In today’s troubled times, worries about life extend even to the length of scarves, with fears looming about girls being abducted under the guise of hijab. Let me share the story of a woman who resided near our home. She had five children, varying in height, and her husband, battling addiction, struggled to provide even bread for the family. Gulbakht, at times, stitched clothes, and on other days, she labored in people’s homes, washing laundry, using whatever little she earned to sustain her own and her family’s lives. Unfortunately, one cold winter day, I bore witness to a heart-wrenching event. Gulbakht’s three-month-old baby fell ill with a fever, and she lacked the funds to consult a doctor. Meanwhile, Gulbakht’s husband got embroiled in a family dispute, leading to his arrest and transportation to the Dahan-e Ghori area. Upon hearing this news, Gulbakht, with her ailing baby cradled in her arms, set out in search of her husband. The clock had already struck four in the afternoon, and as the short winter day dimmed into darkness, she ventured forth.
Adding to Gulbakht’s endless misfortune, she was also detained by the Taliban in the vicinity of her location simply because she lacked a male companion, remaining in their custody for a harrowing five days. Meanwhile, her husband had returned home, but there was no trace of Gulbakht’s whereabouts.
Before, I used to hear the sounds of laughter and childish games of her children from afar every day. Gulbakht’s eldest son was eight years old. Although he was a child and the colors of childhood joy radiated from his face, the sense of responsibility could still be seen in his eyes; how patient he was with his siblings. Asad, Gulbakht’s second son, had large black eyes with penetrating and calm gazes. Sometimes he would prevent his mother from shedding tears, wiping away her tears with his delicate fingers and kissing her cheeks. Once I saw him sniffing his mother’s skirt, lost in thought, and sometimes he would caress her hair. I am still amazed at how a child so young could be so intelligent and kind.
Gulbakht returns home after a few days, but she is no longer the same Gulbakht; superficial and deep wounds on her body bear witness to the harsh torture she endured in prison, and the nervous shock she suffered has led her to delusion and self-harm. Sometimes she would cut her hand with a knife, and sometimes she would cut her hair with scissors. From her appearance and actions, it was clear that not only had she been physically tortured in a Taliban prison, but the savages had also wounded her soul. No one knew what had happened to this woman. She didn’t speak for herself, and we could only tell from the wounds on her head and face that she had been tortured. That’s all there was to it.
In this state, a week passed when one night we heard the sound of Taliban rangers standing behind Gulbakht’s door. It was an uproar, and some neighbors had come out. From the gap in our courtyard gate, I witnessed the heartbreaking scene unfolding. I saw how they separated a mother from her children. Her children held onto one of her hands while the other was caught in her chador. Armed men pushed the children away and dragged the woman with violence, hitting her head against a nearby stone. She lost consciousness, her face covered in blood.
Her infant child grew weak from intense crying. Sometimes his cries would stop momentarily, only to resume with gasps for breath. Perhaps in the cold of the night, he needed the warmth of his mother’s embrace. Their house was very cold because they had no firewood to keep warm, and only the warmth of the mother’s embrace could suffice for the children, who were being taken away by the oppressors themselves.
What was more painful for me was that none of the men from our village came to her aid, to ask why and for what reason they would allow such cruelty to be inflicted upon a defenseless woman. They merely watched as the bones of that woman were crushed under the feet of the Taliban, and I was even more horrified. I said to myself, can these people be called men?
Gulbakht was taken to prison without the investigation and interrogation that others undergo. It’s as if they didn’t even bother to fabricate false evidence for her alleged crime. Now she is held captive by a handful of savages in a Taliban prison. Gulbakht’s children have become beggars for a morsel of bread in the alleys and streets. This bitter reality shakes the body and conscience of every human being.
Now there is no sign of childish enthusiasm in the eyes of her children or the playful banter of those children. The addicted father no longer cares for his children, and their mother languishes in the corner of the prison, and no one knows her condition.
