Buying A Carpet in Herat, by Nuzhat Shahzadi

In June, we moved to our new house in Vienna town center in the greater Washington, D.C. metropolitan area. My first approach was to familiarize myself with the neighborhood––find the quiet parks, woody-trails, tiny eateries in street corners, the colors . . . inhale the air splashed with traces of aroma of local-life, understand the ambience. And then I saw it––a small rug store across the road with a bold sign––Herat Oriental Rugs (!!)

“Mom, they followed you here,” my son teased. 

I was over joyed––a part of home seemed to be on the other side of the road. I remembered the years I spent in Herat . . . 

The carpets produced in the Herat province were of high quality and famous in Afghanistan as well as across the border. Each region had its own designs––known for their excellence and uniqueness. The motifs varied; the intricately designed hand-woven wool-carpets normally used vegetable dyes ––pomegranate, and roots of bushes that grew in abundance in the areas where carpet weaving thrived. Synthetic dyes were also in use. 

Different varieties were available in various sizes, shapes and colors. They were known as Maliki, Kilim, Rugs, Carpets, Runners (for stairs mainly). Unfortunately, children, especially, girls, and women were heavily engaged in carpet weaving. The weavers were mainly Turkmen––from the Tekke, Yomud and Ersari tribes. The Hazara tribe was also engaged in the carpet industry.

I learned recently that large numbers of girls have joined home based carpet weaving after the Taliban take over in 2021. There is almost no option for them. It is sad––it is the reality in today’s Afghanistan. All the challenges we braced, all those long hours of negotiations to keep girls in school seem meaningless today––the hopes we sowed with the help of the communities, government partners and the girls themselves failed to propel their rights to learn–– their aspirations have lunged into a canyon of nothingness . . .  

I especially remember the carpet buying in Herat. We liked to visit a particular store, close to our (UNICEF) guest house. The store was in the middle of the community, not in the market place beside other rug-stores––comparatively safe, and we could visit it once in a while without alerting the UNDSS. The main motivation wasn’t buying––we wanted to escape from the guest-house-prison, even if it was only for an hour or less. Except for going to the office less than a mile from the guesthouse, we hardly went out at all. The weekends were shrouded in boredom. The tiny expedition to the carpet store felt like an adventure (!)

The store was family owned––by four brothers. We usually interacted with three brothers 

between the ages of 20-24. They were pleasant and cheeky. The 4th and the oldest was in mid 40s, possibly born of different a mother? I wasn’t sure. A man having three or four wives wasn’t uncommon in Afghanistan. I met the older brother only a handful of times. 

The younger brothers usually entertained us with their chattiness in broken English, along with green tea and dry fruits. I quite liked them. Both DD and Teeranuch, my colleagues, were the quiet kind. And I was (and still am) a woman of many words. The brothers wanted to know about us. I was interested in them. 

I learned that all the brothers were married, had children.

“There is nothing else to do here, Nazhat Jaan,” they laughed. The war was always at the doorstep and the Taliban at stone’s throw. It made me sad, actually. They lived with the harrowing knowledge that they could be targeted any time.

We used to take all our visitors on mission to our favorite carpet store. Many of them were genuine buyers. I wasn’t. I am not a “wall-to wall kind” of a carpet lover. However, the brothers somehow managed to sell several small Maliki and Kilim rugs to me that I still have. I bought a few pieces for my sisters and niece and flew them across to New York, Salt Lake City and Dhaka. 

One time, I truly liked a particular rug but didn’t feel like buying it. The brothers applied their best marketing skills––explained the intricate designs, the knots and the exquisite natural dye used. No amount of cajoling worked. So, they found another way to influence my mind. 

They loaded the carpet in the boot of our land cruiser––my resistance failed.

“Nazhat Jaan, take it back to your guest house.  Spread it on the floor, feel it. Keep it as long as you want. You don’t have to make up your mind right now. You don’t have to pay,” they said.

“What if I return it after six months?” I was curious.

“You can return it after six years. For you everything is Jaiz.” They meant it. “Jaiz” in Arabic means legal or valid.

The carpet stayed in our common lobby-space for months. It was an exquisite piece. But I returned it, eventually. I am glad I did it . . .

I had to leave Afghanistan abruptly. I never went back. I never said good bye.  

Read other articles by Nuzhat

You can contact Nuzhat at nuzhatshahzadi@gmail.com