Dear Zari: Hidden Stories from Women of Afghanistan (14 page)

‘Yes, Mother, she’s all right. She’s just sleeping.’

‘I don’t understand why she hasn’t woken up. She’s been sleeping since nine o’clock this morning and now it’s almost one.’

Samira joked that perhaps her little sister was tired like them, and then asked, ‘Mother, when she’s older will you make her weave carpets too?’

Her mother replied, ‘Of course, she’s no different to you or me. She’s a girl and she must learn to weave or no man will marry her.’

Samira knew what she meant. She had been told many times by both her mother and the local women that to secure a decent husband, a Turkmen girl must be able to weave carpets. Most girls in the village tended to start carpet weaving at home with their mothers, sisters, aunties or grandmothers at the age of seven or eight. Meanwhile the men of the family would find traders to buy the carpets or locate markets where they could sell them to customers. Some boys would go to school, but
not all of them, and some families would even train their sons to weave. But Samira’s brother didn’t have to weave carpets. As he was the only male child of the family he was especially valuable and his mother knew that carpet weaving was bad for the health – many women and children contracted lung diseases from working in such a dusty atmosphere day after day. Also, his mother wanted him to go to school and one day become a doctor so he could treat both her and his sister for the pain in their backs and fingers.

As Samira was taking her last bites of bread, she turned to her mother and asked, ‘Mother, do you think my five fingers are like five lights?’

Her mother smiled, went up to Samira and took her hand and put it in her own. She looked at Samira’s small fingers.

‘My dear daughter, your fingers are not yet five lights but they are on their way. Shall I tell you when they become lights?’

‘Yes, please, Mother,’ Samira said enthusiastically. ‘Tell me how and when they’ll be like five
chiragh
?’

Her mother gave her fingers a gentle massage. ‘My dear little princess, when I tell you to get up early and go straight to the
kargah
and you do it immediately, that will be the day. When you stop complaining that your brother goes to school and you don’t, that will be the day. When you stop moaning that your fingers are tired and you don’t want to weave carpets, that will be the day. And finally, when you weave a six-metre carpet on your own without complaining, that will be the day your fingers become like five
chiragh
!’

Samira didn’t much like the answer to her question, and got up and went to sit in front of the
kargah
where she began weaving again. She wove quickly and then started to cut the strings with the carpet knife. Her mother got up to check on the baby before coming back to sit down next to Samira and look at the section that she had just woven.

‘Stop it! Stop, Samira. Look at what you’re doing.’

Samira stopped immediately. ‘What have I done? I’m weaving just like you.’

Her mother took the blade and cut open the stitches on the piece that Samira had just woven. ‘If you don’t push the thread through enough, and if you don’t cut neatly or copy the pattern properly, you’ll destroy months of our work.’

Samira began to unpick the section she had just woven and let her mother start weaving first, before copying her. They both wove swiftly and without speaking. Occasionally the silence was broken by the sound of their wooden mallets hammering down a row of knots they had just tied. Samira’s mother had a fixed target of how much work they should do every day, so Samira wasn’t allowed to get up and leave the room, except to go to the toilet or the kitchen. Her mother was well aware that Samira would find any excuse she could to escape, even if only for a short while. Samira was too young and didn’t care if the
tojar
, or anyone else, liked her carpets. She was bored of weaving and wanted to be out playing with her friends, or making clothes for her dolls. For three years now, Samira had been expected to work constantly, and hadn’t been allowed to go out and play. Her mother and father considered her grown-up enough to stay at home and perfect her weaving skills.

‘Mother, if I weave faster today can I go to Shakila’s house later and play with her dolls?’ asked Samira.

But her mother said, ‘Look at me, Samira; since early this morning you’ve been pestering me with excuses and irritating questions. Why don’t you just sit down quietly and get on with your work? Stop talking and concentrate!’

Then Samira’s mother glanced anxiously at the baby in her
gahwara
. ‘I’ve got you pestering me, while your baby sister has still not woken up. She’s been asleep for too long now and I’m starting to get worried.’

