Caged Birds
The next day was Friday—a holiday in Afghanistan. They only have one day off here. My dad wanted to buy some curtains and take us to “bird street.” “You should wear some conservative clothes, ‘cause we’re going to old town,” he said. Wazh and I looked at the clothes we were wearing and then at each other. We were wearing our conservative clothes! Did he want us to wear a burqa or something?!
Old Town was an interesting experience, mainly because we were the center of attention. Everywhere we went men were staring at us and you could hear people talking about the “foreigners.” I was so tired of hearing the whispering I almost wanted to shout out and formerly announce ourselves to put an end to the curious stares and questions:
“My name is Gazelle Samizay. Yes, we are foreigners, but we are not dumb, and we can understand what you’re saying. We live in the US. I am a woman--have you ever seen one before? I don’t wear a burqa ‘cause I don’t want to. I am educated and I could kick your ass if I wanted to, so bug off!” That was the soliloquy going on in my head. But the shy six year old didn’t think unleashing her older feminist “I’m going to kick your ass” sister was appropriate.
On the corner was a stall full of white fluffy cotton being used to stuff cushions. It was early morning and the sun was glowing. It was perfect picture taking time, but I was so afraid that if I stopped to take pictures I’d lose my dad so I passed the opportunity.
We continued walking through the alley and entered a run down concrete building that housed several fabric shops. The only light available was that which was coming through the courtyard. We stopped at one fabric seller who was busy with 2 burqa-clad women requesting that he give them more change back. Unfortunately my dad was being indecisive about his fabrics and we continued out of the building onto the street where there were more eyes to peel the skin off my body. It is interesting how you can feel someone’s stare. Now imagine, 100 pairs of eyes staring at you! And they’re not subtle about it either. At one point I almost burst out laughing because this fat man saw us and he seemed to particularly notice Wazhma. He slowed down and tried to make himself as big as he could so that he would run into us, but we managed to pass him without any contact.
My dad finally went back to the original fabric seller to buy his fabrics and the fabric seller carried the large roll of fabric to our small white Toyota. As we walked I noticed how dirty and smelly Old Town was. It smelled like a toilet. After dropping off the fabric we walked toward “bird street.” Bird street was a tight alleyway packed to the brim with men, even though today was a holiday. I shuddered, imagining it on a weekday. It reminded me a lot of the souks in Morocco, which are easy to lose yourself in without a guide. Too bad I was too busy keeping my eyes to myself and my invisible walls of protection up to really take in the sights around me. Here the men sandwich was worse than in the immigration office, and these men were having a hey-day at the sight of Wazhma and I. Teasing, staring, laughing. I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.
On either side of me past the crowds of jeering men were hundreds of birds caged in small spaces. I saw about 10 pigeons trapped in a 1’x 2’ cage. They could barely crawl over each other, let alone spread their wings—not unlike how I was feeling at that moment. I wanted to take the birds and run away. Further down the alley was a large owl cowering in a cage while small boys poked their fingers through the cage in awe. I don’t believe in caged animals. I think they should be enjoyed in their natural habitat. If we cage animals, is caging women such a longshot?
We finally got to the end of bird street and my sister said, “Let’s get out of here!” My dad said, “You know, I didn’t think about it, but do you think we could get bird flu here?” “Yes!” my sister exclaimed angrily, “I was thinking that the whole way!” “Great.” I thought. I wish someone had clued me into the bird flu warning earlier so I could have at least covered my mouth or something. With the way these animals are caged, it seems very likely that any disease could manifest itself here.
After getting out of bird street, we headed to an old run down tomb overlooking Kabul. The space, quiet, and kite flying put me at ease. Small squares dotted the sky as little boys chased runaway kites. It’s funny the things that stick with you. Whenever I see a kite I’m transported to the beach along the Oregon coast. I was 7 and my family went to the Oregon coast with the Bartuskas, some family friends (who incidentally, my parents met in Afghanistan when they were on a fullbright). They had a nice blue kite and they were so nice they said I could fly it. One of them held the spool and told me to take the head of the kite to let out the spool of string. I was so excited I went running, but I ran too far and the head of the kite broke from its string. I was devastated. The Bartuskas were very nice about it and said it was no problem but I felt SO bad that I broke these wonderful people’s kite and that I couldn’t play with the kite anymore. Now that I think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever flown a kite. I should buy one when I go home.
My uncle tried to shoo away the circle of boys staring at us in awe like animals at the zoo. I guess my name is Gazelle. No amount of shooing worked and we hopped in the car to head home. As we headed back down the road a guy alongside the road stared hard at Wazhma. “It’s as if they’ve never seen a woman before!” exclaimed Wazhma, at her wits’ end. My uncle and dad chuckled in their signature Samizay laugh. I wondered if they really get what it’s like to be a woman. My sister said, “Well, I guess they haven’t seen a woman considering the ratio of men to women on the street is 50:1.” I think it’s more like 300:1.
