Friday

A Father's Choice



A Father's Choice
      by Nadia


Once upon a time there was a large family with ten members.  There were so poor they couldn't live normally. Sometimes they didn't have any food to eat.  In this family, only the father could work because the children were small, and couldn't work.  The father didn't know what he should do.  He couldn't buy food and clothes for their children.

One day he met a man who had a drugstore.  He told him about his life.  The man gave him a suggestion.

At first the father got sad and refused to consider it.  But when he came home the poor man saw his children who were waiting for their father to bring them some food. But he had come home with empty hands.  The children became desperate.

The man sat in the corner of the room and thought about his friend's speech. "You have eight children and can sell the kidney of one of them and get a lot of money."

The man could not sleep.  The next morning when his friend opened his drugstore, the man went ot him and told him his decision.  The next day his friend took one of his children and they went to the doctor.

The boy was so afraid when they went to the doctor's room.  After an hour the doctor came out and said, "We could take the kidney but we couldn't help the boy.  Unfortunately, he died."


Pabot, Susannah E., comp. The Sky Is a Nest of Swallows. First ed. Belleville, 2012.
Afghan Women Writer's Project: http://awwproject.org/
Available on Amazon
You are reading: One Million Girls, please help support the blog by Following- www.milliongirls.blogspot.com
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Wednesday

I Want a President Who Looks Like Me

I Want a President Who Looks Like Me

It is a violation of human rights when babies are denied food, or drowned, or suffocated, or their spines broken, simply because they were born girls.
                                                                            Hillary Clinton

When Indira Gandhi was Prime Minister of India, she met with her cabinet members to discuss the problem of rape. They noticed that the rapes were mostly happening at night, so the male cabinet heads all agreed there should be a curfew on the women. Indira Gandhi said, No, the curfew should be on the men, since they are the ones raping! This exchange shows just how vital a woman's voice is to reason, to common sense and justice.

Recently a woman accused me of lumping men into a big ball when I spoke of the atrocities against women in the world. Unfortunately, the major impediments to women's freedom come from men. I said men do a fine job standing up for themselves, it is women and girls who need help. I explained that I could not even imagine any man standing up and complaining that:

  • Only 97% of the Fortune 500 CEO's are male,
  • There are not 100 million boy babies being killed just because they are boys, 
  • They only make 30% more on the dollar than women
  • Only men govern 89% of the top law firms in the country
  • Only 74% of the men at law firms make $500,000 or more
  • Male doctors make only $350,000 more than female doctors
  • Only 77% of federal judgeships are held by men
  • Only 73% of state judgeships are held by men
  • Only 83% of the Senate is male
  • Only 83% of the House is male
  • That only 5% of men die in domestic violence as compared to 30% of women
  • That they are not being beaten and held as prisoner in their own homes
  • That they are being forced to cover every inch of their bodies in some countries
  • That there are no words to call a man a slut, whore or bitch
  • That from a young age he was told "stop acting like a boy," implying that boys are the worst things anyone can be.
  • Only 91% of editors are male
My friend wanted me to focus on the gains women have made in our generation. Yes, we've made gains, but I feel more like Susan B. Anthony. Susan is probably best known for her tireless work on behalf of women, but especially daring to vote and getting arrested. On her deathbed, she told a friend, All my life I fought for just this much justice, she held her hand up with her pointer finger and thumb parallel about one half inch apart, and I will die without achieving it.

Women all over the world need to be free to be who they are, to work if they wish, to not work if they wish, to give birth to girls and boys, or not to give birth at all, to wear what they wish, make equal pay, have equal opportunities and have equal support for their efforts. After all women hold up half of the sky.

We are forced to fight for basic rights and freedoms, even the right to live after birth instead of being disposed of like rats. I am a grandmother now and I want so much to leave a better world for my granddaughter, but oh I am getting older and the next generation doesn't seem to see how much still needs to be done.  

We need to stand together and support each other instead of attacking those who care about the next generation. I never dreamed that standing up for baby girls being killed after birth would be so controversial. I will not be silenced by anyone.  I hope you won't be silenced either.  If we yell loud enough and long enough, we will be heard. One hundred million infants were silenced and couldn't fight for themselves. We must fight for them!

Until we give more women a voice in leading the world, we will never truly be free. We give birth to the world, and it is time the world honors our contributions because without us, no male would exist.



You are reading 100 Million Girls.
Please support my effort to increase awareness about gendercide by Following the blog at
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Please share this article on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn and you other networks!

