Afghan Women’s Writing Project

Cover

Art: Amrisha Vaidya

My first namaz

By Meena

During the monsoons in Pakistan,
the news of my grandmother’s death
made our lives rainier, showing me
my father’s tears for the first time.
I wanted to take his pain away
But didn’t know how.

After the long day of the funeral,
he slept on a mattress.
sitting close to him,
I crossed my legs
My hands touched his forehead;
I put my head on his.
He woke up nervous
as if he did not know where he was.
How is my love doing?
he asked and went to pray
for his mother’s soul.
I decided, at age six,
I was old enough to pray with him
I said,
God will listen to me more.

He spread out two green prayer rugs
We stood facing the qiblah
he took my small hands in his large ones
and put the right on the left,
close to my chest.
Repeat after me, he said.

Now we both sat in Sajda,
placing our foreheads on the rug.
His head was still on the rug
when I stole a glance at him.
He looked back, reminding me
that I was not supposed to do that.
Looking at the peace on his face, though,
Was probably worth the sin.

Notes
Qiblah: a niche which indicates the direction Muslims should face during prayer
Sajda: prostration in worship

~ Meena was born in Kabul but spent much of her early childhood as a refugee living in Peshawar. She says her goal, once she finishes her education, is to work to help Afghan women gain financial independence, education and political freedom. This poem is part of the Afghan Women’s Writing Project (www.awwproject.org).

Remembering fifteen

By Roya

And I feel so young.
Pains start growing inside of me.
I begin to hear
You have to
have to
have to.
I must live with ‘have to’.

I have to buy a burqa and
hide the world under it.
I have to forget the sun.
To talk about the moon is a risk.
I have to wear clothes
people choose
the colors they dictate
I have to live with negative imperatives:
Don’t laugh!
Don’t speak loudly!
Don’t look at men!
Shut up!
I am sick of hearing: ‘Don’t, Don’t, Don’t!’

I am fifteen and
the boy I cannot forget
waits on the street
to see me with my burqa
on the way to Lala’s bakery
and gives me postcards
of birds flying in a sky
filled with freedom.
He knows my smell
love is blind for him.
He lives with the smell of a woman.

And Mama always says, be like other people,
be like other people
I wonder whether I agree.
I have to learn how to bear
the pain of being human
the pain of being a woman
the pain if Dad discovers
the postcards hidden
between the bricks of the wall
the pain if the neighbor’s naughty son
steals the postcards
the pain if Dad says,
never ever go to the bakery
the pain if the rain washes the mud off the wall
where his letters are hidden

The rain does wash the mud away
along with his words on the letter:
‘I love you and I love your blue burqa.’

But the rain can’t wash his love from my heart
the rain can’t wash the pain from my heart.
Still I keep my blue burqa
in the museum of memos
still I paint the birds
with blue wings.

and Mama still says, be like other people,
be like other people
and Mama still says, be like other people,
and Mama…

~ Roya was born in Kabul and remained in Afghanistan during the Taliban period. She hopes to continue her education and eventually gain a masters degree. She wants to be a poet. This poem is part of the Afghan Women’s Writing Project (www.awwproject.org).

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