The Afghan Carpet Shop

متجر السجاد الأفغاني

Each carpet is a story.

Woven by women in Afghanistan, sold in Amsterdam. I am the bridge between worlds.

Henrik keeps returning.

I'm Parisa.

Forty-four, Afghan, refugee for fifteen years. My shop is my homeland.

Henrik is Dutch, retired professor.

He's fifty-eight.

Taught Islamic art history. Now he spends his days in my shop.

"You don't need another carpet."

"I need the stories you tell with them."

"This one took a year to weave."

"By whom?"

"By women who can't go to school anymore. Weaving is their education."

"That's beautiful and sad."

"That's Afghanistan."

"Why do you keep coming?"

"Because you make me understand things books couldn't teach."

"Like what?"

"Like survival. Like hope. Like beauty in darkness."

"You're not just buying carpets."

"No."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Learning. From you."

"Coffee tomorrow?"

"I don't date customers."

"What if I stop buying?"

"Then you'd have nowhere to sit."

"I'd stand. For coffee with you."

The first kiss is in the shop.

After closing, surrounded by centuries of craft.

"Is this appropriate?" he asks.

"My ancestors wove love into carpets. This is tradition."

"I want to help."

"Help how?"

"Fund the weavers directly. Expand your reach."

"Henrik—"

"Let me be part of what you're building."

He undresses me on a pile of carpets.

Centuries of women's work beneath us.

"Beautiful."

"Parisa—"

"Make love to me on my heritage."

We make love while Afghanistan watches.

The carpets holding generations of dreams.

"Ya delam—Henrik—"

"Right there?"

"Baleh—yes—weave into me—"

Four years later

The shop became a foundation.

Supporting women weavers directly. Henrik manages the Dutch side.

"Happy?" he asks.

"We wove something."

"Besides carpets?"

"A life."

Alhamdulillah.

For carpets that carry stories.

For customers who learn.

For craft that becomes love.

The End.