Khorshid

Persian
Khorshid has shaved her head. In fact, Khorshid’s mother decided that she should shave her head. That’s why this little girl drew my attention from the beginning, with her strange eyes and curious look.

In the southwest of Tehran, somewhere behind Nematabad outpost, around one hundred meters from the asphalt road which passes from Dolatabad, there are huts made of thatch and wood. They were previously habitations of the workers of the brick kilns. Now that these kilns are no longer in use, these huts are shelters for Afghans in this region. There were three or four kilns in this zone which are unused and now only these huts have remained as habitations.   

Men go to work during the day; to any work; a simple worker in construction could be the best example. Women are at home with their children in the daytime. Children’s playground are the sandy hills around the dwellings, the unused kilns and the gravel roads behind the huts. Khorshid’s house is on top of a sandy hill, above the kiln. A few unstable muddy steps which leads down, connects the houses to a larger area with only one water tap.

Khorshid doesn’t speak; she just smiles; she sometimes smiles. When she smiles, a dimple appears on one side of her face, her eyes squint and pucker. Khorshid is maybe five years old. She plays with other children on the sandy hills and screams. Some of the mothers are near the water tap, washing clothes, others are gathered around the pickup truck which enters the area near the kiln.

From among twelve mothers, ten accepted to attend classes in adult school. Although they have complicated relationships among themselves and although they may run into each other near the water tap, they accept to have the classes in their homes.

During the classes, the mothers make the shoes that they need to deliver by the end of the week. Their hands move around, leading the needle in and out of the shoes without the women even looking at them. The children listen to stories. Some of them are painting with pastel on paper. Mostafa is ten years old and he’s in the third grade. He studies in an autonomous school near the kilns but his sister had to stay home because of the high cost of the school. She helps her mother.

Khorshid is always the first one who comes out of the house when she hears me. She’s moderately intelligent yet she’s got curious eyes. She doesn’t talk much but listens. Sometimes when I think she didn't understand something, I ask her about it and when she answers me with her calm demeanour, I feel relieved that she listens well.

Every Tuesday, before arriving at the kilns, I tell myself ‘I hope it’s one of their good days; I hope they still have a motivation to listen; I hope sowing the shoes ends earlier today...’ I think to myself, a woman who does the housework, from washing, cooking, taking care of her children, to making shoes for a living, a woman who sees sandy hills and huts as the first image that appears in front of her eyes the moment she wakes up, a woman who doesn’t know if she has to migrate back to Afghanistan with her husband... why, why this woman should have any motivation to listen to my words? What motivations could she possibly have? But every Tuesday that I walk back from the gravel road behind the huts, I see myself smiling; then I think, building a human relationship doesn’t need any motivation. There is a force which pushes me and pushes those women to listen to each other; to smile; to jest; to have them make fun of me; to learn from one another and to drink green tea with each other.

Khorshid’s mother didn’t participate after the second class. I realized this when I was talking to Khorshid's father. He was looking at the floor and suddenly left while I was still speaking with him. Khorshid is five years old but sometimes she has to take care of her little sister at home. She has to make her meal. On Tuesdays though, Khorshid is free to come and paint, read poems and listen to stories. But what if there is no more Tuesdays when Khorshid is grown up and when her father doesn’t like her going to the autonomous school?

Khorshid has shaved her head. In fact, Khorshid’s mother decided that she should shave her head. She is different from other kids.