When we got home, I read my Lonely Planet India. It was saying that in India 1 woman is raped every 30 minutes, but that in the US a woman is raped every TWO minutes! I can see that women have a long way to go.
Old Town was an interesting experience, mainly because we were the center of attention. Everywhere we went men were staring at us and you could hear people talking about the “foreigners.” I was so tired of hearing the whispering I almost wanted to shout out and formerly announce ourselves to put an end to the curious stares and questions:
“My name is Gazelle Samizay. Yes, we are foreigners, but we are not dumb, and we can understand what you’re saying. We live in the US. I am a woman--have you ever seen one before? I don’t wear a burqa ‘cause I don’t want to. I am educated and I could kick your ass if I wanted to, so bug off!” That was the soliloquy going on in my head. But the shy six year old didn’t think unleashing her older feminist “I’m going to kick your ass” sister was appropriate.
On the corner was a stall full of white fluffy cotton being used to stuff cushions. It was early morning and the sun was glowing. It was perfect picture taking time, but I was so afraid that if I stopped to take pictures I’d lose my dad so I passed the opportunity.
We continued walking through the alley and entered a run down concrete building that housed several fabric shops. The only light available was that which was coming through the courtyard. We stopped at one fabric seller who was busy with 2 burqa-clad women requesting that he give them more change back. Unfortunately my dad was being indecisive about his fabrics and we continued out of the building onto the street where there were more eyes to peel the skin off my body. It is interesting how you can feel someone’s stare. Now imagine, 100 pairs of eyes staring at you! And they’re not subtle about it either. At one point I almost burst out laughing because this fat man saw us and he seemed to particularly notice Wazhma. He slowed down and tried to make himself as big as he could so that he would run into us, but we managed to pass him without any contact.
My dad finally went back to the original fabric seller to buy his fabrics and the fabric seller carried the large roll of fabric to our small white Toyota. As we walked I noticed how dirty and smelly Old Town was. It smelled like a toilet. After dropping off the fabric we walked toward “bird street.” Bird street was a tight alleyway packed to the brim with men, even though today was a holiday. I shuddered, imagining it on a weekday. It reminded me a lot of the souks in Morocco, which are easy to lose yourself in without a guide. Too bad I was too busy keeping my eyes to myself and my invisible walls of protection up to really take in the sights around me. Here the men sandwich was worse than in the immigration office, and these men were having a hey-day at the sight of Wazhma and I. Teasing, staring, laughing. I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.
On either side of me past the crowds of jeering men were hundreds of birds caged in small spaces. I saw about 10 pigeons trapped in a 1’x 2’ cage. They could barely crawl over each other, let alone spread their wings—not unlike how I was feeling at that moment. I wanted to take the birds and run away. Further down the alley was a large owl cowering in a cage while small boys poked their fingers through the cage in awe. I don’t believe in caged animals. I think they should be enjoyed in their natural habitat. If we cage animals, is caging women such a longshot?
We finally got to the end of bird street and my sister said, “Let’s get out of here!” My dad said, “You know, I didn’t think about it, but do you think we could get bird flu here?” “Yes!” my sister exclaimed angrily, “I was thinking that the whole way!” “Great.” I thought. I wish someone had clued me into the bird flu warning earlier so I could have at least covered my mouth or something. With the way these animals are caged, it seems very likely that any disease could manifest itself here.
After getting out of bird street, we headed to an old run down tomb overlooking Kabul. The space, quiet, and kite flying put me at ease. Small squares dotted the sky as little boys chased runaway kites. It’s funny the things that stick with you. Whenever I see a kite I’m transported to the beach along the Oregon coast. I was 7 and my family went to the Oregon coast with the Bartuskas, some family friends (who incidentally, my parents met in Afghanistan when they were on a fullbright). They had a nice blue kite and they were so nice they said I could fly it. One of them held the spool and told me to take the head of the kite to let out the spool of string. I was so excited I went running, but I ran too far and the head of the kite broke from its string. I was devastated. The Bartuskas were very nice about it and said it was no problem but I felt SO bad that I broke these wonderful people’s kite and that I couldn’t play with the kite anymore. Now that I think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever flown a kite. I should buy one when I go home.
My uncle tried to shoo away the circle of boys staring at us in awe like animals at the zoo. I guess my name is Gazelle. No amount of shooing worked and we hopped in the car to head home. As we headed back down the road a guy alongside the road stared hard at Wazhma. “It’s as if they’ve never seen a woman before!” exclaimed Wazhma, at her wits’ end. My uncle and dad chuckled in their signature Samizay laugh. I wondered if they really get what it’s like to be a woman. My sister said, “Well, I guess they haven’t seen a woman considering the ratio of men to women on the street is 50:1.” I think it’s more like 300:1.
When we got home, I read my Lonely Planet India. It was saying that in India 1 woman is raped every 30 minutes, but that in the US a woman is raped every TWO minutes! I can see that women have a long way to go.
posted by Gazelle at 2:45 PM
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