Dear Zari: Hidden Stories from Women of Afghanistan (18 page)

Finally, Fareba took my velvet
chador
and placed it at an angle on my head so it looked like a wedding headdress. She draped a green silky shawl around my shoulders and guided my feet into a pair of extremely high-heeled cream shoes. My mother brought in all the jewellery she was giving me and gave it to Fareba to choose what to adorn me with. There was a heavy golden necklace with matching earrings and several rings. On my left hand I was already wearing my gold engagement ring. When one of
my cousins saw me she exclaimed, ‘Oh my God, Anesa, you look like a donkey with lots of bells around its neck
.’

Fareba told her off for calling me names, then turned back to me. ‘Don’t worry, Anesa. She’s just jealous of you because you have so many things and she doesn’t. You’re special today and she isn’t.’ Then, with tears in her eyes, she added, ‘You know, after today, Anesa, I’ll have to go to the
tanoor
by myself. I’ll be baking bread alone. You won’t be there.’ And she flung her arms around my neck
.

I said, ‘I’ll still come to the
tanoor
with you every day. No one can stop me. I’m sure I’ll have the right to see my family and my dearest cousin
.’

Then Fareba smudged dark green eye-shadow onto my eyes; she traced khol around my eyes and brushed black mascara onto my lashes. Bright pink blusher was dabbed onto my cheeks and finally my lips were painted with a vivid red lipstick. Fareba picked a fiery red colour for my lips to turn the groom crazy, but I told her it was shameful to speak like this in front of the other girls. My cousin held the mirror in front of me and I stared at my reflection. Now, when I look back, I think I must have looked like an over-painted doll. My lips looked as if I had someone else’s lips painted on top of them and there was too much glitter, but at the time it was the height of fashion in my village and I thought the effect was simply wonderful. The other girls told me I looked very pretty, and Fareba said she was sure no one else in the groom’s family would have my looks and I would make the in-laws jealous
.

Listening to Anesa’s story took me back to my own wedding day. How different it had been! I wish I’d had a close friend like Fareba with whom to confide my anger and distress. I remember how I didn’t care what I looked like and how I deliberately left behind a white pearl necklace that my mother had bought me to wear with my wedding dress. Later in the evening she asked me why I wasn’t wearing my new pearls and I pretended that I’d forgotten them. I was angry with her and with the whole arranged marriage but I had to hide my feelings and suffer in silence. I refused even to look at myself in the mirror at the beauty parlour
after they had done my make-up and hair. I thought I was the ugliest woman in the world. The make-up, wedding dress and flowers didn’t mean anything to me. In the wedding hall some of the women told me how beautiful I looked but I didn’t believe them. Unlike Anesa, I didn’t enjoy all the fuss and attention.

My mother called for me to be taken to a larger room that had been made ready for the occasion. Two wooden chairs had been placed in front of a small table, which was covered with a red glittery cloth. Mattresses had been put around the edge of the room; the middle was empty except for Afghan carpets. Fareba and another cousin held my hands and slowly led me in. I was followed by a procession of women and children. Wherever I went girls followed me playing the
daira
(tambourine) and singing Afghan wedding songs. The girls were playing the ‘Ahesta Bero’ song:

Ahesta bero, Anesa Jan. Ahesta bero
.

Go slowly, dear bride. Walk slowly, bride
.

This is a traditional song that expresses the sadness of a family at losing a daughter. It’s sung when the bride leaves her parents’ house for the last time. My mother approached me and began to pour some sweets onto my head. Immediately the children started scrabbling and wrestling on the floor for them. Fareba shouted at them to stop and told their mothers to take them away. She said they had to get out of my way in case they tripped me up. She was quite right: I could barely walk in my high-heeled shoes
.

My mother kissed me on the forehead. ‘Anesa, my child, you look as beautiful as the moon. I hope that your life will be as warm and light as the sun
.’

My procession finally reached the chairs and my mother ordered the girls to tidy the room because lunchtime was getting close. The groom’s family had paid for a cook to help my mother prepare all the food. It’s usual in our culture for the groom’s family to pay for most things. My
father only asked for a small amount of money for me, even though the groom’s family was willing to pay more. My father didn’t believe in the tradition of taking money for his daughter’s hand in marriage, though it is usual practice in Kunduz
.