Below are some, but not all of the resources used to write this article.
Resources:

ABA Commission on Women in Law
http://www.americanbar.org/content/dam/aba/marketing/women/current_glance_statistics_2011.authcheckdam.pdf
Catalyst
http://www.catalyst.org/page/64/browse-research-knowledge
Domestic Violence Resource Center
http://www.dvrc-or.org/domestic/violence/resources/C61/
Medscape Today
http://www.medscape.com/features/slideshow/compensation/2012/public
New England Journal of Medicine
http://www.nejm.org/doi/full/10.1056/NEJM199604113341506
Wikimedia Medi Wiki
http://meta.wikimedia.org/wiki/Editor_Survey_2011/Women_Editors
The UNICEF document located on a tab of its own on this blog.
Congressional Research Service-House Composition
http://www.fas.org/sgp/crs/misc/RL30261.pdf
Congressional Research Service-Senate Composition
http://www.senate.gov/reference/resources/pdf/R41647.pdf

Tuesday

How Can I Hide My Sorrow?




How Can I Hide My Sorrow?
            By Farahnaz

I am an Afghan girl,
Tears in my eyes, pen in hand,
Writing from my heart.

That heart, full of sorrow,
Pain, grief, sores,
How can I hid my sorrow?

No one understands me
Or feels my sadness.
No one smoothes ointment on my wounds.

How can I hide the sorrow
That fills me,
When my heart is
Exploding
            Exploding
                        Exploding




Pabot, Susannah E., comp. The Sky Is a Nest of Swallows. First ed. Belleville, 2012.
Afghan Women Writer's Project: http://awwproject.org/
Available on Amazon

You are reading: One Million Girls, please help support the blog by Following- www.milliongirls.blogspot.com 
You may also follow the Facebook page at www.facebook.com/100milliongirls
I post articles and information about women and children almost daily on the Facebook page.
On Twitter @100milliongirls 
 I also have a poetry blog, Poet on Poetrywww.poetonpoetry.com

Friday

Baad-An Essay by an Afghan Woman



Baad
by Salma

Fatima was playing with her friend and cousin in her grandfather’s lovely flower-covered garden.  As she caught sight of many older villagers entering the house, she thought that her father must be throwing a party.  She had no idea that her family was busy making the most important decision of her young life.

At just 14 years old, Fatima was a very pretty and innocent girl with beautiful eyes.  What Fatima did not know was that her brother had ruined her life.  He had killed a neighbor’s son, and Fatima would pay the price.  The villagers had decided Fatima would have to marry Jan Mohammed, a man who was thirty years older.  She was to pay for the price of baad, an Afghan tribal tradition that involved giving a victim’s family a member-usually a girl-of the offending family.

When Fatima’s family told her the news, she cried a lot.  She knew she was a victim of her brother’s crime and she did not have a choice.  If she refused to marry Jan Mohammed, then her brother or other family member would be killed.  This would continue until all were killed.  Fatima hoped she would get lucky.  Sometimes in the case of baad, in-laws can be nice.  Most of the time, though, new brides were treated as servants.

On her wedding day, despite the fact that Fatima was a beautiful bride, she was sad and worried about her future.  But to her surprise, Fatima found Jan Muhammad’s family was very nice to her. Jan Muhammad was smitten by Fatima’s beauty and fell in love with her.  Soon Fatima returned Jan Muhammad’s feelings and fell in love with him too. After a year of marriage, a baby was born.  Fatima’s new family was very happy that they had their first grandson.  They named him Ahmad.  Ahmad was as handsome as Fatima was beautiful.

But Fatima’s happiness with her new baby and family was to be interrupted.  One night in a bombing, Fatima lost her family-her brother, sister, father and mother all died.  What saved her from complete sadness was Ahmad, watching him grow and learn new things day by day.  Ahmad kept her busy.

When Ahmad was three years old, Fatima’s second child Lila was born.  Lila had beautiful blue eyes and blond curly hair.  Fatima’s sadness over the loss of her family receded as she was loved by her children and husband.

One day during the time of the Taliban, Jan Muhammad left the house for his work.  That was the last day of his life. The Taliban killed him.

Fatima cried with her in-laws at the loss of her husband and their son.  But her in-laws were so upset they told Fatima this was her fault.  She was bad luck.  She had married their son because they had lost another son.  They told Fatima that she was in their house because of baad.  So they told Fatima they never wanted to see her again.  She was to leave with her children and never return.

Fatima was a 19-year-old woman with a five-year-old son and a year-old daughter.  She had no place to go.  She went to her uncle’s house and asked him for help.  Her uncle took her in, but Fatima soon found out he had plans for her.

