Dear Zari: Hidden Stories from Women of Afghanistan (28 page)

I remember seeing another Afghan mother who was crying for her two sons who had been killed in the war. She was singing and crying at the same time: ‘Hey, Revolution, may your house be set on fire. There isn’t a single Afghan family which isn’t mourning for their handsome young men. They have been sacrificed for you: Revolution, may God set you on fire!’

According to the United Nations, there are over one and a half million war widows in Afghanistan and more than fifty thousand live in Kabul. Of course, this is only an estimate. No one knows the exact number.
There are widows from the war between the Mujahedeen and the Soviet Union and from the later war between the Mujahedeen and Taliban.

Losing a much-loved son in a war is obviously difficult for any parent, but for those young women who lost their husbands, fortune dealt them an additional blow. Becoming a widow in a traditional society like Afghanistan means you lose the right to talk freely, you lose the right to put on make-up and dress up. Instead, a good widow takes care of her dignity. She wears black, doesn’t comb her hair or take any pride in her appearance.

During my first year working at Afghan Woman’s Hour I received so many stories from widows, and each one of them could have filled a programme. They told of their hopes and fears of remarrying, of the economic hardship they lived in and of the uncertainty for their children. Each story was heartbreaking. Sometimes, it was almost impossible to organise the weekly schedule because every story felt so important and they couldn’t all be included. It seemed to me as if those women were calling on me to tell their stories to the world: ‘Please, dear Zari, tell my story!’

On one of my visits to Kabul I organised a prerecorded discussion with two widows who had lost their husbands in the war. These two middle-aged women arrived at our studios with their
burqas
. I asked them to try to describe how a war widow feels.

Tears flowed from their eyes and I found myself crying too. My male colleague, who was recording the interview, was moved by our tears. It was an uncomfortable situation; my questions had hurt them. Their tears told me more than words how an Afghan war widow feels and the dirty and torn
burqas
told me what sort of lives these women were living. Finally, one of them looked up at me.

‘Zari dear, first of all I want to thank you for asking us this question.’

I said there was no need to thank me; that it was quite normal to ask about someone’s feelings.

At that point, the other woman spoke: ‘Zari dear, you’re right. It is a normal question to ask, but do you know why our tears flowed so quickly? In all the years we have been widows, not one person has asked us how it feels to be one.’

‘I’ve been a widow for ten years; no one has dared to ask how I feel – not even old friends from my parents’ village.’

‘The listeners of Afghan Woman’s Hour want to know about your feelings,’ I said, moved by their words. ‘We care about how you feel. Please tell us what it’s like to be a war widow.’

Tears welled up again in one of the widow’s eyes.

‘I can sum it up in one simple sentence. An Afghan widow is like a pot without a lid. People around her throw things into the pot but they don’t put the lid on. They say things and gossip about her, they treat her badly and when she asks for help they run away. She is helpless and hopeless.’

The other woman put it like this: ‘An Afghan widow feels as if she is being watched all the time. Her actions are observed.’

Both women spoke at length and this programme was one of the most listened to we’ve ever made. Afterwards, a male colleague said to me, ‘Zari dear, with this programme you’ve touched the hearts of mothers, daughters, fathers, brothers and every family member of these widows. I wish you more success.’

The programme brought to our attention the life story of a nineteen-year-old war widow. She lived with her extended family of in-laws. She told us that after her husband died, the only single man in his family was his seventeen-year-old brother. She said that when her husband was alive she was like an older sister to his younger brother but a year after her husband died she was expected to marry him. She cried as I spoke to her.

‘Zari dear, when I was asked to marry my brother-in-law, I felt as if my in-laws had killed me. They didn’t see the dead body, which was standing in front of them. I felt as if they had destroyed all feelings and dignity within me. I wanted to shout and tell them he was like a younger brother or son to me. I used to wash his clothes with my children’s clothes; I used to make him food when he did the shopping for me. How could I sleep with him now? But I was given a very limited choice. Either I married my youngest brother-in-law or I left my children with his family and returned to my parents’ home. My parents were poor; my brothers were all married and were not in a position to look after me. Anyway,
how could I leave my children? A year after my husband’s death, I died, my soul died and my belief in humanity died. I cried out. I shouted at my mother-in-law and to my brothers-in-law who were older and married, I asked them to accept me as their servant but my mother-in-law refused and reissued the ultimatum.’

This is a usual tradition in Afghan society. Many families have arranged the marriages of the widows of their brothers-in-law, cousins or other family members. If the widow decides to marry someone outside the family, she is forced to lose her children. In Afghanistan, the in-laws see the children as belonging to them, as family blood, and feel they have the right to take them from their mother.

This woman told us she felt she had no choice but to marry her younger brother-in-law. In this kind of situation, the men are victims too. The woman told us how the young boy was forced to sleep with her. He was locked in the bedroom with her. She cried and he cried. She said, ‘He shouted like a little boy to me: “How can I do this to my brother’s wife?”

‘He was right, we couldn’t do it. For me he was my dead beloved’s brother and for him I was his lovely sister-in-law who washed his clothes. But you know, now we are both older, he decided to marry a second wife as he never wanted me. After a few years of marriage we did have sex but I didn’t have any children with him. He’s lucky, though; he’s a man and when he got older, the family accepted his desire for a second wife. I, however, had to become a servant. Now I have to clean, cook and wash for him and his wife. I am just the servant.’

