Dear Zari: Hidden Stories from Women of Afghanistan (29 page)

Evening came and it was dark but Layla’s husband still hadn’t come home. She went back into the house, changed out of her new clothes and washed her make-up off. Once again, she felt that she had no right to wear such things. Layla tried to stop terrible thoughts from coming into her mind and find a simple explanation for his absence. Perhaps he had missed the bus to the village and would get the early one the following morning. When night came, Layla went to bed praying for his safe return. This was all she could do.

Early the next morning, Layla heard someone knocking on the door. She hurriedly put a scarf on her head and ran to the door. She was smiling as she opened the door, expecting to see her husband there and give him a big hug. Instead, she was confronted with two army officers. Layla knew her worst fears were true. She didn’t hear what they said as she collapsed at the door.

In Afghanistan, widows are shunned by society. Those who have been
widowed twice, like Layla, are considered a particularly bad omen for men. Other women call them ‘man eaters’.

After a few months her baby was born – a daughter – but she was barely capable of looking after her children. Whenever she walked in the village women would give her vicious looks. She wasn’t allowed to go to weddings or go near brides because people said she would bring misfortune. Being widowed for the second time depressed her, and she started to believe the superstitions herself. Even Layla’s family made her feel as if she were an evil woman responsible for her husbands’ deaths.

It didn’t take long for another sad period in her life to start. This time it concerned the fate of her children. People around her were unkind and selfish. Layla went to her parents for the second time. This time she had another baby with her so she had no choice but to obey her brother’s wife and act like a servant. The one bright hope she had was for a better future for her children. She began to take more care of them. She provided for her children by accepting any work she could. She washed people’s clothes, cleaned their houses and fetched water in exchange for money. She saved enough to send her children to school. Almost every night she would tell her eldest son how he should look after his sisters and mother when he got older and how his father had wanted him to become an engineer. She also told him stories of his father’s bravery and how he had lost his life fighting for his country. But Layla’s hopes for a better life with her children didn’t last long. Her in-laws from her first marriage came to her house and said they wanted their grandchildren back. She roared at them with the rage of a wild animal.

‘Do you people not have any fear of God? These children are mine!’

She was crying and her children were crying and clinging on to her. ‘They’re my life. I’ll die without them. I’m only living for them.’

Layla began slapping her own face, screaming and cursing, but her mother-in-law was unmoved. ‘When a widow marries a stranger she loses her children. You have no right to them any more. We’ll take them into our custody.’

Layla looked desperately for ways to stop this happening. She asked her brother and other family members for help but they weren’t keen because the burden on them would be reduced if the children were taken. Her brother listened to his wife Shakira more than anyone else, and she had said that according to Sharia law Layla would not be able to keep her children.

Layla discovered a new strength born from the fear of losing her beloved children. She decided to fight as a mother for her rights, and turned to the courts. According to Sharia law the family of the children’s father have a claim to the children if the father is dead. The mother’s claim to keep her children is weak if she is not in a strong financial position to take care of them. Layla was poor and she lost her case.

The grief of widowhood felt nothing in comparison to the pain of losing her children. Layla lost all hope. She hardly ever saw them. She asked people how they were and friends told her that the grandparents were looking after them well. That did allay some of her fears but she still missed them terribly and found living away from them the hardest thing to bear.

Layla would tell the other women in her village how she now felt like a stone. She said that nothing else could hurt her after the pain of losing the children from her first marriage. Most of the women in the village felt sorry for her and some gave her food, believing that if they helped a woman suffering like Layla they would be loved by God.

A few years later, when Layla was living with her parents, Mujahedeen fighters came to her village and everything changed again. Layla’s brother lost his job, while those who supported the Mujahedeen saw their fortunes rise. They acquired money, guns and land, but Layla’s family saw no such benefit. Then one day, one of the local warlords spotted Layla in the village – Layla was still young and pretty. The warlord visited her parents’ home to ask for her hand in marriage. Her family were poor; they had no means by which to fight for her and refuse his offer so they gave in. Layla was given to the warlord in exchange for money and food.

She was used to being married off and letting those around her decide her future, so she saw little point in protesting. She had lost all belief in love and human kindness. Even though she was still in her twenties,
she’d been through enough experience for a woman forty years older. She had become like an unloved ornament in a dark corner of the house. With no help given or sympathy offered, she had gradually stopped speaking and spent days and nights in silence. She cooked and cleaned in other people’s houses but took no care of herself. She felt like the ugliest and most helpless woman in the world. She just wanted to be left alone with her pain.

Her new husband realised he had married a ghost of a woman and, in frustration, found excuses to beat her. He used to tell her he felt cheated because she didn’t respond to him in any way. He would insult her every time he slept with her. Once, he even kicked her off the bed saying, ‘You’ve tasted two men already; that’s why you’re like a stone with me.’

His words didn’t hurt Layla; she would just stare at him and leave the room. Layla was, at least, content that her warlord husband no longer paid her any attention. He was busy with his own activities and she wasn’t interested in finding out what he was really doing. His family’s treatment of her baby daughter was neglectful and cruel so she asked the girls’ grandparents to look after her. It was during this period that Layla’s father died. He was old but he was the only person Layla had felt close to and the only one who had understood her suffering.

