Dear Zari: Hidden Stories from Women of Afghanistan (33 page)

Bakhtawara was thirty-five years old but her skin was lined and tanned like that of the older men in her village. So many times she had wished to put on mascara, or yearned to decorate her hands with henna, and dress her hair with different coloured clips, or wear glass bangles like other girls in her family. On a few rare nights, Bakhtawara would allow herself to feel like a woman. She would begin by slowly touching her face and her neck, moving her hands to her breasts; she would feel a heat build up inside her body and her breath quicken, but as soon as she looked down at her feet the feelings would stop. The sight of her dirty toenails and burnt skin would remind her that her life was the life of a man, not a woman, and she would feel ashamed and embarrassed. She would take a deep breath again, recite her
kalema
and suppress her feelings.

Bakhtawara shook her head, and told herself she had a lot of work to do the next day. Her
charpoie
was covered with a white sheet that had been hand-embroidered especially for her by one of her nieces. It had been done in a typical Pashtun style – large flowers in red, purple and pink with long leaves connected to each other from both sides of the sheet. Bakhtawara pulled the long narrow duvet over her legs and suppressed all her feminine feelings. Tiredness soon overcame her and she fell asleep.

It was the cat meowing that woke up Bakhtawara at sunrise. In the mornings, she felt less like a woman than she did at night. The call of her daily duties meant she had to focus on being
Haji
Bakhtawara, whose life was to do with performing daily prayers, meeting the elders and working on the land. She fastened her hair on top of her head and fitted her hat on tightly. The rest of the household was still asleep as she went out to wash in the bathroom. She did the
awdas
(ablutious) just as the Mullah began calling the faithful to prayer with the
Azan
.

After washing, Bakhtawara stood out in the yard for a minute, breathing in the fresh morning air, which filled her body with energy. She then went back in the house where her sister-in-law was getting up to instruct her daughter to get water ready for
Hajiani
to wash. Bakhtawara explained that the cat had woken her up early so she had already washed. It was usually the teenager’s job to prepare the water for Bakhtawara, after which they would pray and have breakfast all together.

Before breakfast, Bakhtawara went into her room, fetched her gun and began cleaning it. She knew every part of the weapon – how to take it apart, clean it, oil it and load it. Once it was clean, assembled and loaded, Bakhtawara left it on the bed with her bullet belt and joined the family for breakfast. Bakhtawara’s eldest niece Durkhani was fifteen years old. She had attended school until the age of eleven, but after she reached puberty, like most other girls in the village, her parents forbade her to go. In Gurbuz many girls never went to school at all; Durkhani had at least been to school for a few years because Bakhtawara had persuaded her parents to let her attend. Bakhtawara loved her nephews and nieces but not as an auntie, rather as an uncle who would buy them presents and treat them kindly.

Durkhani poured the
shedo chai
into a cup for Bakhtawara and set it down in front of her, together with some freshly fried
parathas
– round loaves of bread baked on a
tava
(shallow frying pan) in boiling oil. The smell of Durkhani’s delicious
parathas
would waft through the house and even reached the neighbours. Bakhtawara greedily ate the
parathas
and sipped the milky fresh tea.

While Durkhani was still busy cooking, her eyes watering from the smoke of the woodfire, she said, ‘
Hajiani
, I wanted to ask you for a notebook? Would you be able to bring me one today?’

Bakhtawara knew how much her niece missed going to school. She stroked the girl’s hair and said, ‘Of course, my child. While your
Hajiani
is alive, don’t worry. I couldn’t persuade your family to let you finish school but I will make sure you have the books and notebooks you need at home so you can carry on reading and writing.’

Durkhani smiled. ‘
Hajiani
, if we didn’t have you, I’d have forgotten what I learnt in school a long time ago. Father is never here for me to ask him but thank God you are here with us.’

