“My Afghan Friends” by Margaret Whitley

 

I didn’t even realize Laura had my phone number until I got a call from her while my husband and I were driving home to Ontario from a vacation Nova Scotia. Laura, who was a casual friend I exchanged pleasantries with at the post office or grocery store, launched into a panicked appeal for accommodation for a group of Afghan refugees due to arrive in a day or two in Southampton, the summer resort town where we lived.

“Many cottages will be empty,” she said. “That’d be nice. They’ll need peace and calm. They’ve had a harrowing escape.”

Unlike many, I live in Southampton year-round, but my sister Sarah left her cottage empty most months of the year. Yes, they could use that, but it wasn’t winterized and we were already at Labour Day.

My husband and I pulled into Southampton the next afternoon and immediately went to my sister's place.  My parents were already there, trying to sweep the floors and make the home livable since cobwebs and dust had already settled after her family vacated.

A few hours later, a van pulled up, and the P_______ family poured out, disoriented and barely coping with the unbelievable events they'd experienced since August.  Several of the seven family members spoke excellent English, translating for the family, me, and my husband.  Other people, including Laura and Cheryl, one of the drivers, were also part of the welcoming committee.

Within a day or two, a small group coalesced around supporting the newly arrived Afghans. We were sworn to secrecy about their identities and to avoid the media. If the Taliban or sympathizers knew where Afghans had fled, their lives might be in danger.  

That first family included four women: Fariha, the mom; Nilofar, the eldest and most articulate and worldly; the second sister, Palwasha, who had just completed an economics degree; and Asma, sixteen years of age. The daughters were all soccer players.  In Afghanistan, young women, especially professional women, viewed soccer (or football as they called it) as a form of defiance against traditional Islamic beliefs, or at least Taliban beliefs.

Nilofar, a teacher, had frequently travelled to Taliban-controlled provinces dressed in a Burka to secretly educate young women about human rights.  She’d tell the Imams she was offering instruction in the Koran.

Besides the women, the family included Nilofar’s husband, Sayed, a civil engineer; Arsalan, her eleven-year-old brother; and her father, Hamad.

Over the next few weeks, as the horror of the new reality for people in Afghanistan, particularly women, was featured on the nightly news. Nilofar told me the story of her own escape. On August 15th, the day she and Sayed were married, they tried to flee. For four days, they’d tried to enter the Kabul airport, wading through excrement in the open sewers outside the airport gates and suffering beating from the Taliban.

Their papers were finally accepted, and a US military officer let them through the now-famous Abbey Gate. Several weeks later, they learned the American soldier who took their papers and allowed them through the gate was killed by a suicide bomber.  Once through they were temporarily housed outside on the tarmac in the blistering sun, without water, until they were loaded onto a cargo plane for a flight to the American base in Qatar. So many people were compressed into the airplane, they had to stand for most of the five-hour flight.

After another flight, they arrived at Pearson Airport in Toronto several days later. The family and hundreds of others, many young single women and minorities, since they were often the most in danger, were able to enter Canada and other destinations.  Once on Canadian soil, they were quarantined for two weeks in airport hotel rooms. Although safe, the trauma continued as they were barraged by pleas from others still trapped in Afghanistan to get them out.  They heard from friends and family about people disappearing, being shot and beaten, unable to secure food and water and, in many cases, unable to return to their homes.

By the time they arrived in Southampton in September, they’d endured three weeks of hell.

Over the next couple of weeks, the necessary items needed to survive were arranged.  Besides housing, food, clothing, school, and healthcare for the seven P_______s and ten more refugees who arrived over the next few weeks, the beach and the woods offered some respite.

A big bicycling enthusiast, Laura also arranged for community members to donate bicycles and taught the women how to ride. But it appeared more than anything, they needed people to sit and have a cup of tea with them, be there and, if their English allowed, tell their complex stories. They also wanted to cook traditional foods for us, which offered something normal for them to do and allowed them to express gratitude.

When they'd fled Kabul, these families had little more than the clothes on their backs, and much was required of our small community and tiny group of volunteers.  

Our local farms regularly donated produce, various community groups raised funds to buy food, the grocery store delivered a weekly order to each group of refugees, some clothing was purchased, and much more was donated. 

Additionally, we had people donate their counselling services and  nursing expertise. 

But by the end of October, the warm sun on the beach had gone south, more storms started coming in from the north, and the cottage accommodation could not keep our new Afghan friends warm.  Also, we’d learned settlement services were very limited in Bruce County, and even the Owen Sound office did not know how to help support our friends. They would need to move to a larger community with more programs.  So they packed up, now with many more possessions than they’d arrived with, to move to the Kitchener-Waterloo area to be housed temporarily in hotels.

Even in Kitchener-Waterloo, though, it took months and sometimes years to get proper documentation, find employment, suitable education, and access to support systems. Still, life is better than a future in Afghanistan. They are alive, and although in very cramped conditions, they have housing. 

Today, I arranged for a birthday surprise for Arsalan, now 13 and in grade seven, and Palwasha, 27, employed and hopeful of returning one day to school to find a career beyond the mall food court. I have limited opportunities to see my Afghan friends. Still, I am grateful they taught me so much about their culture, and their story is no longer a just a news report. Their resilience, gratitude, and friendship continue to help me grow.

***

Margaret Whitley is a speaker, education consultant and writer.  She has spent almost 40 years in Montessori education, including teaching all elementary levels and establishing the first Montessori middle school in Canada in 1988.

Margaret’s writing has appeared in Montessori publications, the Shoreline Beacon, the Canadian edition of the now-defunct HuffPost, and most recently, an essay on Montessori in Canada in the 2023 Bloomsbury Handbook of Montessori Education. 

Since 2021, Margaret has been part of a group that supported 17 Afghan Refugees.  She is guided by the belief that all humans have incredible potential and continues highlighting education and any form of work that supports and celebrates each community and individual’s uniqueness. 

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.