With so many losses in her life, when she went to bed at night, she couldn’t choose which loss to focus her mind on: her first loving husband; her second husband, whom she had just begun to love; her children, who were taken away from her; or her father, who had seen and felt her pain but had been powerless to help.

Layla’s marriage to her warlord husband was very unhappy and turned her into an old woman at a young age. Although her marriage to him lasted longer than either of her first two marriages, he too died in the end, and Layla became a widow for the third time. He was killed by his enemies but no one in his family could find out the exact reason why. Instead, they blamed Layla for bringing about his death. They accused her of ‘eating
him’ and for being ‘a woman of dark steps’. The women in his family abused and blamed her: ‘Your bad steps killed him,’ they would say.

Layla’s response was, ‘All of you knew I had been married twice before, so why did you want me to marry him? I didn’t choose to marry him.’

She wrapped her large black scarf around her head and body and left their home that instant. Now that her parents had died, she returned to the only place she had left to take refuge in: her brother’s house. Her brother couldn’t refuse her without bringing massive shame on the family; and there she remained.

Layla got up from her bed and looked out of the small window. She felt she had lived her life once again by remembering every little detail of it. How tired she was of being humiliated by her sister-in-law Shakira. She looked up at the clear sky and a feeling of energy and power began to fill her. She would get up early and do all the jobs she was supposed to do. Then, when Shakira left the house, Layla would take her chance: she would go to a women’s rights office in Takhar.

It was the first time she had found the strength to look for a better life. She was tired of being a burden on others. She was taken aback by the warmth and sympathy of the women she met there – she had lost her belief in kindness from her own sex. The woman listened to her story and, for the first time, Layla felt there was something she could do with her life. She explained how she had once been able to sew delicate and beautiful embroideries, but now all she did was household chores.

The women’s rights activist arranged for Layla to get all the help she could. Layla started sewing again, concentrating on the style of embroidery she had done as a teenager. She poured all her energy and emotion into her work. Soon her embroderies were taken to a good market in Kabul, and were sent to exhibitions in the capital and in other cities in Afghanistan by the women’s organisation. Layla made money from her sales and was able to pay her brother for her food and keep.

In her mind she felt she was sewing for her daughters and sons, now older and busy with their own lives. She never saw her children again but
it gave her satisfaction to think that they had at least grown up in a family where they were provided for. Her daughters still live in Takhar but she has heard they have been married into very strict families; and her son lives far away in Iran.

Layla feels as if she has never had any control over her life. It is as if she has been thirteen years old three times over, as three times she has been given away to a man. It’s not known exactly how many widows there are in Afghanistan at the moment, but many are young women with stories as tragic and shocking as Layla’s.

Afghan Woman’s Hour wasn’t just a forum to provide information to women about their rights; it was also meant to be a celebration of their achievements and a sharing of experiences. My colleagues and I set about creating a series of interviews with Afghan women who had used their skills and resourcefulness to bring change to their lives.

It was 2004 and Afghanistan was emerging from the political and cultural suppression it had been through during the rule of the Taliban and Mujahedeen. People were beginning to rebuild houses, and millions of Afghan refugees were returning from Iran and Pakistan. The security situation was improving but people were still struggling economically. We arranged interviews with an Afghan female judge, reporter, photographer, cleaner and teacher. At that time my editor and I worried that we would struggle to find enough successful women to fill the slots, wrongly assuming that after years of being denied an education and years of war and violence, it would be almost impossible for women to gain skills. How wrong we were! The women we found proved that you don’t need a university education to bring about a positive change to your life.

As more women joined the reporting team so we were able to bring a greater variety of voices to the airwaves. We heard from a tailor, beautician, embroiderer, carpet weaver, engineer, baker, leather worker, farmer and a woman who used to make artificial limbs for disabled war
victims. These interviews received such a positive response, and many listeners – male and female – contacted us to say how much they appreciated the hard work of Afghan women.

Mahgul is from Mazar e Sharif in the north of Afghanistan. It is the capital of Balkh Province and the fourth largest city. It is famous for its beautiful blue-tiled mosque in the city centre. Some Muslims believe it is on the site of the tomb of Ali ibn Abi Talib, the cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet Muhammad. The name Mazar e Sharif means noble shrine.

Our reporter Mariam Ghamgusar spoke to Mahgul and discovered how she had used her talent and skill to bring hope back to her family, a family that had once lost all hope of a brighter future. Of all the enterprising women we spoke to, listeners told us that they learnt the most from Mahgul’s life story. One woman wrote that, ‘in our darkest hours we remembered the example of Mahgul and her words brought us hope and strength’.

It was late afternoon and many children in my village in Balkh Province were out playing. It was a moment of relaxation for me, too. I took the teapot, my cup and our local sweet called
kunjed
and went to sit by the window. I massaged my aching hands and pulled on my fingers until they gave a satisfying click. I would do this a lot because the repetitive work I had to do made my hands very tired and stiff
.

I opened the window so I could feel the fresh air on my face but it was colder than I expected and felt chilly on my skin. My fingers needed warmth so I wrapped them around the teacup and allowed the heat of the green tea to warm me up. I enjoyed the soothing breeze on my face and the glow of warmth around my fingers. I savoured the moment: I felt as if my life was under control and I was creating a better future for my children
.