By Ehsan Omid
I collect recyclables for a living, a job that is mired with humiliation and harassment. To be a refugee from Afghanistan in Iran and collect recyclables is a life often detached from any sense of safety and social respect. But that does not mean other refugees and immigrants have a very good life. However, the fact that millions of us put up with such a life only speaks to the plight of living in our own country under the Taliban, a group that does not place any value on human well-being.
Until last year, I was working in a construction workshop in a neighborhood of Tehran. But I wasn’t making enough money to support my family in Afghanistan and pay for my father’s diabetes treatment. I needed another job and I had heard that collecting recyclables paid well. I was surprised because it is something that is often looked down upon. Those who collect recyclables are seen as homeless, addicts, or suffering from mental illnesses.
I took the job, thinking that if bad societal behavior was all it took, I would handle it. After all, being poorly treated in Iran was nothing new to me. Construction jobs in many senses are not that better either. Workers are harassed and poorly paid despite working in unsafe conditions without any insurance or even safety gears.
The first week on the street was perhaps the hardest. I almost gave up. Every day and night, I had to pull whatever strength I had in me to survive the hour. But after a while, it became less unbearable, perhaps showing to me the indefinite human capacity for adaptability. That is what has helped us remain around all this long and I could see how.
Some time passed and I saw that the pay was better than the construction job. I bought a bicycle to make it easier to collect and carry more recyclables. The hours I put into work were far fewer than in the construction job, yet it paid more. I worked for a few hours mostly in the early mornings and late evenings when streets were less crowded. That way, I could avoid the traffic and the humiliation together.
Yet, it is hard to avoid what comes as a given with the job. One night around 10 PM, a car stopped near me as I was busy collecting recyclables on a quiet street. A group of young men got out and came over to me. You would think they wanted to ask for an address or another favor. But no, they were there only to harass me. Why? No reason in particular, I suppose. They perhaps enjoyed it. The men pulled and pushed me around, laughing with each other. I tried to ignore them as I had accepted the challenges and humiliation of this job for the sake of its income. I remained silent, controlling my emotions, as insults and humiliation only intensified. One of them threw his half-eaten ice cream at my face. Although I had experienced indignity in Iran, that night was by far one of the most humiliating moments in my life.
I hadn’t done anything wrong. My work did not disturb anyone. I cleaned up the streets. I did the job to feed my family. But it also helped the city. I could not comprehend the treatment I was receiving.
I wanted to fight back, but I had to stop myself. I didn’t want to cause trouble, and I had promised myself to be patient when faced with such situations. Was it even worth it to react? Answering that question depended a lot on whether I could afford it. They were many and I was one. Any engagement with them would only make my life harder. Making a living in another country perhaps came with such difficulties. Everyday reminded me of what it meant to lose a country, to be an immigrant.
Ehsan Omid is a migrant worker from Afghanistan in Iran. This letter is edited for length and clarity.
