Three Stories from Free Women Writers

Editor's Note: This month, we re-post the following selection of writings from our online workshop several years ago with Afghan author and women and human rights activist Noorjahan Akbar's group, Free Women Writers. We're honored that Noorjahan will be keynoting our upcoming Whose Memory? International Symposium. This unique symposium, which will take place entirely online, will shed light on how memory and the stories we tell others and ourselves influence culture, politics, and individual and collective growth and wellness.

HOW A RESTAURANT IN KABUL EMPOWERS SURVIVORS OF VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN

A comfortable booth at Bost restaurant

I recently went to Afghanistan to spend some time with my family. The highlights of my trip were getting to know my three-year-old nephew and spending hours doing nothing with my mom and sisters. I also discovered a small piece of heaven in my hometown.

Bost Restaurant is a social enterprise owned and managed by Afghan women. The woman who founded it, Mary Akrami, is a longtime advocate for women’s rights, and the wait staff are survivors of gender-based violence. In a recent conversation, Mary jan told me, “One of the main reasons for opening the restaurant was to provide a path to economic self-sufficiency for the staff, who live in a shelter after having escaped forced marriages and violent households.” These details alone are enough to make Bost a special place, but what captured me was the atmosphere.

When you enter the restaurant, you’re greeted by one of the young women who stand by the door. The tables are covered with bold, red tablecloths, and the walls are adorned with photos of trailblazing Afghan women, including the country’s first ladies. Bost does not try to hide the fact that it’s run by women– instead, it exudes pride. The joyful voices of women working in the kitchen and (on most days) Farhad Darya playing through the speakers, gives the restaurant a warm acoustic. The food is affordable, authentic, and addictive. I am going back to Kabul soon, just for the Mashawa.

Unlike other restaurants in Kabul, most of the customers at Bost are women. With their headscarves nonchalantly resting on their shoulders, many, including myself, feel a different sense of freedom and safety there. While at Bost, I often thought about all the times I was gawked at or harassed walking into or out of other restaurants, and how a night of family fun could easily turn into a tense confrontation with a group of young men staring or making lewd comments.

Women prepare all of the food served at Bost.

Perhaps it's because it feels so safe that Bost has quickly become a gathering place for the progressive women of the city. Free of the harassment that is too common in many public places, the restaurant is a warm and calm place for women and families to spend time together.

Unlike many “women-only” spaces that contribute to gender-segregation, Bost is open to women and their family members, including men. Men are not allowed to come in alone, but it is a perfect place for a family meal or a birthday party, or, as in my case, getting lunch with Free Women Writers members and discussing our plans for fighting patriarchy.

I quickly became a regular at Bost, and I soon learned that the staff are more than colleagues for one another. They share their stories, heartbreaks, and happiness– they are each other’s support systems. I was there so often during the time that I spent in Kabul, I had the privilege of getting to know the staff and learning about the obstacles they have overcome. With every story, I felt proud to be a woman and stronger in my faith in our common resilience and power. Going to Bost felt like sisterhood-in-action.

It’s hard to find optimism in Afghanistan right now. Every day, we wake up to news of death and war and destruction. Just this past month, a U.S.-led airstrike killed 18 civilians, and terrorists murdered six Red Cross staff members and dozens of ordinary Afghans in several deadly attacks. But it is at times like this that we need to hold on the tightest to our dreams of a better world. At Bost, I found a community of women, another home, and, most importantly, some hope for the future of Afghanistan.

MY MOTHER MAKES ME PROUD TO BE AN AFGHAN WOMAN

by Zahra WZ

On the occasion of International Women’s Day, I’ve been thinking a lot about the women who inspire and empower me. The one woman who has always made me proud to be an Afghan woman is my mother, and this childhood memory illustrates exactly why.

I grew up in Herat, Afghanistan. Our winters are brutally cold, with days of non-stop snow. That winter was no exception. One night, I was sitting with my family and eating dinner in the only warm room in our house when someone knocked at our door.

