Zohan Shamz, Farhad and Ziagul Hakimi cook food at home and supply them to various embasies through an NGO (Express photo by Amit Mehra)
Back in Kabul, the Afghani delicacy dopiaza (literally meaning “with two onions”) is a simple dish — meat cooked with onions and nothing else. The onions aren’t the ones you see in Indian mandis too. “They are big and white,” says Ziagul Hakini. A smile breaks on her face as she remembers the dish and how her family would savour it, mopping up the gravy with thick Afghani roti.
Inside an inconspicuous building in the Bhogal market in Delhi, Hakini is one of the seven Afghan women sitting around a table laden with food. There’s the redolent kabuli pulao, sprinkled with nuts, along with khajoor do pyaza, and chabli kebab. “Of course, this is not the same thing,” she says in Pashtun, “Here, the onions are small and so expensive!” she says. The others nod in agreement. “The vegetables here, though, are the freshest I have seen, but I do miss the gandana (a type of Afghan leek) here. It is like hara pyaaz (spring onion). We make ashak (Afghan dumplings) out of it,” says Farah (name changed on request), a woman in her forties. As the women chat and share their meal, they converse in either Dari or Pashtun. “Have you tried the baklava yet?” asks Zohan Shams, the youngest in the room. At 19, she is the only one fluent in English, Hindi and Pashtun/Dari and translates most of our conversations. We try a morsel of the golden-brown pastry, its sweet, zesty crust melts in the mouth.
What are we doing in this south Delhi location, sitting and breaking bread with these seven Afghan women? This isn’t a gathering of housewives, but of an enterprising group of single mothers and the food on their plates is a household skill that has come to save them. The women have been brought together by ACCESS, a Delhi-based NGO that tied up with United Nations High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR) in 2015 to work on the livelihoods of refugees, for a catering service. Aditi Sabbarwal, the coordinator for the project, says, “There are lots of recreational programmes where the refugees enroll and I would mostly notice them in embroidery classes.” But food is a great unifier and the 30-year-old’s previous work experience with Dastkar India, whose Nature Bazaar showcases culinary fare from different countries, brought home the idea of including some of the women she interacted with, in one of the editions of the fair.
And so there they were, showcasing skills previously relegated to the confines of their house, for the first time. By December 2015, Ilham (translating to “positive” in Dari) was launched. They were instantly inundated with orders, initially from the US Embassy, UNHCR and ACCESS, and later on, from private individuals. Orders now stream in from areas such as Gurgaon, Saket, Khirkee Extension and so on. Their most recent gig was at Taj Vivanta, Delhi, where the women had a great experience catering for their employees’ retreat. They get a monthly subsistence allowance from UNHCR, and the meagre profit they generate from the Ilham project (in a good month, it comes to around Rs 3,000-Rs 4,000) is a help too.
In India, there are10,362 Afghan refugees and 3,654 asylum seekers, registered with the UNHCR. A majority of them live in Delhi, settled mostly in areas such as Lajpat Nagar, Malviya Nagar, Khirkee Extension and Jangpura. “People usually don’t ask where we are from. I have had both bad experiences in the city and good. Isn’t that true of every city?” says Farah with a smile. Delhi delights Shams, her flushed cheeks spreading into a smile against the bright pink scarf. “Afghanistan aur India main zameen aasmaan ka fark nahi hai (There is not much difference between Afghanistan and India). The only difference is that here, as a woman, if you work, no one says anything. Back in Kabul, if a girl would go to school also, people would start asking, why does she goes to school, ghar me baitho, bacchon ko sambhaalo. Here, I walk to and from work alone. I talk to so many people. I want to become a journalist, and this place is conducive to our dreams.” Her family fled the Taliban regime six years ago, a household of an unemployed father, unwell mother and four sisters. Farah adds, “One could never watch cinema in Afghanistan. Here, it is my guilty pleasure.”
As the evening progresses, the mood becomes heavy. Farah refuses to be photographed. “If my identity is revealed, my life could be in danger,” she says, loosening her head scarf to show a strangulation wound on her neck — an attempt made just two weeks ago on the terrace of her house by a man she recognised from Afghanistan. Like most women in the room, Farah left her country due to “security reasons” about three years ago. After her husband was killed by the Taliban and her in-laws turned against her, she decided to make the long journey to India. In a single-room apartment in Khirkee that costs more than she makes, she is trying to bring up her three children. Her eldest son has quit school to contribute to the household. “Don’t you think I want them to study? I don’t want them cooped up in the house, fearing for their lives even in a foreign country,” she says.
The rest slowly open up. They all moved to the country over the last decade. Hakini’s husband was murdered and, fearing for her four daughters’ lives, she came to India. Naseema’s husband had a heart problem and was planning to come to India for treatment. He died before they could come, but she made the journey with her four-year-old son. Khatera and Farhad sit in a corner, unable to converse in Hindi or English like their friends. But, after several minutes of conversation in Dari among themselves, Farah says, “We all have similar stories. We would all love to go back home if we had the option to. Our roots are there, some of us had careers. Here, I am only a cook. I miss home, but I cannot go back.”
For catering, email aditisabbarwal@accessdev.org
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