Taliban close calls and black market violins
A day in the life of a woman in Kabul
Last week, my Kabul-based Dari teacher texted me out of nowhere, "You'll never believe what happened today, I got so lucky.”
I immediately assumed this meant she had some sort of run-in with the Taliban, and I waited, watching WhatsApp’s typing animation with slight dread.
Turns out she had been doing Taekwondo in the basement of a boys' high school in secret when two Taliban soldiers showed up. My teacher and the other women ran to hide in the laundry room, but they were caught.
Out of roughly 35 women, she was one of three not wearing a head covering. If there’s something I’ve come to learn about my teacher, it’s that she’s got a bit of a rebellious streak, which I appreciate, but not without also acknowledging what that might mean for her safety.
The Taliban took a video of them while they begged to be let go; the soldiers laughed at them, chastising them for 'being athletes' and 'crying like kids.'
Luckily, my teacher and the others were ultimately let go. What will come of the male instructor who was leading the class remains to be seen. She doesn’t have contact with him outside of class, so she’s not sure what may happen to him, if anything.
"Just another day in Kabul," she said.
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A few weeks earlier, during a podcast recording session, she mentioned that she was learning violin.
As a violinist, I was a) thrilled to hear she was a fellow musician and b) curious as to how this is possible in a country that has banned music.
She doesn’t have an instrument, but has been searching for one….on what can effectively be considered the black market of Kabul.
“Searching for an instrument here is probably like looking for opium in the U.S.” she said plainly.
(Unfortunately, I think it’s probably pretty easy to find opium here, but I digress.)
After finding someone who knows someone who knows someone, she finally located two violins that she was looking forward to testing out.
The next day, I asked how the violin session had gone.
“I didn't go. The owner said he couldn't let two alone girls (my sister and I) into his house. Could be dangerous. But my cousin went to see it. He said he didn't know anything about musical instruments so he would ask one of his friends to test it for me. Welcome to Afghanistan.”
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As with any American who hasn’t lived under a terrorist regime like the Taliban, I can’t imagine having to choose between staying tucked away indoors to stay safe and attempting to actually, you know, live your life, while taking on tremendous risks.
A life where music is banned and the sound of women’s voices in public is banned, too.
Women are singing in protest.
“No matter what they do, what they say, my existence is a resistance.”
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A few nights ago, I was listening to La Vida es un Carnaval by Celia Cruz. The song makes me cry (but many things do these days) and it made me think of my teacher. I sent it to her, along with the English lyrics.
A few days later, she texted back, “This is awesome! One of the best songs I’ve ever heard.”
I’m not going to lie, the idea of a woman in Afghanistan listening to the fiery Cuban Celia Cruz makes me immensely happy.
Ay, there's no need to cry, because life is a carnival,
It's more beautiful to live singing.
Oh, Ay, there's no need to cry,
For life is a carnival
And your pains go away by singing.