Dear Zari: Hidden Stories from Women of Afghanistan (17 page)

Who should I blame for the nights I have cried myself to sleep? Myself, Javed or my mother who never told me properly about sexual relations between a husband and wife? I now ask myself why I went through all that pain and worry on my wedding night, and why I didn’t once ask of my husband: ‘I know you’ve slept with other women before marrying me, so what gives you the right to check up on me?’

I know now that Afghan women feel the same, whether you are Ilaha in a village, Gulalai in Kabul or Zarghuna in London. The women who blame you for not bleeding on your wedding night have been told by their mothers and their grandmothers that clean and good women bleed. It is the sign of a woman’s purity. I know from my experience that Afghan families do not discuss women’s feelings. If their son starts chasing girls – following them home from school, writing them notes – then they are proud because it shows that their son is becoming a man. But no one knows when their daughter becomes a woman and no one helps her. How can a girl who does not even know what a period is understand what sex is? Has any young bride ever dared to ask for information or advice? Can she ask her mother or her mother-in-law? A girl like Ilaha could not ask such questions.

A girl who bleeds on her wedding night is fortunate indeed, and the pride of her mother-in-law, her parents, her husband and the whole family. Bleeding is not just a sign of virginity, it also guarantees the future family life of the young bride, for a girl who does not bleed is not considered to be a virgin, and she must start married life with the worry that she might be kicked out of her in-laws’ home or usurped by a second wife.

Girls are kept like dolls in the corner of the house. If they are sent to school they are taught to see this as a big favour; if they are given the same food as their brothers they have the best parents, and if they are bought new clothes then they have the best family.

In Afghanistan, a wedding represents the creation of a new family, and the family is the single most important institution in that society, providing economic security in times of hardship in a way that the state is unable to do. For example, wherever they are in the world, Afghans will send money to help their less fortunate relatives. They will even help them get jobs. This is seen as fulfilling family responsibility rather than nepotism. The family unit can be quite large, and sometimes includes three or four generations living together. Marriages are often arranged between cousins to keep the kinship intact. Afghan society is held together by families – family loyalties are very strong – and weddings represent that coming together. And the more lavish the wedding the better, since this shows everyone your wealth and status.

Weddings are an even bigger affair in villages where traditional values hold greater sway. Hundreds of people are invited – the whole village must be included – but men and women are entertained separately, which, in effect, doubles the cost. Parents save hard for their sons’ weddings. New clothes will be required for all family members, sheep and cows will be kept and then slaughtered especially for the occasion and gold jewellery will be bought in advance for the bride. The bride’s family, on the other hand, has few responsibilities. They are respected if they don’t ask for money for their daughter, but it is a common practice to receive a large
sum of money, which some Afghan women see as a show of respect for the new in-laws. Sometimes the amount is so large that the groom’s family has to borrow the money from relatives and can remain in debt for years.

Weddings are generally celebrated in a similar way throughout Afghanistan but there are some regional differences, and working on Afghan Woman’s Hour helped me discover the roots of some of these traditions. Every day at work I’d be sent new material from across Afghanistan. I learnt that there are many similar customs amongst Pashtuns, Hazaras, Uzbeks and Tajiks. At the same time, I found that in some regions there are families who won’t accept any money for their daughters and will celebrate the wedding in a far simpler style. The reporters and I decided to make a series of special programmes about the wedding customs of people around Afghanistan. Why, for example, did brides in the north wear white clothes, while in the south Pashtun areas they wear red?

One day, Salmi Suhili, one of our reporters based in Kabul, came to me with an idea: ‘Zari dear, I want to introduce our listeners to the wedding customs from my home province of Kunduz. I’m going for a family wedding and, if they agree, I could take my recording equipment and get lots of good material.’

I didn’t want to miss a great opportunity like this and so readily agreed. After two weeks, Salmi returned from Kunduz, and in one of our regular planning meetings between London and Kabul, where reporters and I would exchange ideas on the phone, she burst into the discussion.

‘Zari dear, I must tell you all about my experience in Kunduz. I met lots of women there and have recorded heaps of material, but there is one story in particular that I want to share with you.’

We all listened intently as Salmi went on. ‘I met a woman called Anesa,’ she said, and even though the sound quality on the phone wasn’t very good I could hear some anxiety in her voice. ‘She was very beautiful; a lovely, kind woman with three children. I can’t believe someone facing—’ And then she broke down into tears.

‘Salmi dear, we’re all listening to you,’ I said, trying to calm her down.
‘This isn’t the first time we’ve heard a very sad story of an Afghan woman. Please carry on.’

Salmi cleared her throat. ‘I met Anesa at our family wedding and she called me especially to tell her story because she knew I was working for Afghan Woman’s Hour and she was asking for help. She told me the story of her wedding, how she had married as a young girl but—’

Salmi’s voice choked and she was unable to speak. Our meeting was drawing to a close and I still needed to listen to the ideas of four other reporters that day, so I suggested that Salmi send the story to me as an audio file.

Later that day, I received Anesa’s story. I was impatient to hear what had made an experienced journalist like Salmi break down. What could be so upsetting and shocking? I downloaded the material onto our editing system and heard Anesa’s voice. And I discovered one of the most wonderful storytellers our programme had heard. Anesa, with a very quiet voice, began her story.

