The sun has stretched its rays over the mountains, casting its brilliance upon the city of Kabul. Its light reveals the hidden layers of the city. With the cool morning breeze, the streets come alive with activity. The silence and darkness of the night have once again transformed into the hustle and bustle of light and sound. The chirping of birds mixes with the hum of motors. Some speak of the beginning of the day’s worries, while others worry about its end. Yet, everyone leaves their homes in hopes of a good day’s end, with enough earnings to sustain their households, spreading their working tools along the roadsides. Various sounds emanate from the texture of the city. Someone beckons a traveler with a distinct rhythm in their voice. Another urges passersby to help them not to return home empty-handed. And yet another confidently persuades pedestrians to make a purchase. Children also join in, chasing after passersby with plastic bags and tin cans, reciting tales of hardship with apologies and sorrow. It’s as if the city’s only concern is bread, and bread knows no age—child, youth, adult, elderly, woman, or man.
Beyond the bustling city, other voices can be heard, more helpless and poignant, crying out the misfortune and poverty; women’s voices veiled in pursuit of bread, their heads bowed before passersby. This is the most exhausting sound that emanates from the throats of the women of this city, exacerbated during the days of Ramadan and fasting. With hungrier stomachs and drier throats, they fear the Taliban fighters who stand every few steps on the roads, casting their shadows over the city. With half-open eyes and hands occasionally reaching out from under their veils, they seek benevolent passersby. Some women have children with them—eyes full of longing, worn-out clothes, cracked cheeks, bare feet, and tangled hair—the characteristics of children searching for their mothers among the city’s benefactors. The Taliban group has often claimed to collect the beggars of Kabul and provide them with monthly financial assistance, but it seems like yet another false promise that tests the patience of the people.
The hungry bellies and cracked lips of the destitute in the city’s alleys grow hungrier and more desperate every day, yet during the days of fasting, there is no one to bring bread to their table. Begging women, who now change clothes for fear of being detained by Taliban fighters, strive more than anyone else for a morsel of bread. The hungry stomachs of their children and the absence of a provider to bring bread to their families have forced them to wander the streets in search of one or two Afghanis. But some women are noticeable, bravely engaging in street vending alongside men, carrying baskets laden with food and other supplies from one place to another with all their might, seeking to attract customers. Women are forced to work beyond their means to find money.
This city wasn’t just filled with male laborers, but also with hardworking women—women who wielded pens instead of shovels, dreaming of a better future for themselves and their nation. However, circumstances have transformed them into prisoners within their own homes, deprived of the simple joy of a satisfying meal. Some are now compelled to beg, fighting desperately to stave off starvation and death. Their cries of anguish reverberate through the streets of Kabul louder than ever before, a constant reminder of the relentless grip of poverty. Passersby find themselves overwhelmed by the sheer weight of these pleas, echoing endlessly from the lips of women who once sang songs of spring. “Please, help us, we are hungry,” “We have no bread to feed our children tonight,” “Have mercy on us, we are hungry and desperate,”—these desperate appeals punctuate the city’s air, a haunting melody of suffering and despair.
Kabul is draped in the sorrowful sound of destitution. The wind’s mournful howl in March heralds the coming of spring to Kabul’s inhabitants—a piece of news that brings joy to some and the beginning of yet another concern to others. It’s as if this city harbors worries beyond the mournful howl of the spring wind, and its breath is stifled by exhaustion. The people of the city, accustomed to the pains of destitution, seem to have no pain at all. They do not sigh. The sounds of agony and despair are choked in their throats, but this city and its people are filled with pain and wounds—wounds that have become gangrenous. Many eyes in this city are tear-stained, and many throats are torn from the intensity of their cries. It’s as if love and enthusiasm for work and life have been replaced by fear and despair.
In Kabul, the streets are devoid of color, mirroring the somber plight of its residents. From the break of dawn until nightfall, their sole mission is to secure a morsel of bread. Bread, once a simple sustenance, now dominates their every thought, eclipsing all joys and shattering every hope. Hunger and poverty have wrought havoc, erasing memories of those responsible for robbing them of their sustenance and plunging them into destitution. The vibrant tapestry of the city has been replaced by a bleak palette of despair, and the once-lively homes now echo with the silence of stolen happiness.