As an Afghan woman, Layla knew very well about the wretched lives of widows – she had met some and she had a widow in her family. That is why she worried about losing her husband every day. After five years of marriage, she was the mother of four children, still living with her in-laws, and waiting for her husband to return from fighting. At nineteen, her worst fears came true. When it was time for his leave, Layla’s husband didn’t come home. There was a week of anxiety, a week of hope that he
might return, but this was crushed when his comrades brought his body to her house. Layla and all of his family were devastated. Her husband had been killed in a war with the Mujahedeen, defending his country. For Layla it wasn’t only the pain of losing her husband and coping with looking after four fatherless children that troubled her; the fact that she was still very young and pretty was another huge difficulty. Her husband had been her protection in many ways, apart from providing for her and the children: he was a safeguard for her honour. She was nothing without him.

To be widowed at such a young age meant a loss of freedom. If she dared laugh at something, her in-laws, especially her mother-in-law, would comment that she was shameless and had no respect for the soul of her martyred husband. Her mother-in-law shouted at her whenever she wore clean or colourful clothes. And when her brother-in-law got married, she was viewed as a malevolent force who might affect the bride with what they called ‘her dark shade’. Only her children were allowed to go near the new bride. Layla’s mother-in-law warned her that if she went near the girl, she would bring bad luck and her son, the groom, might also die. At weddings and other celebrations, Layla would wear simple black clothing. Her lips were usually dry because she wasn’t allowed to put on any make-up.

The mother-in-law was nervous that someone might take advantage of her son’s widow and bring dishonour to the family. If Layla ventured to the door to look for her children in the street, the family would accuse her of hunting for a man. She had to watch her every step. Years of living like this ground her down. With all the negative talk against her, Layla became pale, hungry and tired. She kept herself hidden under a large scarf so her husband’s family couldn’t see her body. The less visible she was, the happier the family were, but whatever she did, Layla and her four children were still treated as an unwelcome burden on the family.

No one ever bothered to enquire how she was feeling; nobody held her hand or let her weep as she told them how she had lost the closest person
in her life. No one ever asked if she needed anything for her four young children.

One night, Layla’s mother-in-law entered her room and told Layla that as she was still very young, she must marry her younger son, Layla’s brother-in-law. She didn’t say it in a caring way; instead she informed Layla that she would actually prefer it if she didn’t marry her other son because she was clearly bad luck.

‘You ate one of my sons and now the men of the family have to decide whether or not you should marry his brother. If you refuse to marry him, then you must leave our house.’

Layla’s tears were flowing. She looked at her four children who were sleeping and said to her mother-in-law, ‘You know my husband’s soul won’t let me marry his brother. His brother is like my brother. I don’t want to marry him.’

In some respects Layla was lucky: many young Afghan widows are given no choice and are forced to marry whoever the family decides they should. At least Layla’s mother-in-law didn’t force her. Layla told her that she would leave the next day for her parents’ home. The mother-in-law reminded Layla that as they had looked after her for so long she had no right to take anything from the house. This meant Layla couldn’t take any of the gifts her husband had given her or any household items they had bought together. She and the children could only take the clothes they were wearing.

Layla returned to her parents’ home but when she got there she discovered things had changed. She was no longer the pretty, fresh-faced and pure thirteen-year-old who could be exchanged for a large amount of money. Instead, she was a tired and used woman. Layla felt like a shrivelled-up flower. This time, her return home wasn’t as a guest; she and her four children were homeless and had to be fed every day. She had no money and had been allowed to take nothing from her marriage.

Sometimes Layla’s brother would return home from work with his pockets full of sweets for his own children. Layla’s children would wait expectantly in the doorway, hoping their uncle would give them some
too, but he never did. Their eyes would follow him in but all they could do was look on helplessly and hopelessly. They had lost their father and their security. All they had was a mother who was unable to provide for them.

Layla’s mother and brothers would complain at having to bear the extra cost of her and her children so she would try to make up for it by cleaning the house, washing clothes and cooking. She became like a slave to her sisters-in-law. Only her father seemed to care and understand her needs but he was a poor helpless man. He was getting old and could only watch and share the pain his daughter was in.

Since Layla had left school early and had not completed her education, she was unable to get a well-paid job. She earned money by cleaning other people’s houses and sewing clothes. She gave everything she earned to her mother for her keep but her mother was still angry with her because she hadn’t been able to bring anything with her from her husband’s home. Her in-laws had kept everything.

After a year and a half of widowhood, her father couldn’t cope with his daughter living under these conditions so he decided to have her married again. At first Layla wasn’t in love with her second husband but she respected him because he was kind to her children. It was the time of the civil war during the Soviet Union era. Her second husband was also in the Afghan national army fighting in the civil war under the Soviet-protected goverment.

By marrying again, Layla freed herself from the nagging of her parents. She started wearing new clothes, washing her hair and going to weddings. On Eid and at New Year, her children, once again, had new clothes and good food. Time passed, and Layla was pleased to find herself pregnant with her new husband’s child. She had got used to him and missed him when he was away. She was impatient for his return from the army.

Layla’s life had certainly improved with marriage, but her happiness was short-lived. On the day her husband was due home after three months’ absence she got the children up early and told them to wash
and dress in clean clothes. They were under strict instructions to keep themselves and the house clean. Her husband was usually home by midday, so she cooked rice and meat and bought lots of sweets. Layla was desperate to tell him about her pregnancy. She wanted to celebrate his return, the new baby and, most of all, to show him how much she had missed him and that she now felt she was in love with him.

She put on eyeliner and red lipstick, something she had not done for a very long time. Her face glowed with excitement, but she was also a little fearful because past experience had taught her to expect bad news. Layla waited outside by the door under the heat of the midday sun. She looked down the road but couldn’t see anyone coming. She called to her son: ‘Your father must be busy chatting to the shopkeeper. Go and tell him to hurry home because the food is ready.’

Her son ran out and down the street. After a short while he returned and said the shopkeeper hadn’t seen his father at all. Layla started to worry that it would be bad news again. She snapped at the children for fussing and making a noise. The food got cold and the children became hungry. She let them eat while she sat by the door until the light of the day faded.