The Ghosts of Afghanistan 

When I couldn't breathe 
when I lifted a corner of the heavy burqa 
when I exposed my mouth and nose desperate to gulp air, 
they beat me unconscious 
When they beat us again with whips and metal cables 
while we waited in the hospital 
when the sick babies in their mothers' arms fell on the floor, 
my will to live began to tremble. 

In the summer of 96 we laughed. I can't remember the sound. 
Before that September when the Taliban came 
we were no different than you 
Now we are the ghosts of Afghanistan 
The women and the girls of a whole country 
under house arrest. 
For trying to go to work, my sister was beaten 
For leaving her home alone, my neighbor was tortured 
For showing her ankle as she rode behind her husband on a bike 
my girlfriend was shot dead on the street. 

My children are shrinking before my eyes but 
I am banned from receiving food from the World Food Programme. 
In the orphanage are girls who 
have never seen the sun or trees 
My sons are being taught 
a man should beat a female who is seen 
even through the windows of a home or a bus. 

I view the world through a patch of mesh 
in a voluminous tent that pulls me to stooping 
The garment gates me, takes mobility and voice 
When the burqa descends over my tender head 
I am invisible, a living woman who can't be seen or heard 
My woman's will to live 
can strengthen only 
on the thread that connects me to you. 

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