By Mary Littrell
Gold Solas Award-winner in the Doing Good or Kindness of Strangers
category
Soon after the pre-dawn call to prayers in Kandahar, Afghanistan, Rangina stands at my bedroom door. Tears stream from her eyes.
“My friend was just killed. On her way to work at the United Nations office, she asked her driver to stop so she could buy a box of juice. A man rode up on a motorcycle and gunned her down.” Rangina gulps, “She’s dead!”
Having no words to comfort her, I jump from bed and envelop Rangina in my arms. Her body heaves. She sobs.
Several hours later, artisans arrive at the women-only workshop on the ground floor of Rangina’s home in an adobe-walled compound. A guard opens a small, eye-level window in the metal gate and listens to each woman speak through her burqa’s tiny facial screen. Only then does the guard admit those he recognizes. Rangina joins the women, taking their hands in a few words of greeting and conversation. She turns to me.
“News travels fast in Kandahar. The women already know of this morning’s violence.”
The artisans hang their burqas on a wall, sit on the floor, and begin to embroider. On most days, the women drape their hijabs loosely over their heads and shoulders as they work. Today, they encircle the six-foot-long scarf around their faces, tugging the cloth as if for protection. An eerie quiet pervades what is usually a chatter-filled workspace.
It’s October 2016. The women tell me that in previous weeks, a measure of calm had settled in Kandahar, which is home to the deeply conservative Pashtun people. Street violence had seemed to be dissipating. Now, once again, nerves fray.
Rangina says, “The women are concerned for your safety.”
As an American, am I endangering these women by being here?
I am in Afghanistan collaborating with Rangina on a book that will chronicle her journey in founding Kandahar Treasure, the first women-owned artisan business in war-infested Afghanistan. I will contribute context from my thirty-plus years of research on ethnic textiles around the world.
Rangina and I first met at the International Folk Art Market in my hometown of Santa Fe, New Mexico. I eyed the jewel-toned embroidered scarves and shawls on sale in the Kandahar Treasure booth. The silky fabrics slid through my fingers. Rangina shared fragments of her story. I yearned to learn more.
Rangina was four years old when her family of nine fled Afghanistan on a night during the Russian occupation in 1981. The family initially lived as refugees in Pakistan before immigrating to the U.S. in 1988. There, Rangina earned her high school diploma and university degree.
After 9/11/2001 and the fall of the Taliban, Afghans living abroad were eager to assist in rebuilding their country. Rangina and her father embarked on the journey in 2003. Once back in Afghanistan, Rangina gathered a group of women who had learned to embroider as young girls. During the war years, these women had little time for practicing their textile tradition.
Today, in 2016, the 400-woman group is reviving Kandahar’s exquisite khamak embroidery—an art form unique to the Pashtun people in southern Afghanistan. Within Pashtun households, khamak is prominent in the tiny stitches covering the chests of men’s tunics and in the textiles adorning the interior décor of Afghan homes, from the simple to the elegant.
The women of Kandahar Treasure carry out their daily lives within boundaries defined by men. Pashtunwali, the Pashtun religious and cultural code of conduct, guides men in protecting women and family honor. Women are allowed to leave their walled compounds only when accompanied by a male relative, such as a husband, brother, or son. Few women have been permitted schooling; the national average for women is 3.6 years.
Despite a cultural expectation that males serve as sole household providers, employment is vulnerable, neither steady nor well-paid.
Rangina says, “As unschooled women who rarely leave their homes, they know little about economic options for contributing to their households.”
I had arrived in Afghanistan eager to hear directly from the artisans who seek work with Kandahar Treasure. In a society that sequesters women in their homes and with their lives in danger on the street, what role does textile artisanship play in their lives?
Today, around noon and amidst disquiet in the workshop on this day of terror returning to the streets, Rangina reminds me that Amina, a Kandahar Treasure artisan, has invited us to her home for tea.
Rangina says, “We are invited for tomorrow, but we are going today. Amina has probably told her neighbors that she is hosting you. We’ll surprise her and arrive unannounced, one day early. That way, we can offer some protection to Amina from an American visiting her home on this day of violence. Get ready. We’re leaving now.”
Rattled by potential danger in leaving the compound, I resist going to Amina’s for tea as I had promised. Rangina says, “You need to hear her. She lives the Kandahar Treasure story.”
