Woman, soldier, of the Hazara ethnicity: the Afghan Setara Joya, 25, brings together several attributes that made her a preferred target of the Taliban.
As a result, she lost her father, murdered for not revealing his daughter’s location to fighters from the fundamentalist group who accosted him when he was traveling from the capital, Kabul, to Jaghori – one of the strongholds of the Hazara people, historically persecuted by the Taliban.
Also because of this, Setara ended up leaving the country to live in São Paulo with his uncles and three cousins. Before leaving, he burned his uniform, boots, photos and documents and deleted all social media.
Today, the ex-military woman helps out at the family restaurant, Koh i Baba, probably the only one in Brazil specializing in Afghan food. The small property in the Liberdade neighborhood, with a few tables on the ground floor, also serves as a home for the six adults of the family on the second floor.
Space is tight and life is a struggle, but she doesn’t complain. Her uncle, Sorab Kokhan, 65, who has lived in São Paulo since 2011 and served as an interpreter in the interview, says Brazil is “a paradise” compared to what Afghanistan has become for the Hazaras.
Setara defines the current phase with the phrase he used to describe the relief when getting off the plane at Guarulhos airport: “All the darkness is behind us”.
Setara is the second in a series of three interviewees who told their stories to Sheet a year after the Taliban returned to rule the country. They are Afghans who have lived most of their lives with access to some basic rights —going to school, walking the streets and working — and who have seen all of this disappear overnight.
We did not expect the Afghan military to be defeated so quickly. I was so sad, so disappointed. I was respected, I served in the Army. Where did all this go? My country was destroyed.
The Taliban don’t like women in the military. My father was on his way back from Kabul to our region, Jaghori, and was stopped by them: “Where is your daughter? Why did you let her enter the military service? It’s sacrilege.” And then they killed him.
I had to hide, I was too afraid that they would kill me too. I spent three months indoors with other women. I only went out to shop, wearing a burqa. I burned my military uniforms, my documents, my boots. I knew they could come and search everything at any time.
Then my uncle called me and said that we should flee to Pakistan. I went out with my cousins ​​on a three-day trip, wearing a tightly closed scarf. We smuggled across the border, but my cousin and I were caught and returned to the other side. We sneaked again, at night, under a fence, and we made it. My cousin got caught too. He spent ten days in prison.
The part of the border was the most difficult moment, because we knew that we were between life and death and we were not sure of anything: if we would cross to the other side, if we would reach the Brazilian embassy, ​​if we would get a visa. It was very distressing.
And we didn’t feel safe in Pakistan either, because when the police find Afghans who are there illegally, they return them to Afghanistan. And they can beat you, extort, kill. You are always tense.
The Pakistanis bothered us enough to leave Islamabad. They always look for an excuse that you don’t have this, you don’t have that [documentos]. The Brazilian embassy interfered and we were able to board.
When I got on the plane, I was finally able to breathe calmly, because I knew that all that suffering was over. We were going to a good place. Darkness was left behind.
Now I’m free, working with my uncle, learning. Here people have respect for women. No, women are always at the bottom, you can’t do anything because they won’t let you go out, work. I miss my mother, but not all the suffering of Afghanistan. When I remember everything I went through, I get sad, but at the same time I know that I have to forget the past because life goes on.
