What happens when a family that once enjoyed a comfortable life can no longer afford the things it once took for granted? This is the situation for many Afghan households still struggling in the wake of the economic collapse of 2021 and 2022 when many lost their jobs and yet prices continue to rise and the cost of living to soar. In this instalment of the Daily Hustle, we hear from Mujib, a man who lost his government job after the return of the Islamic Emirate, about how his family makes ends meet. He describes how ‘affordable’ has taken on a new meaning: it no longer applies to what can comfortably be bought, but what they can still manage to buy after cutting back, delaying purchases, borrowing and going without. Mujib tells guest author Jawed Neshat how financial pressures have altered everyday life, forcing him and his wife to make difficult choices about food and their children’s education, and of how it has tested his ability to remember what is important, even in the face of anxiety and hardship.
Markets, like this one in Kabul, are still full of goods, but many families who used to shop here find that even the basics are now barely affordable. Photo: Wakil Kohsar/AFP, 27 June 2023
The last time I bought meat without thinking about how much it costs, I still had a job.
In those days, I stopped at the supermarket or the Mandawi [the city’s central market] on my way home from work. My wife would send me messages throughout the day – we need rice, fruit, cooking oil, meat, things for the children – and I’d pick them up. If the children wanted fruit, I bought fruit. If we needed sweets or pastries for guests, I bought those too. And there was always enough money to help a family member or a friend if they asked. We put money aside and made plans for the future. We didn’t think much about what we could afford. Now I think about it every day.
I did everything right, or so I thought
My name is Mujib. I’m 40 years old and live in Kabul’s Khairkhana neighbourhood with my wife and our five children. I came of age during the Islamic Republic in what we thought was the new Afghanistan. Like many Afghans of my generation, I believed that education and hard work were the way to a better future. I did all the right things. I went to university, earned a BA in Business Administration, got a job, got married and started a family. I worked hard to provide my family with a decent life.
We could afford the things we needed and even a few luxuries. There were new clothes and presents for the children at Eid. Friends and family regularly dropped by and we went to their homes too. My wife especially liked it when relatives from our village in Panjshir came to stay with us and my kids loved the weekend trips we made to the village, where they would run around freely with their cousins and we’d take them to play by the river. We’d stop at the market first and buy some things to take with us – cakes from a pastry shop opened by a man who’d learned his trade while living in Iran and who also imported chocolate. We didn’t need to keep track of every afghani.
But that was before things changed.
Marking time
Things didn’t change overnight when the Taliban came back. First, new people arrived at the office and some of the people we’d worked with and known for years suddenly revealed themselves as Taliban supporters. Then, they sent the women in the office home. The Talibs, who were now in charge, told us to show the new men the ropes. Nobody said anything, but we knew they were there to replace us. After a while, they changed the tashkil [staff composition] and several jobs – including mine – were eliminated. Some employees were kept on, especially those with highly specialised technical skills who were harder to replace. I was not one of them. My work was administrative and the new guys learned the ins and outs of my work quickly enough.
Things had been tense at the office. The new arrivals were suspicious of us and we were afraid of them. They didn’t like us because we’d worked for the former government. They’d say, “You robbed the country for twenty years.” But that was never me. I was just a regular employee working to support my family. Many of the people I worked with left Afghanistan if they got the chance. The rest of us just kept going to work every day, marking time. We trained the new staff and waited for what we knew was coming. The day I finally lost my job, it was almost a relief. The waiting was over.
I tried to find another job, but nothing worked out. There were no jobs to be had and there were hundreds of people in the same boat, all of us competing for jobs that didn’t exist. Meanwhile, the rent still had to be paid and we still needed food on the table. Life didn’t stop and the cost of living kept eating away at our savings. Eventually, I started using my car as a taxi. It’s risky work because I don’t have a license. I can’t afford the fees to register and paint my car as required to be an official taxi. I could get stopped by the police at any time and fines are stiff. But I don’t have a choice. I have to keep making money until something else comes along. Most days I only bring home around 600 to 700 afghanis (USD 8-10). Some days are better than others and sometimes I get lucky and someone hires me to take them from Kabul to Paghman or Panjshir. I give my earnings to my wife. She’s in charge of keeping track of our finances and even tries to put a little aside for emergencies.
Losing my job wasn’t only about losing an income. It’s true that work gives a person purpose, structure and dignity, but, as a father and husband, the fact that I can’t provide for my family as I used to has been extremely difficult. When my wife and I have to make hundreds of small decisions about what we can afford and what we can’t anymore, that’s when it really hits home.
Learning to live smaller
My two brothers and sister live nearby and have families of their own. Together, we are twenty-one people. In the old days, the extended family shared everything. We shared expenses and ate our meals together. Our wives cooked for the whole family and dinners were loud and unruly, with the children horsing around and the adults telling jokes. Those days are long gone. We don’t get together as much anymore.
We’re not the only family that’s fallen on hard times. Now everyone is struggling. We used to do a large shop every month – sacks of rice, flour and beans, large containers of cooking oil, tea and sugar. We had accounts with the butcher, the dairy, the baker and the local shop. Every week, I’d stop by to settle what we owed.
