Karima's former home
According to Najib, there wasn’t an Afghan family that hadn’t been impacted by decades of war, and Karim Anwari and his family had more than their share of hard times. With their five young children, they were tortured by the Taliban and escaped to live in a Pakistani refugee camp. They lost a son to malnourishment, and without enough money for food, like many other Afghans they used opium to subdue pain and suppress hunger. As addicts unable to afford rent, they bottomed out in an abandoned building.
But the Anwaris were hardworking people and little by little they had been steadily getting back on their feet. With the help of a social worker they kicked their opium addiction and moved back to Kabul where Karim now works as a cook in a military hospital and his wife works in a raisin factory. With a salary of about $5 per day, they now had just enough money to rent the "home" we pulled up in front of.
Outside a wall along the street, a teenage girl stood waiting for us. As we got out of the car, Najib introduced us to Karima, the Anwari's 14-year old daughter. With an infectious smile and a firm handshake, she looked each of us in the eye and exclaimed, “Welcome to our home!”
Najib, Kelly and I trailed behind Karima as she led us down the sidewalk, through a doorway, across a dirt courtyard, and into the Anwari home— a cement room with a ceiling caving in. No heat. No electricity. No water or plumbing either, but it was the best “home” they’d had in years, and they were proud to invite us over to celebrate.
Karima took the bags of food Najib brought and headed into the “kitchen”— a corner of the room with a tiny 18th century-style stove and a few pots and pans. Watching Karima and her sister peeling and cutting vegetables while her parents and Najib caught up on life, I was mesmerized. At only 14 years old, Karima ran the household while her parents worked all day. She hadn’t been in school since the fourth grade, and from cooking and cleaning to taking care of the children, Karima was a middle-aged housewife yet still a funny, smart, and precocious teenager— with just a hint of mischief in her eyes.
Karima prepping food
Cooking dinner
When the meal was ready, the mother unfurled a giant plastic mat across the floor and set plates along the edges as we took our places on pillows. After their young son ceremoniously helped each guest wash their hands from a pitcher of warm water, the grim setting of despair slowly dissolved into the background as our group engaged in lively conversation, a delicious meal, and the simple pleasures of the present moment.
With a growing curiosity about Karima, I asked her— as I often do with young people I encounter on my travels— what she wanted to be when she grew up. Even against the harsh realities of war and poverty, claiming a dream aloud in front of an engaged audience is an empowering experience, and one never knows how the forces of the universe can change a trajectory. Responses rarely extend beyond “teacher,” “doctor," or “police officer”— the few professions that marginalized children were aware existed— so I was stunned when Karima emphatically declared: “I want to be a TV news reporter.”
How did this dream come about? What did Karima know about TV news reporting?
Karima explained in detail the day that she saw a woman from Switzerland— one of many foreign journalists covering war news in Kabul— standing tall, holding a microphone, and looking important as she spoke surrounded by curious onlookers. She was intelligent. Poised. An important communicator of information and knowledge.
“I want to be like her.”
There is a magical space in the consciousness of young people just after they move past the simplicity of childhood but are still unjaded by adulthood. It is in this space that they become aware they are stakeholders in the larger game of life and develop a desire to be heard. Regardless of logic, socioeconomics, or even security, in this magical space all things are still possible and the need to claim their identity becomes urgent— even if they have to rebel to do it. Like Anne Frank pushing against the oppression of the Nazis through her writing, even war can’t stop these young people from the urge to claim: “I am here.”
Karima interviews a basketball player
But this magical space doesn’t stay open for long.
As an American hearing such unfiltered passion from a girl living in such dire straits, my knee-jerk reaction was to find a program, a school, something, someone— anyone— who could offer any sort of opportunity before the black hole of reality swallowed her forever. But the gravity of the Anwaris's situation— the poverty, the instability, and the ongoing chaos of war— was colossal and I had to be realistic. I racked my brain to come up with even the smallest meaningful gesture that could let Karima know that we believed in her dream. That she was here.
Glancing down at Kelly’s video bag, I caught a glimpse of a microphone. Maybe Kelly and I could help Karima hold the space open for a few more minutes.
After lunch, Kelly pulled his camera out of the bag and we gave Karima the first reporting assignment of her career: a full report on the goings-on of the day and a tour of her home.
Karima’s eyes lit up at the first touch of the microphone, and when I asked if she wanted to practice, she waved me off. With a firm grip on the mike— head up, shoulders back, and a laser focus on the lens— she nailed her first report like a seasoned pro.
Practicing reporting
Weeks later back at home, when a friend of a friend of a friend introduced me to
Elissa Bogos— an American freelance filmmaker living in Kabul— we found an opportunity to hold that magical space open for a few months longer.
With the permission of the Anwaris and the logistical support of Najib, Karima, Elissa, and I coordinated a series of video reports that would not only
teach American students about life in Afghanistan, but would further develop Karima’s skills in reporting and— hopefully— help her earn enough money to re-enroll in school.
Over the course of the year, as Karima reported on life in Kabul— interviewing everyone from shopkeepers and coaches to athletes and bakers— she showcased the rich history and cultural traditions of Afghanistan, as well as the rhythms of city life and the joys of unremarkable days.
Karima’s stories were windows into a world where people lived beyond the consciousness of outsiders who’d grown tired of an endless war.
She brought a sense of family and familiarity to one of the most misunderstood places on earth— and became like a little sister to all who watched.
But despite the pull of her dreams, Karima’s reality was dire and the odds of a happy ending unlikely. Like millions of other Afghans plagued with the unpredictability of life in a warzone, one day the Anwari family disappeared. Their cellphone was disconnected and the home they were living in was vacated. Numerous attempts to reach them were fruitless.
While we may never know the fate of the Anwari family, Karima’s video legacy remains a testament to the dreams of young people no matter where in the world they are. She would be 24 years old now, and maybe one day we will see her again. But for now, like Anne Frank, Karima will remain that bright-eyed, precocious, 14 year old in our hearts and minds forever.
Even against the harsh realities of war and poverty, claiming a dream aloud in front of an engaged audience is an empowering experience, and one never knows how the forces of the universe can change a trajectory.
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