Fatima’s uncle found a man who would buy Fatima but not her children, because he did not want his family to know that Fatima had previously married and her children were not part of the deal, Fatima fell into a deep depression. She begged and pleaded with her uncle.  She did not want to be married again.  She could not live without her children.  But her uncle had taken the money and did not want to give it back.

Twice, Fatima tried to kill herself, but did not succeed either time.

As Fatima’s desolation deepened, her uncle’s family held many discussions and decided that they would adopt Ahmad.  This was a monetary decision.  In two years, Ahmad would be seven years old and would be able to work on the street and make money for them.

But no one wanted Lila. She was a girl and considered useless, too young to work and too young to sell for marriage. 

Finally Lila was sold to someone from a European country as an adoption.  As Fatima was separated from her children, she cried and screamed.  No one listened to her voice.




Pabot, Susannah E., comp. The Sky Is a Nest of Swallows. First ed. Belleville, 2012.
Afghan Women Writer's Project: http://awwproject.org/
Also available on Amazon

You are reading: One Million Girls, please help support the blog by Following- www.milliongirls.blogspot.com
You may also follow the Facebook page at www.facebook.com/100milliongirls
I post information and articles about women and children around the world almost daily on the FB page.

Find me on Twitter @100milliongirls
 I also have a poetry blog, Poet on Poetry, www.poetonpoetry.com

Wednesday

Take My Hands




Take My Hands
by Norwan

Where can I talk?
Where can I tell my untold stories?
              Where
              Where
              Where
I speak from under my burqa
I am not allowed to speak aloud
I am an Afghan woman
I breathe poisons.
I am not allowed to breathe the fresh air you breathe
I look outside the window of my burqa
It seems as if there is
No hope
No light
I see nothing but hopeless dreams
I see nothing but
            Darkness
            Darkness
            Darkness
It seems as if the doors of victory are closed
            Locked
            Locked
            Locked
There is no door in the jungle of wild thought.
I want a light to see my way
I want nothing else but
to live the way I want to live
to live the way I deserve.
I want to release myself
From the prison of a voiceless land.
From the tribe of silent
            Dead
            Burned, women
Help me.
Take my hands.
It is not written in my destiny
To burn myself.
Can you hear me?
I am a voice of my dead silent generation
I speak from under my burqa
I am not allowed to speak aloud
            Where can I talk?
            Where can I tell my untold stories?
Where can I buy a light?


Pabot, Susannah E., comp. The Sky Is a Nest of Swallows. First ed. Belleville, 2012.
Afghan Women Writer's Project: http://awwproject.org/
Available on Amazon


Stay tuned for some of the most amazing poetry you will ever read! To be posted on
One Million Girls, please Follow- www.milliongirls.blogspot.com

You may also follow the Facebook page at www.facebook.com/100milliongirls
On Twitter @100milliongirls

I also have a poetry blog, Poet on Poetry, www.poetonpoetry.com

Tuesday




The Burqa
by Meena Y.

Navy blue, long and baggy
Top and bottom with different designs of flowers
Hanging outside the shop along with other white and green ones
Swinging in the cold wind of Kabul winter.
Swinging tiredly and wondering about the woman who would own it
Maybe the one who would wear it unwillingly
Cursing herself for being born a woman
Complaining about her inability to see or move freely.
Swinging right and left, the burqa remained wondering
Whose face would it hide?
Whose identity would it take?


Pabot, Susannah E., comp. The Sky Is a Nest of Swallows. First ed. Belleville, 2012.
Afghan Women Writer's Project: http://awwproject.org/

I hope you leave comments below so the Afghan Women Writer's Project can relay them to the writers.

Stay tuned for some of the most amazing poetry you will ever read! To be posted on
One Million Girls, please Follow- www.milliongirls.blogspot.com

You may also follow the Facebook page at www.facebook.com/100milliongirls
On Twitter @100milliongirls

You might also like to visit my other blog, Poet on Poetry, www.poetonpoetry.blogspot.com

Wednesday

Let me Grow Up





Let Me Grow Up
by Shogofa

Let me grow up
Let me talk
I have lots of words
Let me walk, so I may run and feel the earth
I am a prisoner
Let me see the world, share my pain with all
Let me tell how
I am a prisoner for long time
I have wishes
I have dreams as a human being
Let me reach the dreams
I lost in war
More than dreams,
I lost my identity
Where is it? How can I find it?
I have been a prison for a long time
Let me see the world
Why must I stay in a cage?
The victim of so many rules.
Le me come out from my cage
See the garden of heaven
I am for living, not for beating
I am human being before being an Afghan woman
I have been prisoner for a long time
Let me have my life.