As we leave Rangina’s compound, my hands tremble as I pull my cheap polyester burqa down over my body. On most days, I feel claustrophobic in the dark blue cloth enclosing me from head to toe. The embroidered screen in front of my eyes filters my vision, preventing me from seeing the street life of Kandahar clearly. Today, my Taliban-approved burqa, purchased on Amazon.com before my travel and mandated for all women appearing in public, no longer seems like a bothersome garment. I embrace Rangina’s vision of the bulky flowing garments enveloping us in protection from men’s prying eyes and invading hands. I feel invisible and safe.
After an hour of crossing to the other side of the sprawling city on its pot-holed empty roads, our driver deposits us outside a paint-scratched metal door in a high, mud-walled enclosure. He drives away in a cloud of dust. Rangina bangs on the door. Sweating heavily under my burqa, I take a deep breath and brace myself for what is ahead.
As we enter, two teenage girls rush forward to remove our burqas and hang them on wall pegs. Soapsuds from an early morning wash surround a water spigot in a corner of the dirt-floored enclosure. Five goats roam behind a low-walled partition, eating their hay. Several doorways, draped with weathered canvas curtains, lead off the compound’s small courtyard.
Amina greets us with a smile radiating from her thin, fine-featured face. Her head is wound tightly in a navy-blue hijab. A rayon-printed dress in pink and blue geometric motifs covers her arms and hangs loosely to the floor. Rangina offers a few words of explanation about our earlier-than-expected arrival.
Amina says, “You are always welcome in my home.”
With her warm greeting, I begin to feel more secure about our visit.
Amina, age thirty-eight, lives surrounded by a houseful of children. Married at twelve, she gave birth to her first child, a son, at fourteen. Two years later, he died in the arms of his uncle during a wartime attack. One by one, eleven daughters followed. Yet Amina remained hopeful for another son. Today, that dream is fulfilled by her three youngest children, all sons who will grow up to be the family’s backbone.
Wartime tragedy and sadness permeate family stories in Afghanistan. Amina’s story is no exception. Her husband stepped on a land mine laid during the Communist regime and lost his leg. She also cares for six children, orphaned when their father died in wartime gunfire. Their mother, Amina’s sister, has remarried; her new husband refuses to care for the children he did not father. Today, eight unmarried daughters and three sons remain at home. A household of 19—how does she do it?
Amina ushers us through a curtain into her private room for receiving female guests. Here, we will be concealed from any males entering the compound. Stunning khamak textiles, with their delicate embroidery stitches in violet and white, decorate every wall and object in the ten-foot-square enclosure. Khamak embellishes floor and wall cushions, sleeping mats, a tower of suitcases, and a sewing machine. High on a shelf, an embroidered square with pink and gold-glittery fringe protects the family’s Qur’an.
Amina was assigned this room in her husband’s home as a bride-to-be. Assisted by her mother, aunts, and sisters, Amina embroidered her textile dowry over long hours before her arrival as a married woman. Tiny stitches—as many as 400 per square inch—create an array of shining geometric motifs dancing across the fabrics. As I touch the embroidered floor cushions, I am dazzled by the beauty that these soft, pastel textiles bestow on Amina’s personal space.
The cool, adobe-walled room fills quickly with women and girls—over twenty engulfed shoulder-to-shoulder, some sitting two deep on floor cushions around the walls. I feel tightly immersed in a woman’s world. I marvel at so many women in the small space, all with hijabs and dressed in a myriad of pastel prints. Who are they? How did they know we were here? A day early?
Rangina and Amina initiate the traditional Afghan greeting by simultaneously offering phrases of welcome and inquiries about family and health. A row of slim-faced daughters, dressed in floor-length pastel dresses, serve steaming tea and place individual plates of sugar-coated cookies at our feet. Three generations, grandmothers to granddaughters, join in animated conversation. Humming voices soon fill the room. Are they talking about me?
Amina seems to read my mind.
“You are the first American to visit my home.”
Rangina says that we have arrived to hear about the women’s lives and learn more about khamak.
Amina immediately says, “For my eight daughters and me, khamak is our biggest asset in life! Khamak is what we have. As long as there is daylight, we’re doing khamak. The sun rises. The sun sets. We’re all working.”
While Amina allows her daughter to listen to music and news on the radio during the day, she remains steadfast in not buying a television. She fears a TV will distract her daughters from their embroidery.