It was about eight o’clock in the morning and I was wide awake but I stayed in my bed. The sun cast lines of light as it made its way through the dark maroon curtains of my room. It was already very hot. I was still wearing my glittery red dress and bright red
shalwar.
The previous evening most of my cousins and the young girls from our village had gathered in our house for the most special night of my life. I smiled to myself as I remembered how my cousin Fareba had smeared dark green henna on my feet. The girls had all been wearing colourful clothes, dancing and teasing me about my groom. This was my henna night. I wore clothes that my in-laws had made especially for me. It’s a tradition for people in Kunduz to bring new clothes for the bride on her henna night
.

I loved all the presents and the attention I was getting from my family and friends. Everyone was treating me like a queen. This was to be my last day in my parents’ home. I was so excited that at last I was going to see the man I would be marrying. This was my wedding day!

I admired the
kheena paich
(triangular handkerchief) my mother had
made for the day. After the henna, my hand had been covered with some white cotton and then the green glittery
kheena paich.
A flowery smell of henna filled the room. I stretched out my legs on the
charpoie,
forgetting that they were also covered with
kheena paich.

Fareba came into the room. ‘Wake up, you lazy girl. People who’re getting married can’t spend all day in bed!’ She pulled back the curtains. ‘Auntie told me that you have to have a bath, get dressed and have your make-up done
.’

I was very excited at the prospect of getting my make-up done. I loved make-up and new clothes. I knew I was lucky. My brothers, sisters and I always had new clothes for Eid and New Year. My father was a government clerk and my mother used to do some tailoring, so they could afford to buy us nice things
.

I told Fareba I couldn’t walk because my legs were covered with
kheena paich.
She laughed and asked if I expected her to carry me to the bath
.

I said, ‘Yes, you’ll have to. I’m a bride, and in a few hours’ time I’ll be leaving you all, so today you have to treat me like a princess
.’

Fareba came towards me as if to pick me up but instead, just kissed me on the cheek. ‘Of course, you’re the bride but I’m not the one who’s going to be holding you in their arms. Tonight the man of your dreams will hold you tightly and carry you off
.’

I got embarrassed and told Fareba to be quiet. I knew she was only teasing me but I was excited and anxious about seeing my future husband. I knew my parents liked him and I’d seen him from a distance when he visited our house during the
dawra-e-namzadi
(period of engagement). His family had sent me lots of gifts, as is the custom: clothes, shoes, bangles, henna and many glittery scarves
.

I also knew that this was the day I would start behaving like a grownup, with proper responsibilities – my mother had constantly been reminding me of that. I had set my heart on becoming a wife, a mother and a daughter-in-law. I was still day-dreaming about the future when Fareba tugged my arm and ordered me to get up for my bath
.

Everything I was using was new. The soap was unwrapped from its
packet, the shampoo was in a new bottle. Both were gifts from my in-laws. My mother had also put some cold milk into a pot – it’s a tradition in Kunduz to wash the bride with milk as a symbol of her purity and to bring luck and prosperity. I held my towel in front of me and told Fareba that she had to leave because I was too shy to wash in front of her. I sat on the stool and washed myself with the warm water, which Fareba had fetched in a bucket
.

After my bath Fareba came in and recited the prayers for a new bride. We have a saying in Kunduz that pure and chaste girls gain the
Noor
(or grace) of Allah on their wedding day. It means God will shine his light on you. Fareba said I looked very beautiful, and I hoped I had gained the spiritual glow that comes from the
Noor
of Allah
.

Fareba took out a new white bra and white lacy knickers from their packets and handed them to me. Everything I would wear that day would be new. I slipped on the white glittery dress that the tailor in our village had made for me. The neck was in a star design and the sleeves were long and flared. My
shalwar
were white and silky with embroidery at the ankles. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought how grown-up I looked
.

Soon all my other cousins and friends surrounded me, laughing and joking. One was painting my fingernails, another my toenails. Fareba was combing my hair, attaching lots of colourful clips to create a pretty design
.

Guests had already arrived and were wandering around our house. My mother and older members of my family were busy preparing the food. At noon the groom’s family would arrive and take me away, so there was a sense of urgency. I noticed my mother hadn’t changed her clothes. It’s traditional for the mother to express her sorrow at losing her daughter by not wearing new clothes. I could see my mother was under pressure at having to provide food for so many guests. She also seemed a little sad. I guess she was upset because I was going into someone else’s family. She wanted my last day with her to be special
.

‘
Fareba, you have to look after Anesa,’ my mother instructed her. ‘She’s
our guest this morning. Give her everything she needs and make sure she has enough to eat
.’

Fareba and I had grown up together and were close friends. She did more than my mother asked. While Fareba was making up my hair she gave me some advice
.

‘
When you go to the groom’s house today you’ll be taking care of many people, not just one man. His mother, father and family will all want respect and attention from you. Make sure you pay them the proper attention – I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. You remember what happened to Shigufa? She lives like a prisoner with her in-laws
.’

I asked Fareba why they treated her like this. She said it was because she only took care of her husband and didn’t look after his family as well, who showed their displeasure by not allowing her to return to visit her own family. I wasn’t surprised by this – I had heard that in-laws could be spiteful and make a new bride’s life a misery. I told Fareba that I would of course respect my in-laws as they would be my family after the wedding. I laughed and said that I wanted them to respect me, too
.

Fareba pulled my hair and told me to stop being so naughty. When she finally finished doing my hair I thought it looked very impressive. She had copied the style from a postcard of the Indian Bollywood actress Sri Devi. Fareba and I had promised each other that we would do each other’s make-up when we got married. All our dreams were of Bollywood movies, and we would eagerly follow the latest styles and fashions of the beautiful and famous actresses. On Eid days and special occasions we would copy their clothes, hair and make-up, desperately trying to look like them. We were known throughout our neighbourhood for doing this
.