking, washing clothes and utensils, and bathing. It is a struggle to make the almost impossible ascent up the steep, dark, slippery hill carrying one water keg, let alone two.

Hameed described the difficulties encountered as part of the everyday activities of many people living in his country. Life there was no luxury. Thoughts about the immense suffering were common. How could the masses think about anything different? In this place, there were many family crises brought about by old traditions—traditions that diverted people’s attention away from reality. People simply made decisions without thinking about the consequences.

Parwen’s neighbourhood by Mamnoon Maqsoodi

Water fetcher by Najibbullah Musafer

This story is about hope, love, fighting for a better future, peace, and justice.

Chapter 1

The bell rang, and the school gates opened. All the children in their uniforms rushed through the gates straight to their classrooms—the girls in their black long-sleeved dresses, white breeches, and white scarves; the boys in their casual clothes. Class 2B had about twenty pupils, most of which were boys. Some of the children were playing and shouting while writing their names on the tables and scribbling on the blackboard. Others sat quietly waiting for the teacher. The girls were a lot quieter than the boys, many of whom were chatting with each other.

Let’s spoil the blackboard; when our teacher comes, he will not be able to teach us, and we can play all day, shouted Ashraf.

Yes! some of the other boys yelled back as four of them rushed up to the blackboard and started to bang on it.

No, stop it, said one of the girls, whose name was Parwen. You’re not allowed to break things. I am going to tell the teacher it was you and you and you. You started it, Ashraf, and I’m going to tell the teacher it was you.

Parwen was a bright child who loved going to school and always achieved the best grades in her year. She was slight in stature and looked younger than most eight-years-olds, but she was not shy about speaking her mind. On this particular day she had had enough of the disruption and decided to challenge Ashraf and the rest of the boys in her class.

Ashraf pushed past one of the boys and stormed up to Parwen. He pulled Parwen’s scarf from her head, making her feel exposed. She had always been taught that girls and women must keep their heads covered when not at home or in the presence of the opposite sex. It was a common tradition, and Ashraf knew this. He was from a religious Muslim family. Besides, it was a school rule that girls must cover their hair at all times on the school premises.

Shut your mouth! Ashraf shouted as he threw her scarf at her. You are a girl. Put your head down and read your book. Let the men do the work.

Don’t be silly, Ashraf! You are not a man; you are a boy. And you can’t break the blackboard; it is for our education, for the teacher to help us learn. Can’t you see that what you are doing is wrong?

The other boys laughed.

You, a girl, telling me what is wrong? Are you stupid? he said to her as he forced her down on to her seat.

Just then the teacher walked into the class.

After school that day, Ashraf and his friends ganged up on Parwen and pushed her around. Too afraid to respond, Parwen began to cry. When she reached home later that day, she wrote about her experience in her diary, which she had made from scrap paper her dad had collected from his workplace for her. At night she lay awake thinking about Ashraf’s behaviour—how he bullied her and treated her like an inferior. But after her experience, she was too frightened to confront Ashraf again. She just didn’t know what to do.

Seven Years Later

It was one of the dreariest, darkest nights Parwen could recall. The freezing cold wind howled as it blew at ghastly speeds, entwined with the sounds of jackals. Kites caught between electricity lines flapped, rattling wildly. There was a dim, lantern-lit house on top of the hill; the windows were covered with sheets of cellophane to keep the wind out.

Groaning sounds filled with pain roared throughout the house where Parwen and her family lived. My God, help me; help me, I’m dying, said Parwen’s mum. Please, God, take me away; deliver me from this hell. I can’t take it any more; it’s so painful. Please help me. I want to die; I can’t take it anymore. Won’t you help me die—relieve me from this torture?

Parwen’s dad replied despairingly. Please be patient. Please, janm, be patient. Deep down he was scared and was praying to God for help. We will sort something out, janm; don’t worry. It’s too late to go to hospital now, but when morning prayers start, I will take you.

Parwen’s dad was a tall, lanky man with a deep voice. He usually had a calm disposition, but that night he was completely overwhelmed as he thought about the possibility of losing his wife.

