In the Village
Outside the capital, life is desolate. We’re taken to a village where a group of refugees have just been repatriated. The monochromatic scene is 3-D: one-story mud brick dwellings pocked with giant craters from bombs, souvenirs of decades from fighting. As a woman, I can enter homes for images a male photographer would be denied. I’m allowed to join in a meeting of the elders and sit on the floor of a dark room, with a dozen men. A young girl fidgets restlessly on her father’s lap. The elders report to Rupert their satisfaction with the UNHCR gift of wood doors and windows, which made possible their return. I wonder what kind of community they can build in this barren place. I’ve seen women making bricks. Will they let their girls learn to read? “The Taliban want our women to be like animals,” one elder mutters. I thank them for letting me be part of the meeting. “Where I come from, women can even be village elders,” I explain. They smile, bemused.
