By: Malalai Amin
Zarghoona sat with heavy eyelids and dark circles beneath her eyes, fidgeting with some papers at hand in the cramped waiting room of the UN Refugee Agency Office in Peshawar. She has come with her two daughters and one son. The clock ticked past 12:45 p.m. as the temperature rose steadily outside.
The waiting area, once a roofless room, is converted into a makeshift office with a false wall and roof. Rows of chairs faced a 40-inch television, while on the other side of the room, a lone fan whirled in circles, its blades barely stirring the stuffy air.
Zarghoona’s face betrayed her weariness and frustration, etched with lines of exhaustion and worry. With a heavy sigh, she rose from her seat and moved to another chair, hoping for a change of luck. “Do you have a case?” I asked her.
“Yes, they said they would call,” Zarghoona replied immediately.
“Did they call?” I asked.
“They may have called, but I don’t have a phone number,” said Zarghoona. “My visa has expired, and my SIM card has been deactivated.”
It seemed that she had a lot to say. “I’ve had to use other people’s documents to get a SIM card. Each time, I paid 1000 Kaldars (Rupees) for a SIM card and another 1000 Rupees to someone who gets me a SIM card with his/her own documents. But every time, after a week, the SIM card stopped working. I couldn’t keep paying so much money every week. I couldn’t continue doing this.”
In the aftermath of the Taliban’s takeover of Afghanistan in August 2021, a new wave of migrants has fled various Afghan cities in search of safety and a better life in neighboring countries. Many have made their way to Iran and Pakistan, hoping to eventually reach countries that accept immigrants.
The waiting area, paved with pebbles, has a few children’s toys in one corner, including a swing and a Merry-go-round. Zarghoona’s 10-year-old daughter is sitting on the merry-go-round and spinning on it. Zarghoona takes a moment to pause from watching her daughter and says, “I cook Rote (Afghan sweet bread) at home and my daughter and son take it to Board Bazaar. Sometimes it sells, sometimes it doesn’t, but people’s behavior is very irritating.”
Zarghoona’s doleful countenance bears the marks of a lorn beauty — with large, dark eyes, an elongated nose, and a bright smile that reveals her teeth. “I cannot help but follow my children when they leave in the morning,” she confides.
The United Nations Refugee Agency has set up an office behind Khyber Teaching Hospital (KTH).
A fortnight ago, Zarghoona’s ten-year-old daughter was selling Rote in the market when she fell down a flight of stairs at the metro station, injuring her clavicle and arm. Today, her mother has brought her to the hospital to remove the cast.
Zarghoona has seized the opportunity and made her way to the United Nations Refugee Agency’s office, hoping for progress in her family’s case and a chance to find a better life in a country that accepts immigrants. Despite not knowing much about the refugee transfer process aside from a number given to her by the agency, her only wish is for her children to grow up in a safer and more prosperous environment.
Looking back to the merry-go-round, Zarghoona watches her 8-year-old son spin, her eyes fixed on him protectively. “Every morning after the children leave the house, I follow them to the bazaar to keep a watchful eye on them from a distance,” she says. “In this hot weather, the children sometimes run towards one car and sometimes towards another car. Some people buy from them, some insult them, and others make fun of them.”
Wearing a black long Arabic coat the back of which is turned to hepatic due to exposure to direct sunlight for a long time, Zarghoona fidgets with a corner of her coat for a few seconds before speaking again. “It’s even more painful that my son is subjected to immoral requests by the men,” she says with a voice tinged with bitterness.