Parwen’s mum clutched her stomach with one hand and the leg of a chair with the other, her knuckles white from the tightness of the grip. Parwen, who was fifteen at the time, had been asleep in a small room she shared with her younger brother and sister. They woke up suddenly as they heard their mother wailing. Parwen leapt out of bed. Wait here, she said to them.

Dad, what’s wrong? Parwen asked. Still very tired and sleepy, she hurried towards her mum, who lay on the floor, rolling from side to side. Parwen knelt in front of her and shouted. Mum, Mum! Mum, what’s wrong? Why is this happening?

As their mum’s groans grew louder, Farid and Hakima rushed into the room.

I’m scared, said Hakima.

Why is Mummy crying? asked Farid.

Go and put the stove on, Parwen said to Farid and Hakima to distract them. Mummy will be okay. She covered her mum with another blanket. Mum, I wish I could take away your pain; you are everything to me.

Farid struck a match and lit the burner—a small tin of oil in the stove. The fumes from the smoke smelt vile. He walked over to his mother and sat by her. Immediately Hakima followed.

Go back to bed, bachaim; let me and your sister Parwen help your mum. Pray for your mum to get better before you go to sleep.

Don’t worry, Mum; Dad and I will take you to hospital, said Parwen. Dad, we need to take Mum to hospital quickly.

I know, but how will we get there, my daughter? There’s no transport. You know our neighbours will not drive us there; it is too dark and dangerous, and there are no taxis by this time of the night. Also, remember, my daughter, there are no nightshift female doctors and nurses in Kabul hospitals. Do you want your mum to be treated by a male doctor?

But, Dad, Mum needs a doctor desperately; it does not matter.

Your mum needs a doctor, but I need to keep my dignity.

Her dad’s response shocked her. Although she understood what he meant, she felt very sad. Mum, she said, I’m going to bring some medicine for you. Please hold on. Do you remember when I had horrible stomach pains? You gave me the same thing. I am sure it will help you. Hold on.

After a time, Parwen returned and lifted her mum’s head to feed her the herbal medicine. It dripped down the side of her mouth as she mustered the energy to swallow it. Then she whispered, Thanks, my daughter. I love you. Please help me; I’m helpless, and I can’t take this pain; my stomach hurts so much, and my hands and legs feel numb. I’m dying. My daughter, you have to do something. I can’t take this pain anymore. It is killing me. My arms, my legs! Oh no! She tensed up and vomited. When she stopped vomiting, she began to lament again. Who do I have to ask to help me? My God, my God, are you there for me? Do I have to suffer like this? My God, do you feel my pain? Please just take my life. Oh God, please do not make me suffer any more. I will happily close my eyes and die.

Parwen hugged her mum and said, Please, Mum, don’t say these things. I can’t live without you; we need you. If only you could think about what a mum means to her children right now, you would fight to live. I know you would. Please, Mum, please.

Parwen’s dad checked his pocket to make sure he had enough money for the taxi. He also needed money for hospital expenses. With more mouths to feed since the birth of Parwen’s brother and sister, things had become a lot more difficult. They were poor.

He looked at his daughter with regret in his eyes and said, My daughter, we don’t have enough money.

Yes we do, Dad.

Her dad smiled.

Thank you, my daughter. Thank you, Parwen. How much do you have?

She ran to the room she shared with her siblings and brought back a can which used to be filled with milk. She had been using it to save some coins for a while.

Here, Dad, she said as she emptied the can. I saved up this money for over one year. I don’t know how much I have, but I hope it will be enough to help Mum.

As she emptied the contents onto the mat, a small chain which had an inscription of God’s name—Allah—fell out amongst them. Parwen took the chain and kissed it. Holding the chain very tightly, she looked up and said, God is great!

Noticing how prepared his daughter was to sacrifice all her savings to help, even though it was nowhere close to the amount they needed, Parwen’s father smiled at her in an appreciative way.

Breathing rapidly, Parwen’s mum muttered under her breath, saying, Such a long night. The sun must come out, or my life must end.

Parwen remembered that they had a holy healing pot, and she ran to fetch it. She found the pot, added some water, and gave it to her mum to drink. Parwen held her mum’s hand with both of her hands and said, Mum, we’ve not long to go now; we will take you to hospital soon.

After some time had passed, the call for