As we talk, the eight daughters, from early to late teens, huddle in a row along one wall. Hunched over in mounds on the floor, their hands peek out from hijabs as they embroider delicate motifs on pastel fabrics draped over their knees.
Rangina says, “Their work, learned at their mother’s side as young girls, is of such high quality that I seek them out for special orders or new design ideas.”
Amina leaves her compound once each week to return completed embroidery to the Kandahar Treasure workshop in Rangina’s compound, collect payment, and pick up new orders. Her travel, accompanied by a son, takes over an hour each way.
For Amina, her trips to the workshop offer a rare opportunity to meet and mingle with women outside her compound and family. Earlier in the week, I had noticed the women lingering behind after completing their business in the workshop office. Sitting in a tight circle on the floor and drinking cups of tea, the women seemed to relish each other’s company.
One woman had said, “Here we are free from the bickering among our mothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, and co-wives living in our compounds.”
Amina continues our conversation by proclaiming that the money earned from khamak is essential for her family of nineteen, “We meet all of our expenses with our hands.”
Although Amina’s husband can still work, his income barely covers their monthly rent and buys only one bag of flour.
Amina continues, “We need four bags of flour each month to make bread for all of our family meals. We also must buy rice, cooking oil, sugar, vegetables, and tea—a constant companion for my daughters and me to drink as we embroider.”
I ask about the goats in the courtyard. With a smile, she says, “For many months, I saved what little money was left to purchase the goats. Now they provide our daily milk and yogurt.”
Before our visit, Rangina told me that Amina’s family follows conservative Islamic practices common to Kandahar, practices that demand the protection of girls in the home, particularly those in their teens. None of the daughters has been allowed to attend school. Schooling is not deemed requisite to the girls’ future roles as wives and mothers.
Amina says, “If everyone became skilled in reading and writing, who would do khamak?”
Zarghona, a 15-year-old daughter, speaks up, “For me, khamak embroidery is my signature, my writing, my pen. Khamak is my writing to the world.”
Knowing that I am from the United States, another daughter looks up from her burqa and asks, “How many years did you go to school?”
I answer, “Twenty-two years.”
The girls gaze at me and giggle. What does my answer mean to them? Do they wonder what goes on in school that has taken me so long?
As our visit nears an end, I am grateful to Amina, who, on this day fraught with danger on the streets, welcomed me into her home and shared personal stories. I feel conflicted by what I have heard. I arrived at Amina’s house seeking to understand what motivates the women at Kandahar Treasure to devote long hours stitching the delicate embroidery designs. Across the morning, I hear that Amina draws on her only income generation option as a homebound woman—her embroidery expertise learned as a young girl. Without income from Kandahar Treasure, Amina’s family would go hungry. Any options for earning income outside the home are closed to her.
I am in awe of this woman’s accomplishments. As a lifelong educator, I shudder that Amina’s daughters have no formal schooling. Yet, their family’s story cautions me to temper my judgment in situations where usurping formal schooling for income generation may be the only option for acquiring food to remain alive.
Rangina says, “From the beginning, I was aware that expanding women’s roles to include work with Kandahar Treasure meant shifting long held and deeply felt patriarchal attitudes. I take pride that Kandahar Treasure has fostered a safe, women-only workplace respectful of Muslim practices.”
As we prepare to leave, Amina and her daughters gather around to help me pull my burqa down over my head. I feel their hands enclosing me with care and protection.
Amina whispers, “When I die, I fear that God will tell me that I overworked my body and the bodies of my daughters.”
Seconds after walking out, I turn for one last glance at Amina as she slowly closes the door to the street outside her compound. While I heed Amina’s angst, I depart with tenuous hope for her and her family.
~ ~ ~
Mary Littrell’s teaching and writing focus on advancing the creative work of folk artists worldwide. Venues as a writer include in the university classroom, with students on study tours, and currently as a research associate at the Museum of International Folk Art in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Her work with artists has taken her to Afghanistan, Ghana, Guatemala, India, Peru, and Uzbekistan. Her most recent book, Embroidering within Boundaries: Afghan Women Create a Future, was co-authored with Afghan colleague Rangina Hamida. “Khamak Feeds Our Family” conveys her personal experience on an emotion-laden day in Kandahar, Afghanistan.
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