Pabot, Susannah E., comp. The Sky Is a Nest of Swallows. First ed. Belleville, 2012.
Afghan Women Writer's Project: http://awwproject.org/


Stay tuned for some of the most amazing poetry you will ever read! To be posted on
One Million Girls, please Follow- www.milliongirls.blogspot.com

You may also follow the Facebook page at www.facebook.com/100milliongirls
On Twitter @100milliongirls

Monday



Sky is a Nest of Swallows
by Zainab

She was born in Iran and grew up with Iranian culture and language.  A flower needs soil to grow and for her, that soil was Iranian.  But her parents were Afghan immigrants—refugees--and life was very hard.  Privation, prejudice, strangeness: these were daily problems. 

She never thought it easy or even possible to separate the flower from its soil—to say, “That soil is barbarian with you growing in it.  It doesn’t know you! It doesn’t like you!  Go! Go to another place…” So she could not believe Iran would persuade Afghan people to return to their country.  She felt herself an Iranian girl in language, style, and culture.  She could not face returning to a country she knew nothing of except that people said that she was from here.  She thought Iran was her home, her soil, but she was wrong.

The family finally left everything in Iran and came to Kabul. So many people had said goodbye to Afghanistan but they returned to say hello, to say:  “Hey, wake up! It is now time to recover, to refresh, to stand up for us who came back for you.”

During the first months, everything was new and life was good.  Her family pumped water from a well and looked at this as useful exercise.  Prices seemed cheaper because of the different currency, and they felt more affluent.  When there wasn’t enough fare for a bus or taxi they were happy to ride the rickshaw, though it was dangerous and the rickshaw ride on Kabul’s bumpy Charquila Road was like a theme park ride.

One month, two month, three…a whole year passed, and by then things had grown boring. It seemed they had regressed ten years or more.  It was no longer acceptable to waste energy and time extracting water from a well for washing clothes and dishes, instead of with piped water.  The noise from the neighborhood kids became intolerable when the girl wanted to study.  And in winter, she hated the snow, rain, and wind.  The girl who used to love the wind whiplashing her hair!

She had changed.  The mud and slosh, the dust and pollution in the street made getting around, having electricity, and getting water much harder.  Father’s struggle to break wood for fuel and his trembling in the cold also changed her.  Her tears when the wood was finished and there was no money to buy more—all of this changed her interests, ideas, even her appearance. She was now shy and her hands were black and wrinkled from the cold and dirty water of the well.  She looked much older than her age.  She endured her father’s unemployment too.  He had worked as a welder in Iran and he was covered with cuts and rashes that she sometimes had to soothe for him with pomades.  So although they had less money in Afghanistan, she was glad her father’s skin could heal.  But he was ashamed about not working.  He decided that an illegal return to Iran was the only solution.

She wanted the whole family to return to Iran but they didn’t have visas so it was impossible.  Only her dad went.  They had never been separated more than a week.  How could they tolerate this?  God, how?
His hands were saints for her.  She kissed them, these hands, which had taught her sacrifice and zeal.  He lifted her head, looked into her eyes, and said, “Your father is strong, but do you know what my real power is? It is the hope of seeing my daughter in white doctor’s cloth.  You will make me proud.  Remember this!
**

My father returned to Iran, that alien place.  He returned because Afghanistan was also alien, both for me and for him.  I will never forget how the Iranian people scoffed: Hey Afghan!  Hey stranger! And I will never forget how the Afghan people, my people, also scoffed: Hey Iranian! Hey stranger! Neither country could provide fertile soil for our whole family.

It has been years since we returned to Afghanistan and I am still looking for my nationality.  I’m still hoping for a piece of this earth where my family can sit down together.  But my father has not returned.  Sometimes I become sad and whisper, “God, I feel so poor not to have a home on any part of your earth!”  At once a voice responds: “Don’t be sad. You are more like a swallow than a flower.  Swallows have no lifelong nest on earth.  The sky is their nest.  Do not worry. Reach for the sky!”


Pabot, Susannah E., comp. The Sky Is a Nest of Swallows. First ed. Belleville, 2012.
Afghan Women Writer's Project: http://awwproject.org/

I hope you leave comments below so the Afghan Women Writer's Project can relay them to the writers.

Stay tuned for some of the most amazing poetry you will ever read! To be posted on
One Million Girls, please Follow- www.milliongirls.blogspot.com

You may also follow the Facebook page at www.facebook.com/100milliongirls
On Twitter @100milliongirls