Now, instead of buying groceries for a month or even a week, we buy only what we need for that day. Every night, after the kids go to sleep, my wife and I sit together and decide what we need for the following day. We go over the outstanding bills and see if we have enough money to pay one of them or if they have to wait for another day.
I still sometimes take the children with me when I go to the market. At first, they still asked for the things they’d always asked for – chocolate, biscuits, juice. Then, slowly, they stopped asking. They stand quietly beside the shelves, looking at things they wanted and then move on. Children aren’t stupid – they could tell something had changed.
The things we stopped buying
It’s not that things have disappeared from the market. Everything is still there. You can walk through the bazaar and see rice, meat, fruit, cooking oil, sweets and imported goods too. The shelves are full, but things are getting more expensive by the day. The borders with Pakistan keep closing and the war in Iran has made things even worse. Some of the prices are eye-watering.
A lot of things that used to be part of everyday life now feel like luxuries. There was a time when meat, rice and fruit were everyday items. Now we rarely buy beef or lamb. Instead, we eat mostly beans, lentils and other pulses. Occasionally, I can buy a chicken because it costs less than other meat. We eat more vegetables because they’re cheaper. Sometimes I joke that we’ve become vegetarians – not by choice, but out of necessity.
We can afford fewer things, in smaller amounts and of lower quality. We don’t shop in the larger markets anymore because they generally don’t sell in such small quantities. Nowadays, I mostly buy from the neighbourhood shop and we buy only what we need for that day. The shopkeeper has known our family for years and when I’m short of cash, he lets me take things on credit. He understands our situation because he sees it every day. Almost everyone in the neighbourhood is struggling.
Worrying about my children’s future
Food is not the only sacrifice. One of the hardest decisions I had to make as a father was to take my children out of their private school because I couldn’t afford the tuition anymore. They now go to a state school in the neighbourhood. It’s overcrowded, the teachers aren’t well-trained, the facilities are poor and my children don’t like it. One of the biggest losses has been English education. English isn’t taught at the state school and I can’t afford a private tutor. They used to look forward to going to school, but now every morning getting them off to school is a struggle.
My older son has lost interest in schoolwork. Even though he never says anything, I suspect he looks at me – a university graduate who now drives an informal taxi – and wonders whether education has any value at all. I worry especially about my youngest daughter. She’s only five years old and will start primary school next year, but I can’t stop thinking about when she won’t be allowed to go to school. Sometimes I dream that I might one day earn enough money to move my family temporarily to Pakistan or Iran so that all my children – including my daughter – can continue their education. But that is just a daydream. I don’t think I can ever make that happen.
Things we don’t do anymore
Money problems also take their toll on family relationships. I’m not saying this has happened in my own family, but I see it all around me. Stress has a way of turning small issues into big arguments and thing can become explosive. It puts a strain on marriages and affects children too.
You stop spending quality time with your kids and fun becomes a luxury. I sometimes took the children for a drive around Kabul. We’d go to Kart-e Parwan for ice cream, or I’d buy a small toy or a balloon for my daughter on my way home. My daughter doesn’t wait for me at the door to see what I’ve brought her and she doesn’t ask for toys. My children can tell we’re struggling and they’ve learned to lower their expectations. And watching the light go out of your kids’ eyes is the hardest thing.
In Afghanistan, family visits and offering hospitality are part of who we are. It’s in the name deed va baz deed (to see and see again). A guest should always be welcomed with tea, food and generosity. But people visit one another less often now because everyone understands the financial burden that a visit creates. Gatherings are smaller and less frequent. Celebrations like weddings are simpler or may even get postponed until there’s enough money. Even travelling to Panjshir has become difficult. We used to visit at least once a month. These days, we’re lucky if we manage the journey every three or six months. We have to save carefully and cut spending elsewhere so that we can afford to go there for a couple of days. Every choice has a cost.
What remains
Staying up at night worrying about money changes the way you think. You start focusing on what’s really important. You stop having grand thoughts and pay attention to the smaller, simpler things.
I still think about the future, of course. Recently, I took out a bank loan with a very high interest rate in the hope of starting a small business and earning a steadier income to support my family. If the business succeeds, the first thing I’ll do is repay that debt. Beyond that, however, what matters most to me isn’t material.
What matters most now is that my family is together and in good health. I try to focus on simple things and spend more time with my children. I teach them some of the games I played with my siblings when we were young. We find ways to entertain ourselves that cost nothing. For a little while, we forget about money.
These days, when I think about what we can and can’t afford, I don’t just think about money. I think about dignity. I think about fathers standing in shops calculating what they can afford and what they must leave behind. I think about children leaving private schools, meat disappearing from dinner tables and bills remaining unpaid so there is enough food for another day.
But I also think about what remains. I thank God every day for the things we have. My family is still together. My wife and I make a great team and keep the family afloat. My children still laugh. My brothers and sister help when they can and we help them when we can. We’ve lost so much, but those are the things that we’ve held on to. This is what I get up for every day that keep me going.
Edited by Roxanna Shapour
Revisions:
This article was last updated on 1 Jun 2026