My grandmother, a woman who had grown up in war and instability, used to say, “Never open your door to anyone during the night. It’s dangerous.” She was often right.

At the time, my mother was working at a non-governmental organization for women, as a nurse. In rural Afghanistan, women usually don’t go to male doctors or nurses; they were glad that they could see her instead. But some men could not accept that an Afghan woman was working with a foreign organization. Others could not accept women leaving their houses at all. A few times, a neighbor had come to our door and told us that he had seen some unfamiliar people climbing the wall surrounding our home, or standing in front of our door. It was scary.

When she heard the knock on the door that night, my mom said, “Maybe it’s a patient, coming for an injection.”

I was shaking with fear. A million thoughts crossed my mind, but my mom stopped eating dinner and got up.

“Mom! Do not go! Please” I said.

“They come to my door for help. I cannot send them back,” She replied. I couldn’t stop her. Honestly, nobody could stop her from helping another woman.

My dad said, “At least, let me go. It is so cold outside. It is zero degrees.”

“I’ll wear my warm coat,” my mom responded. “Don’t worry.”

She got her coat and ran to open the door at last. It was our neighbors. One of them was sick and needed my mom to do her injection. I was glad that all my fears were wrong. After my mom finished, they thanked her and left.

As we continued our meal, I knew I would never forget that night. My fear was replaced with pride for the way that my mom faced the possibility of danger, in order to help another woman.

FINDING MY IDENTITY AS AN AFGHAN-AMERICAN

Afghan Arts and Cultural Festival, Arlington, VA, 2016, by Free Women Writers

By Pary Shuaib

I have always felt proud to be Afghan and American, simultaneously. Afghan-American: the hyphenation is incredibly important, because this is where I draw my identity. I am not only one or the other, but rather, a mix of both.

When I was in kindergarten, I remember befriending other first or second-generation American children, who like me, were silently confused. Imagine being surrounded by kids your age and a teacher who doesn’t speak your language and doesn’t know your culture. Some days, I came home in tears, grieving for the challenge my parents had presented to me– an American birth and an Afghan background. When I started school, they were worried about whether or not I would succeed.

As a second-generation Afghan-American, I spoke Persian at home. English was a second language. Thankfully, I had wonderful teachers who assured them I would learn in no time. English for Speakers of Other Languages classes also helped tremendously. I remember my bubbly teacher who loved arts and crafts. She had us practice words by writing little books to take home. And we always had dessert in that class! For one lesson, she brought in mini pancakes and had us put whipped cream and fruits on them while taking turns talking about the shapes, colors, and flavors of our food. These interactive, inter-cultural classes were the best part of my day.

Over the years, I was frequently asked what my name meant and where I was from. Somehow I became a walking encyclopedia for Afghanistan, especially for those who had never heard of the country. I wore my culture with pride, but the origins of my parents was also used time and time again to make me feel like a stranger in the land I was born in.

It was wonderful and perplexing when I finally had the chance to visit Afghanistan. Here, people all spoke my parents’ language. They understood the culture I had only experienced at home and with other Afghan friends back in America. But the hyphenation came into play again. Even in my motherland, the home of ancestors to whom I ached to feel connected, I was a visiting foreigner.

My cousins asked me a lot about American life. I was a celebrity of sorts, and they were highly interested in everything. Some were astonished that I could converse fluently in Persian, knew the dominant religion, and was already happily accustomed to eating delicious Afghan cuisine. They were impressed when I claimed that I did not have a boyfriend and that I rarely pluck my eyebrows. How could I be so Afghan as an American? This time, I was acutely aware of being different and an encyclopedia of the United States of America.

I have many stories of feeling I had to pick whether to be Afghan or American. The cultures can clash. Today, I’ve become comfortable having eased my soul into a calm agreement of who I am and what I stand for. I will never be 100% Afghan or 100% American, but it doesn’t matter, because I am content as an artistic compilation of the two.