While the room was being cleared and the final preparations were made, I sat on my bridal chair and Fareba sat on the one reserved for the groom. She said if he didn’t turn up she would be my husband. I laughed and told her that my fiancé would kick her from the chair and take me from her
.

I began to feel hot and sweaty in my clothes so Fareba ordered one of the girls to fan me with a
paka
(paddle-shaped fan). This poor girl was thrilled to do it because it meant she could be close to the bride
.

A loud burst of music and dancing signalled the arrival of the groom and his family, and Fareba grabbed my hand. ‘Oh my God, Anesa. They’re here already!’ All the women stood up, some went to watch the arrival from the windows but most stood out in the yard to welcome the guests. My mother gestured for Fareba to cover my face with a shawl. I struggled to see what was going on from two small peep holes. I could just make out the groom’s family. They were all dressed in brightly coloured clothes and wore lots of gold jewellery. Their song went like this:

Ma dismal Awardem.

We have brought the handkerchief
.

Aroos Biadar jana ba sad naz awardem.

We have brought our dear brother’s bride with lots of joy
.

Two of the groom’s sisters danced in front of the other women. They must have been very hot and sweaty, but they wanted to show their happiness for their brother’s wedding. I was desperate to see what Jabar, my groom, looked like but he was whisked off to the men’s room. Instead, his mother made her way to me. She kissed me on the forehead and dropped some Afghani notes on me. Immediately, the children rushed to grab the money. Two young boys were tugging over the same note until it split in half. Fareba
tried to push the children away and suggested that my mother-in-law should not put more money on me
.

At this, my mother-in-law spun around to address Fareba. ‘What business is it of yours, young girl, how I express my happiness at my son’s wedding?
’

Fareba didn’t reply to the older woman but later she whispered in my ear, ‘God, did you hear your mother-in-law just then? She’s a right sergeant major
.’

I hoped that Fareba was just joking and this wasn’t really the case. There are lots of jokes about domineering mothers-in-law in my culture. My mother-in-law lifted the
taj
(crown and veil) so that my face could be seen and I lowered my eyes to the ground, as is the custom. Then the groom’s family approached one by one to take a look at me. I hoped desperately that they thought I was pretty, for I knew that afterwards the women would be gossiping about me and how I looked. The women were shouting to one another, some were dancing and others were clapping to celebrate my wedding. After a few minutes I was told I could sit down. Finally my mother came into the room and told my mother-in-law it was time to eat. Then women and girls from my side of the family brought water for the guests to wash their hands, and a
desterkhan
(large plastic tablecloth) was opened out on the floor. The plates of food – large dishes of rice, chips, spinach, kofta and qurma, and huge slabs of bread freshly baked in the
tanoor
– were spread out upon it. Cans of Coca-Cola, Fanta and drinking water were offered to the guests. Girls stood by to bring anything else a guest might need
.

My mother-in-law got up from the floor and brought me a plate of food. She told me to eat it and I was relieved that she seemed kind. But as I ate, I realised that this would be the last time I would eat in my parents’ home as their child, and I started to worry about what my new life would be like. Fareba must have seen me frowning at my food. ‘His lot look very scary,’ she whispered, which only made me feel worse
.

The women sat around the
desterkhan,
shovelling food into their mouths. I could see my mother fussing over the in-laws, making sure everything
was to their satisfaction. She knew that if they were happy then things would be easier for me. I guessed a similar scene was being played out in the men’s room. I imagined my father ordering the boys around and making sure the male guests had everything they wanted. Young boys and girls were free to wander around as they liked and could eat with either their mothers or fathers
.

My wedding was a grand affair for our small village. Hiring a cook was special. I could see my mother had worked hard to get everything prepared. As guests finished their food, my cousins cleared away the dirty plates and wiped clean the
desterkhan.