Samira’s mother kept looking at the
gahwara
, but she couldn’t relax and eventually stopped weaving and went over to it. She untied the straps on the cradle, took the baby in her arms and touched her face, then told Samira to run and fetch some water. The baby’s face was pale and she was breathing very slowly. She looked like she was unconscious
and Samira’s mother couldn’t wake her. Samira brought some water on a small spoon and her mother tried to push a few drops into the baby’s mouth. The baby swallowed some water but didn’t open her eyes, and now Samira’s mother was starting to feel really anxious. She needed help, and told Samira to go to the neighbour’s house and call Khala Shah Gul. ‘Ask her to come here. Tell her your sister won’t wake up.’

Although Samira was worried about her sister she couldn’t help but feel a sense of release at being allowed out for a few minutes. As she ran to her neighbour’s house she felt excited about calling for Khala Shah Gul. She heard her mother shout after her, ‘Don’t get sidetracked and run off with the other girls. Go straight there and come straight back.’

Khala Shah Gul was one of the older women in the neighbourhood, and she helped deliver babies. She herself had given birth to twelve children – most of whom were now married with their own children – and lived near Samira’s family. Khala Shah Gul was also from a family of carpet weavers, but she was known to give advice to mothers on how to keep babies quiet so they could get on with their weaving. While she waited for Samira to return, her mother cradled the baby in her lap, holding her small hands, but there was no energy in her tiny body. It was as if she was drunk. She began kissing the baby’s hands and feet.

‘Darling little one, wake up. For the love of your mother, wake up. Why are you still asleep? Mummy is getting worried now.’ She kept talking to her baby and cuddling her. ‘I know that when you’re screaming then I want you to sleep, but now it’s time for you to have your favourite milk. Wake up, my love, wake up!’

The baby kept breathing slowly but otherwise didn’t move, and Samira’s mother began to get increasingly anxious. She opened the top of her dress, took out her breast and rubbed it gently against the baby’s face. Milk seeped out of her nipple and onto the baby’s mouth, but she did not latch on and the milk spilt over her face. After a few minutes
Samira came back with Khala Shah Gul, and Samira’s mother ran over to her.

‘Khala, look, my baby isn’t moving, she doesn’t cry and she won’t drink milk. She’s been sleeping for hours and hours. I’m worried something has happened to her. What should I do?’

‘I’ll have a look at her, but I’m sure she’s fine.’

Samira’s mother handed the baby to Khala Shah Gul and told Samira to get back to weaving while she went to make tea for their guest. Samira went back to the
kargah
and began pulling the threads together, pleased to have had the chance to go outside. Meanwhile Khala Shah Gul sat with the baby on her lap. She touched the baby’s cheeks, checked her pulse and noticed that her skin was cool and her pulse was slow and steady.

Samira’s mother came back into the room with a tray of cups and a teapot, and put the tray on the floor in front of Khala Shah Gul.

‘Khala Shah Gul, is my baby all right? Do you know what’s wrong with her? Why won’t she wake up?’

Khala Shah Gul was completely untroubled. ‘My child, your baby is fine; she’s just in a deep sleep. From what I can see I think you’ve just given her a bit too much opium.’

Samira’s mother touched the baby’s hair. ‘But, auntie, I didn’t give her that much. I only gave her the amount you suggested. It was just one seed.’

Khala Shah Gul passed the baby back to her mother. ‘Here you go, try now to give her your breast milk and force her to have some water. As soon as the dizziness wears off she’ll wake up, don’t worry.’

Khala Shah Gul took a piece of opium from a pocket in her dress, just under her breasts, and broke off a small amount – the size of a seed of wheat – and held it out in the palm of her hand.

‘Tomorrow you should decrease the amount of opium you give your baby because she’s obviously one of those who can’t take too much. Don’t worry, though; she’ll get used to it and there will soon come a time when her crying won’t let you weave even if you’ve given her a piece the size of a grape.’

Khala Shah Gul began to laugh and sipped her tea noisily. Samira’s mother told her to have Khala’s shoes ready for her, and Samira immediately put Khala’s shoes in front of the door so she could step straight into them. The older woman looked down at Samira.

‘Well done, my child. God bless you. In addition to being good at carpet weaving you also know how to respect your elders.’

