There are Mountains to Climb : Nuzhat Shahzadi

They waited all morning. The sun changed position, was hot and glowed mercilessly on the barren, dry slopes of the Hindukush mountains. Then the shadows grew longer.

They sat side by side. Two women, from two generations. They didn’t talk, didn’t move. They just waited. Their bodies were almost numbed by inaction. They didn’t feel hungry or tired. The winds howled outside, rattled the roof of their shack.

The sounds of heavy footsteps finally echoed on the hard, dirt-narrow path, an uphill climb . . .

I tried to get the story right with the assistance of our PA, GH. She was my interpreter. We were back at the women’s prison in Herat. The inmates (99%) were not hardcore criminals. Each had a stunning story to share––of courage and suffering. Some were dumped here by their husbands or the in-laws, some had to pick up guns in self-defense and were arrested. They were held behind bars, convicted without trials––resigned to their destiny.

“I didn’t know he was doing this to her,” Mariyam* said in Dari. Her voice held no emotions. I didn’t understand the words; I understood her pain.

She was referring to her 17 year old daughter in law, Shafia.* Both of them were arrested from their home and jailed in the women’s prison in Herat City.

“She cried and cried all the time. . . I didn’t know the reason. I have only 4 sons. She was like my daughter. I found out too late,” Mariyam added.

Shafia was married to Mariyam’s oldest son, Omar* at 15. Omar worked in the city while she stayed with her in laws at their village home, 40 miles from Herat-city. Shafia’s father-in-law frequently raped her for a year. In her new home, she didn’t know who to tell, who would believe her. It was a story of shame.

Finally, one day she couldn’t hide it anymore. Mariyam was shocked, angry. She knew she had to protect the young girl. She took her husband’s AK 47 rifle and shot him point blank. She was aware of the consequences. She wanted to end the narrative of anguish.

Luckily for them, the villagers informed the police––didn’t act. They could have buried the two women alive or stoned them to death. They sat side by side and waited for the police. The flies buzzed over the blood of the dead man on the doorstep.

Mariyam and Shafia were imprisoned about a year ago (2007?). Their families disowned them. They had no visitors. They had no contact with the outside world. They woke up every morning, prayed, ate and weaved carpets as was the ritual for the prisoners.

Getting raped was Shafia’sin.

She wished Omar had visited her . . . from the first day, she loved her young husband. He wasn’t unkind though life with him was routine. She could read and write Dari, and had read some romantic stories. She dreamed of a better life with Omar someday in the amazing Herat City.

She did end up at Herat City, eventually!

I authorized non-food relief (NFR) items from UNICEF-Herat for the female prisoners which included blankets, sweaters, etc. We added first aid items, sanitary pads, and clothing for infants and small children who were jailed with their mothers. We also provided “school in a box” materials for children, and partnered with War Child, UK for the children’s education. They ran the prison kindergarten. At 12, the boys would be taken away from their mothers and sent to orphanages. Possibly that would be the final goodbye. The very thought saddened me.

The jailer allowed us free access to the inmates. He knew these women were in a hopeless situation. We offered legal services through the local lawyers’ team we had hired for case-processing.

The legal team consisted of one female and two male lawyers. In my discussion with them I discovered their prejudice about the jailed women. Even the female lawyer held similar views. Though they agreed to do their best, I knew it was all a lip-service––they wanted to keep me happy so that their pay-checks weren’t disrupted.

“You know how it is in Afghanistan. These women are already outcasts. No one wants them or their children. Where will they go if released? The families will kill them . . . Jail is the safest place,” the jailor was honest.

In my 4 years in Herat, I went back to the jail several times to listen to the fascinating stories of the women behind bars. I felt even God had left them.

They never forgot their prayers.

They showed me what courage was––the cost of pain, the burden of misery. And yet they prevailed.

“For there is always light,
if only we're brave enough to see it.

If only we're brave enough to be it.”––Amanda Gorman

(*all names changed)

Read more articles by Nuzhat

You can contact Nuzhat at nuzhatshahzadi@gmail.com