The groom’s mother and sisters started to sing and clap again: the
Nikkah
time – the contract between a bride and groom – was approaching. The Mullah began reading and Fareba whispered to me to say my prayers. I asked God for happiness and for a good life for my family and myself. My uncle and one of my cousins came to ask me if I would accept Jabar as my husband. According to my religion, I had to say I accepted him three times. As soon as I had done this, the men fired their rifles into the air. Fareba said this meant I was now legally Jabar’s wife
.

One by one the women came to kiss me and offer me their good wishes. If the guests stood up, I would have to stand and if they told me to sit, I would have to sit. I wasn’t used to wearing such high heels, so by this time my feet were hurting and I was exhausted. I told Fareba that it was all too much for me and I couldn’t wait for it to be over. She joked back by asking why I was in such a hurry to be taken by my man
.

Then finally the groom was brought in to me by the women of his family for the
Aeena Misaf
– the ceremony when we would see each other for the first time – so I was quickly covered up with my green shawl. I could hear the ‘Ahesta Bero’ song being sung for him. My heart started beating fast. Fareba squeezed my hand. ‘Oh my God, Anesa, he’s a big fat man!
’

I could feel someone was standing close to me. Fareba and my mother moved to stand behind me, and my mother whispered in my ear, ‘If they force you to sit down, don’t.’ Traditionally, whoever sits down in the chair
first will have no power in the marriage. I had seen this game played many times at weddings; I knew my mother and Fareba would be behind Jabar ready to push him into his seat. His mother announced that it was time for the bride and groom to sit, and then I felt her hands on my shoulders, trying to force me down. I wouldn’t give in – I knew the women would be watching to see who won. Finally, we both sat down, I think together, and chanting and clapping broke out
.

A mirror was put onto my knees and my mother told me I could now look. The shawl was lifted from my face and I stared into the mirror. The first thing I noticed was that he had a big moustache; the second thing was that he had a round face and bulging eyes. I felt frightened. I looked again and this time he winked back at me. After that, I was too shy to peek again into the mirror. But that first sight of him stayed in my head and it wasn’t a nice one. This fat man wasn’t young or handsome; he was no Bollywood hero. Just one look at Jabar had destroyed my dreams
.

My mother gave us a small holy Quran to read from. As I recited the verses, I didn’t glance at Jabar at all. Then Fareba poured some Fanta into two glasses and Jabar and I offered each other a glass to drink from, neither one of us looking at the other. The ceremony was coming to an end and soon it would be time for me to be taken away. My mother said she wanted to sing ‘Ahesta Bero’ for me. She took the tambourine and began to sing, and the group of women in the room parted, allowing my mother and I to walk together
.

The house was full of noise, and the atmosphere was very happy. It was so touching, as everyone was talking about me leaving my parents’ house and entering a new life. I felt so special. Quietly, I told Fareba, Jabar was not as I had been expecting. She said that she was disappointed, too, as she had been told my groom was a good-looking man
.

‘
Fareba, you know, I was hoping for a dashing young man. Why him?
’

But we both knew there was nothing I could do. Besides, the wedding taxi, decorated with flowers, was already waiting outside the house
.

My mother stopped singing, she hugged me and my father spoke to
Jabar: ‘Jabar, my son, I’m giving you a piece of my heart, my daughter, Anesa. Please take good care of her
.’

At this I burst into tears, and my mother, Fareba and most of my relatives also started crying – Afghan women tend to cry when the bride is leaving. I didn’t hear what Jabar said in response to my father but I guess he just nodded. I got into the taxi with Jabar and some members of his family. My groom sat next to me but he didn’t say much. My mother-in-law kept singing in the car until we got to their house, which was a large villa made of mud and clay and set in its own garden behind a big iron gate. Suddenly, I realised I was among strangers – it was the loneliest moment in my life
.

Anesa, like me, was looking forward to a happy family life. Her father hadn’t asked for money, and because of this she would have expected her in-laws to show her respect. I, too, was still hoping that I could enjoy a happy family life with Javed, despite the disappointment I felt at our marriage. In those early days, I believed that if I was a good Afghan girl and did my duty, accepting what our parents wanted, then I would have a successful family life.