Being a mother in Afghanistan: Ghezal’s testimony

” Drink ! “, My mother asked me at the maternity ward, handing me a cup that she had just poured from a large Thermos® bottle. “What’s your potion mom?” I replied, smiling. “A drink that the French doctors could not give you and which will allow you to relieve your stomach aches and eliminate impurities. “

As soon as they give birth, Afghan mothers drink Chawa, made with black tea, grated fresh ginger, cane sugar, honey, cardamom and crushed nuts. Motherhood is a women’s affair with us and the relatives do not hesitate to come and help the young mother. From the time of pregnancy, all of them contribute to her well-being, to the neighbors who bring their dishes, the enticing smells of which reach the noses of the pregnant women around them so as not to frustrate her. When their baby is born, women can thus follow the tradition of the forty days of rest. The father does not attend the birth. This would seem far-fetched for an Afghan woman, who will prefer the help of her mother or sister.

You should know that the Afghan woman is the one who runs her household; it is the nerve center of the home. I can see how lucky I was to have given birth in France because my country has been at war for more than forty years. The infant mortality rate is incredible and the majority of women are forced to give birth at home for lack of infrastructure. Despite the associations present in the field, hygienic conditions remain catastrophic and many mothers also lose their lives during labor. Many Afghans live below the poverty line and access to clean water is complicated.

Many traditions around birth

Keep some customs of my country of origin was obvious when my children were born. My father came to whisper in the right ear of each of my babies the call to prayer. In the old days, gunshots were fired in the air to welcome the newborn. When a boy is born, wealthier families sacrifice a sheep in order to distribute food to the needy as an offering. We had prepared sweets for our loved ones and sent money home to allow a large number of people to eat. A couple of Afghan friends of my parents living in the United States today made the trip for the birth of my daughter, their arms loaded with clothes from 0 to 2 years old. It was a way of carrying on the Jorra tradition of having the family prepare the trousseau for the newborn.

When my oldest child was born, I was skeptical of certain customs that my mother advised me to follow. Swaddling the infant was one of them. But the test proving convincing, I was quickly convinced. Later, for my son, I saw everywhere in magazines that Western women threw themselves on this “magic blanket”. Nothing new for an Afghan mother! 

Another day when my little one was suffering from colic, my mother made her an infusion of fennel and anise seeds, to drink lukewarm in small quantities from the bottle. “What is your old age?” I asked him. Another thing that worked wonderfully and which today is sold industrially in pharmacies! Mahnaaz, my daughter, whose first name means “gracious beauty of the moon” in Persian, and my son Waïss, “the house, the abode, the homeland” in Pashto, are the fruit of mixed cultures. I pass mine on to them through language, cooking, proximity to their grandparents (Bibi and Boba), respect for elders, and over time I hope to bring them a little more every day …