Bakhtawara knew what the life of a woman was in her village. They were allowed to walk in the mountains collecting firewood, but if they were unwell and needed to go to hospital a man would have to accompany them. Girls could be married as young as twelve years old, and would often face violence in their in-laws’ homes. Some are beaten by their husbands or in-laws if they do not do their chores properly, some are treated as slave labour. They have no right to question what the men in their family do, yet they can do nothing without permission. Bakhtawara knew this all too well. She was well aware of the difficulties her niece and sister-in-law would face without a man to look after them. Bakhtawara’s brother was abroad most of the time and it wouldn’t be easy for the family to live in the village without a man to support and protect them. Once the tea was drunk and the
parathas
eaten, Bakhtawara rose from the table. The women of the family stood up with her – Durkhani rushed to the window shelf and fetched Bakhtawara’s black turban. Shah Mahmoud was ready for school; he waited in front of the door holding the gun in his hands ready to give it to Bakhtawara. Bakhatawara strapped her ammuntion belt around her body, slung her gun over her shoulder and slipped on her
chaplis
. She said goodbye to everyone and then left the house with Shah Mahmoud, the only male in the household, who would walk to school with Bakhtawara. Every day they would walk holding hands as they passed through the neighbourhood. Boys from Shah Mahmoud’s school sometimes called out, ‘
Narkhazak! Narkhazak!
’ (eunuch).

Bakhtawara was used to hearing these words and ignored them but Shah Mahmoud found it hard to dismiss their cries. ‘
Hajiani
, these boys are always telling me that you’re a
narkhazak
. Is it true? Are you not a man and not a woman?’

‘Don’t take any notice of them, my child. What do you think I am?’

Shah Mahmoud, who was only seven, looked up at Bakhtawara.

‘I know you’re a man, but sometimes I can see you have big breasts like a woman, so I get confused.’

The children in Bakhatawara’s family had not been told about her gender and did not realise she was a woman until they worked it out for themselves.

Bakhtawara smiled. ‘Your
Hajiani
is a strong man – you’ve seen pictures of sportsmen, haven’t you? Well, they all have big musclely chests because they’re so strong. This is why I have breasts – it’s because I’m strong. Let these boys say what they want.’

Shah Mahmoud thought for a moment and then said, ‘Of course, it’s because you’re so strong and you have a gun too!’ With that he laughed, said goodbye to Bakhtawara and ran into school.

Being called names by adults as well as children in the village was something Bakhtawara had got used to since she was a teenager. In those days Bakhtawara had genuinely believed she was male. She would wear boy’s clothes, play with boys and tease girls. She had a large dog, which she trained for dog fights. She could even beat the other boys in most of the games. One particular game involved holding the left leg with one hand and then fighting another person doing the same thing. The first one to fall down was the loser. If a boy or girl had called her names in those days she would beat them up.

When Shah Mahmoud asked her if she was a man or a woman Bakhtawara was reminded of the day she reached puberty. When Bakhtawara was born, her family only had one older son – her brother – and after her birth, two other babies were born which didn’t survive. Bakhtawara’s parents owned a lot of land in the village which they were anxious to protect. They were worried that with just one son they would not be able to survive in a tough tribal land like Gurbuz. Jealous cousins and others around them might take advantage.

Finally, after two stillbirths, Bakhtawara’s mother gave birth to a daughter. Her father was worried about only having one son but an idea came to him. When Bakhtawara was three years old she started being brought up as a boy. This meant the family now had the security of two
sons and one daughter, instead of one son and two daughters. Her parents didn’t stop to consider what harm this might do to their child, they just started to treat her as their second son. Bakhtawara was dressed as a boy and taken to the men’s gatherings. She had her hair cut short and wore male
shalwar kamiz
. She would play with her brother and everyone in the family treated her as a boy. At Eid she would get new clothes just like her brother; her father taught her to use his old gun; she was never expected to wash dishes or cook with her mother and sister; instead she attended
jirgas
with her father. She was respected as a boy but no one ever thought to tell her what changes to expect in her body.

