Yalda Sarwar
The first time it happened I was on a bus. We had just returned to Afghanistan after the fall of Taliban. It was my second time ever taking public transportation. I was with my mother who was wearing a chadari – a blue burqa commonly worn in Afghanistan.
I was very young. I can’t remember where we were coming from or where we were headed. But what I do remember is how helpless I felt when a man I didn’t know began molesting me.
I didn’t even know the term “harassment” at the time. All I knew was that I wanted his nasty hands off of me.
I wanted to cry for help and call my mother to make him stop, but the bus was overcrowded and my mother was too far away to see me crying quietly. I looked at other passengers; confused, unsure, and frightened. I had no idea what was happening to me, but I hated it. I hated how a bus full of people could turn a blind eye to what this man was doing. I hated how far away mom was, the one time I needed her the most.
Our stop was next. My mom waved her hand, signaling me to head towards her so we could get off. I stood up forcing the man to finally get his hands off of my thigh. Taking those short steps felt like reaching a whole new level of freedom I knew nothing about, compared to how a few moments of feeling violated had felt like hours.
This experience haunted me for years.
It caused me to be fearful and made me extra vigilant, especially in crowded spaces and in public transit. Even today, more than ten thousand miles away from where it all started, 13 years later, I cringe when I see survivors on TV or hear about sexual harassment.
The next time I was harassed it was in a bakery. The man lived a block down from me. There was a rumor that he had been poisoned by someone jealous of his intelligence. Whether or not he was fed real poison or not, no one knew, but he was a seriously abusive person. He bullied passersby, especially those who were walking alone. This is why I avoided being around him by myself.
Kabul’s golden afternoons were often quiet, warm and serene. That summer afternoon, even though I was hesitant to take the dough to the bakery out of fear of facing another street harasser, I decided to leave the house and didn’t tell anyone about the harassment I faced.
I got to the bakery. There was no sign of the bully. I placed the dough in front of the baker and requested him to bake it fast. He agreed and asked me to sit down as he had to bake another neighbor’s dough before mine. He was halfway through, when my worst nightmare came to life and I saw the bully. He was inside the bakery and I couldn’t run away.
I felt paralyzed; but then I remembered that the baker and his assistant were there.
“They would never allow what happened to me on the bus to be repeated. There is no way,” I told myself.
I relaxed for a minute, thinking I was safe. I told myself I would simply sit quiet and he won’t even notice me. As I held onto my breath, almost suffocating myself so he couldn’t hear me – although he clearly saw me- I felt his presence getting closer by the second. And before I knew it, he had kissed me on the cheek.
I never spoke about that incident and how violated I felt.
Though some might say that it was “just a kiss,” I felt unsafe and threatened. I was silent for many years. I have only been able to tell one friend about this incident. She too, wasn’t helpful. She discouraged me from speaking up and said it would be shameful if I talked about it. By silencing me, she re-enforced this idea that somehow women are to be blamed when they face sexual violence or abuse.
A few years later, I came across the book “Daughters of Rabia.” It is a collection of Afghan women’s writings and poetry that changed me forever. Reading excerpts of the book, especially the ones about street harassment, gave me more hope. Most importantly, it taught me that there was nothing wrong with me. I wasn’t to blame. They were. The harassers and abusers.
Through the book and Free Women Writers, I learned that I wasn’t alone, that there were many other girls who had suffered in ways similar and in even more terrible ways than what I had experienced. I realized that I had to come to terms with what happened and rise above it. I learned to set goals for myself and focus on healing myself through writing and in the company of other women.