After Khala Shah Gul had left, Samira shut the door and went to kiss her baby sister who was still sleeping on her mother’s lap. She kissed her on the cheek and tried to wake her up but she didn’t stir. Her mother then asked her to empty the potty, which was under a hole in the
gahwara
, and as usual Samira did as she was told. The mother changed the baby’s clothes and tried to breast feed her, and much to her joy the baby finally started to move her lips and tongue and began to suck on the nipple. Samira’s mother kissed her baby’s forehead fervently.

‘Thank you, God! My baby daughter is alive. I’m a lucky mother.’

At the same time as the baby drew milk from her breast, tears began to flow down the mother’s face. She was so relieved. It was as if someone had given her a second chance at life. Samira wiped away her mother’s tears with her fingers. ‘Mother, why are you crying? What has happened? Is everything all right?’

Her mother kissed her on the forehead. ‘My dear daughter, these are tears of happiness. See, your sister is sucking at my breast. I’m so happy that she’s all right.’

Samira was happy too. She placed the potty back under the
gahwara
and her mother put the baby back into her basket. The baby now had her eyes open. Once the
gahwara
had been placed in a corner far away from the
kargah
, so that it was well away from the dust, Samira got up and poured some tea for her mother.

‘God bless you, Samira. Now let’s weave as fast as we can to make up for lost time.’

Even though Samira had been worried about her baby sister, she felt much more relaxed than usual because she’d had so many breaks from
her weaving, and because she knew her mother had been paying less attention to her because of the baby.

‘Mother, why did my baby sister sleep for so long? What kind of medicine did you give her?’

‘It was to do with the amount of opium I’d given her; it was more than usual. Now I will show you the amount I’m going to give her every morning, and you must help me check that it’s no bigger than a seed of wheat.’

‘But, Mother,’ asked Samira ‘why do you still have to give it to her if it makes her ill?’

‘When you were a baby, I used to give it to you. It’s because it makes babies sleep well. Otherwise your baby sister would be waking up constantly and disturbing her poor mother who has to weave a huge carpet with her naughty big sister.’

Samira’s mother smiled at her eldest daughter and carried on weaving, while Samira took a deep breath and stared ahead at the
kargah
, wondering if she would be spending the rest of her life in front of this loom. She wanted to be free of it but knew she would never escape it. Her future had already been mapped out for her, and it would consist of her weaving, weaving and then weaving some more. And then when her mother finally declared that her daughter’s five fingers were like five flames, Samira would become the bride of a Turkmen boy and be expected to weave for him and look after their children.

Samira got up and turned the radio on, and as it was playing music she turned the volume up high. She told her mother that if they were going to have to stay in this dark room all their lives then they might as well listen to their favourite songs. Mother and daughter both smiled and carried on weaving.

Samira’s mother isn’t unusual in giving opium to her baby. I’ve discovered that it’s an age-old practice among families who weave carpets to silence their children with opium until they are two or three years old. We invited a doctor onto Afghan Woman’s Hour to talk about the
dangers of opium for a baby’s health, and he told us that it is harmful for their brain, their growth and their long-term development. The doctor also said that one of the reasons drug addiction was so widespread in Afghanistan was because as babies people had become addicted to it, and then explained how babies who scream and cry until they are given opium are already addicts. Unfortunately Samira’s mother didn’t have access to this information, but a survey carried out on behalf of the BBC World Service Trust about Afghan Women’s Hour showed that many female listeners felt sympathy for her circumstances. We also found that listeners were grateful to the programme for providing them with this information, and that as a consequence many mothers said they would now stop giving their children opium because they’d understood how harmful it was. I was delighted that the reporter and I had managed to bring this problem to our listeners’ attention, but knew there was nothing I could do to relieve the pain that so many women endure as they weave the carpets which adorn our houses.

The Afghan drug trade generates billions of dollars every year and the country currently produces around 90 per cent of the world’s opium, but most of the opium production is confined to just nine provinces in the southern and western regions of Afghanistan. The government and the international community continue to fight the drug trade, thereby freeing many parts of the country from opium cultivation, but with so many high-profile people reported to be on the drug payroll both inside and outside the government, the ongoing battle is proving very difficult. Opium production currently contributes to around 4 per cent of Afghanistan’s annual GDP.