We Are Watching You Watch Us

They buried her alive, and they did it in broad daylight. They did it with paperwork. With laws. With decrees. They did it while the whole world watched. She is still being buried and the world is still watching. This is not a metaphor, this is Afghanistan. NadiaHope, or the one who announces.I had a PhD. I had an office. I had students who called me Doctor. Dr. Nadia….a name that meant something. Now, I cannot leave my house without a mahram. A man! I need a mahram— a husband, a son, a brother. A male shadow to justify my existence in the street. Without one, I am not a woman. I am a violation and a crime waiting to be punished. I sit by my door sometimes. Imagining the world behind it. I used to walk down those streets on my way to work. Now I wait for my son to come home. He is my key. He is my permission. He does not understand why I need him to go out. He is only twelve but without him, I am nothing. My own son is my warden. And he doesn’t know it yet. My name was Dr. Nadia. My name meant the one that announces. Now I announce nothing. I just sit by the door I dare not open.<img alt="" src="/media/inline_insight_image/IMG_5596.jpeg"/> Adeela Just, honest, and equal.I once taught twenty girls in a room with just one window. I taught them how to write letters and read their own names. I taught them that the world was much bigger that this street, this village and this country. I was wrong. Now I sit in a room with one window, counting the light not the girls anymore. I do not know where they are. I do not know if they are alive. I do not know if they hate me for teaching them to want things. My name was Ms. Adeela. My name meant just…and equal. Now I do not have a name and I have become no one. <img alt="" src="/media/inline_insight_image/IMG_5602.jpeg"/> Fahima Intelligent, educated, or wise.I have delivered a total of 250 babies. I know the weight of a newborn on my hand. I know the sound of a first breath and I know the dread when there is no breath at all. I saved mothers. I saved babes. I saved futures. Now I cannot leave my house. Now women bleed in rooms I can never reach. Now they call my name but I cannot answer. My voice has become awrah. My name was Fahima. My hands were blessed. Now I cannot show them anymore. <img alt="" src="/media/inline_insight_image/IMG_5604.jpeg"/> Malika. Queen.I was twelve. He was forty-five. I did not choose him and I did not choose to be here. On our wedding night, I did not cry. Crying makes him angry. Crying makes him hit me harder. Now I am seventeen and I have four children. I am not sure I love them. I know I would kill for them. I would die for them but I cannot save them. My daughter is three. She will be twelve someday. I will be the one to hand her over to him. I will be the one to tell her to obey him. To stop crying. My name was Malika. Now, I’m Sohrab’s wife. My name used to mean queen. I do not know how it feels to be treated as royalty. God help me. <img alt="" src="/media/inline_insight_image/IMG_5605.jpeg"/> Sakeena Peace, tranquility, or calmness.My daughter asked me for a book yesterday. She is just nine years old so she does not understand. She thinks this is temporary. I told her no.She asked me why.I said because it’s not safe.She said why.I said, because I said so.She asked why again. And I slapped her. I have never hit my daughter before. God. I’ve never. I hit her because I couldn’t explain to her. I hit her because I’m becoming the thing I hate so much. She didn’t cry. She only looked at me with eyes that already seemed old and said, “I’m sorry mama.” This was three months ago. She has never asked me for a book since then. She is learning. She is learning to be nothing and I…I’m the one that’s teaching her. My name was Sakeena. My name meant peace. There is no peace in this body, in this house or in this country. <img alt="" src="/media/inline_insight_image/IMG_5603.jpeg"/> SanaBrilliance, praise, or resplendence.I’m seven years old. I used to go to school. My teacher was Ms. Adeela. I had a backpack that had butterflies around it. Now I stay inside because mama says it’s not safe. But I’m tired of being quiet. I want to write and play and be a teacher some day. Just like Ms. Adeela! My name was Sana. Mama says we can’t have names anymore. My name meant brilliance but I’m not sure I know what that means anymore. <img alt="" src="/media/inline_insight_image/IMG_5606.jpeg"/> Wazhma Soft breeze or zephyr. I remember 1979, 1996, 2001 and 2021. I remember everything. I was just a girl when women could vote. I was a woman when women could work and I was a mother when women were allowed to dream. Now that I’m old, I am not just invisible. I have become nothing. I have seen the burqa before. I’ve seen the silence and the beatings before. I thought it would end. I thought my daughters will have it better. I thought my granddaughters would have everything they want. Now I sit with other old women and we dare not speak. My name was Wazhma. It meant soft breeze. I used to be like air. I used to be free.<img src="/media/inline_insight_image/IMG_5601.jpeg"/> We are the women of Afghanistan. We are Nadia. We are Adeela. We are Fahima. We are Malika. We are Sakeena. We are Sana. We are Wazhma. We had names. We had faces. We had rights. We had lives. But they took it away from us. They took it and called it honour. They called it Islam. This is not Islam! We are the women of Afghanistan. And we are watching you watch us.

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