A women’s rights activist in one of the most gender-unequal countries in the world, Afghan Khatera Mohmand, 38, faced many battles to combat violence against women in the public service she headed.
But few moments were as difficult as having to explain to her own daughter, Lema, 8, that she could no longer go to school. “She asked me, ‘What? Why? I love school, I want to go,'” she says. “How would I explain this to her? How can I say she can’t study, but boys can?”
Head of the gender equality department of a government organization, Khatera hastily left his office on August 15 of last year, when the Taliban entered Kabul and, in a lightning offensive, seized central power.
She had vivid memories of the other period when the fundamentalist group controlled her country, from 1996 to 2001. The daughter of a couple of professors, Khatera spent almost six years studying at home with her sister, in secret, “as if it were a crime “.
This time, fearing that the same would happen to Lema and seeing her own life threatened due to the cause she defended, she decided to migrate to Brazil with her husband, Lema and Sohail, her eldest son. Aided by an NGO, they went to Jundiaí (SP), where the children are already going to public school.
In the small apartment with a balcony, glimpses of previous life can be glimpsed in a cabinet, with objects that once decorated the five-bedroom property where they lived in Kabul: school medals from Sohail, a book written by Khatera’s mother, souvenirs, handicrafts by women. afghans. “You can’t put your whole house in one suitcase, but I wanted to bring the most sentimental items,” she says.
Khatera is the latest interviewee in a series of three women who have 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.
Afghan society is traditional and has always given more rights to men than to women. It starts within families, because most men believe that women’s work should be staying at home, caring for children, cooking.
I’m from a different family. My mother was a teacher and writer, my father was also a teacher, and they never treated boys and girls differently. They told us, “Never tolerate violence against you or anyone around you.” I think that’s where my activism started.
My parents also let their children choose who they wanted to marry. My marriage was for love, not arranged by the parents.
Ever since I graduated in computer science, I was upset to see inequality in the job market. So I passed a public contest and again saw it happen. At that time, the government created gender departments in each organization and I became the head of that department. And so began my struggle to convince men to act differently and women that they had rights. Many did not report cases of harassment or violence, for fear of retaliation.
When the Taliban entered Kabul, it felt like an ordinary day and I went to work as normal, but the atmosphere was tense. Then a friend called me and said, “Khatera, go home. It’s over.” I only managed to get my laptop. I looked at the office and realized that something ended there, especially for me. It was a sad moment.
My husband was already home with the kids. And so we stayed for four or five months. I couldn’t go out, other activists were attacked, disappeared. To make matters worse, we no longer had a job or salary. How could we live without any income? So we decided to migrate.
When you’re in danger, you start looking for a way out of the country. My family and I contacted friends and friends of friends around the world until we learned that Brazil was a safe country and was giving visas to Afghans. So we came.
When I got off the plane, I noticed that all the people who were stamping passports at customs were women, one of them seemed to be the director of everyone there. While we waited, I saw those women working, interacting. At that moment I already felt: yes, Brazil is a place that values women.
Then I realized that many women, like men, are responsible for their families. They work, they drive. Even driving is a problem in my country. All this makes me realize that Brazil has gender equality. I’m glad for that.
But becoming a refugee is a huge challenge. Imagine having to leave your home, the place where you grew up and have a lot of memories, relatives, friends, everything. And when you arrive you don’t know the language, you can’t communicate even to say you have a problem, to ask for help.
I’ll never forget the day my daughter’s teacher said something to me in Portuguese, gesturing with the number two. I just nodded, but I didn’t understand. When I was already home, my daughter called crying, saying that she was alone with the teacher because no one had come to pick her up. What the teacher had told me was to pick up the kids earlier that day, at 2pm, not 5pm, but I didn’t understand. I was very upset.
But slowly we are learning Portuguese, making friends, trying to find a job. Brazilians in general do not speak English, but they are good people and they are treating us very well, they try hard to help. We don’t know what the future will be like, we need to get a job, learn the language. I like your accent. I hope that one day I can give this interview in Portuguese.