When Bakhtawara’s brother was sixteen years old and she was ten, he was sent to Dubai to work. Now Bakhtawara was the second man in the house. After her brother had been away for a few years, and as her parents were starting to get older and frailer, Bakhtawara began to feel the burden of responsibility on her shoulders. It was also at this time that she began to develop a woman’s body. One morning as she was washing, Bakhtawara noticed that her breasts felt swollen and were getting larger. She was frightened and ran into her room. She tore up an old white scarf and tied it tightly around her chest. She took her father’s waistcoat and wore it over her
shalwar kamiz
to conceal her changing body. She had no idea why this was happening to her. Before long, her elderly parents’ health began to fail, so her father decided to give her part of the land. Her brother had married a girl in the village and returned to Dubai for work and her sister was now married. It left Bakhtawara with all the responsibility of looking after her parents. As her father’s health worsened he called her to his bedside.

‘My child, my life is near its end. You’re still very young but I want to hand you your responsibilities.’

‘Father, I’m your son; it doesn’t matter if I’m young or old, I’m ready to take on my duties.’

Bakhtawara’s father put his hand on her head and said, ‘You must take care of your sister-in-law; she’s the young bride of our house. Her husband is away and I don’t want anyone to start gossiping about her.’

He asked her to fetch him his gun and bullet belt. When she brought them to him, he asked her to stand. He put the belt around her waist and handed her the gun. ‘From now on, my child, this belongs to you.’

Bakhtawara understood this gesture. In Afghan culture when a gun is handed to you it means the whole pride and dignity of the family now rests in your hands.

‘If you look after the family well,’ her father said, ‘our honour will remain and you will keep my name alive.’

Bakhtawara promised her father that she would look after every member of the family, just as he had done. She would do as she had learnt from him and follow in his steps. She would protect and uphold the dignity of the family, just as he had done.

Bakhtawara stopped thinking about her childhood when she reached the house of Malik, the head of the village. She entered the house, took off her sandals, and the male villagers all greeted her. In Afghan villages everyone knows about everyone else. All the adults would have known about Bakhtawara’s life and identity, and known and accepted how she had been brought up as a boy. She was respected for fulfilling her parents’ wishes and taking on the responsibility of the head of the family. Her name became a byword for strength in the village and she was upheld as a role model.

Bakhtawara sat on one of the
charpoies
. Khan Mohammad and his brother – the two men at the centre of the dispute – sat opposite each other.

Malik opened the
jirga
: ‘In the name of Allah, the
jirga
is resumed,’ he said.

Then he began to explain to Khan Mohammad’s brother why everyone in the room believed the brothers’ house should be divided equally between them.

Bakhtawara interrupted and said, ‘Malik saab, I agree that the two brothers should do as our religion dictates, and inherit an equal share of what their father left. However, we should also consider the work that Khan Jan’s family has already put into the building, and compensate him for this.’

Many of the men who were present in the
jirga
agreed with
Hajiani
Bakhtawara’s suggestion. The
jirga
therefore ruled that Khan Mohammad should pay a sum of sixty thousand rupees to his older brother to build another room for his larger family, and Khan Jan agreed to abide by the
jirga
’s decision.

The deal was sealed with green tea and sweets. There was relief that the
jirga
, which had already lasted for several days, had come to an easy and amicable solution, and Bakhtawara was praised for her leading role and for her fair treatment of both brothers.

It was harvest time and Bakhtawara was anxious to get back to her farm, and asked Malik if she could be excused to leave after tea. Before she left, Khan Mohammad invited her and the other elders to dinner to show his gratitude and respect for the
jirga
’s decision. Bakhtawara accepted the invitation, shook hands with all the elders and headed back to the fields.

She chatted with one of the other elders whom she had agreed to share the farm work with as they made their way back to their farms. Once she reached her land she removed her turban and gun and hung them on the branches of a tree. She rolled up her
shalwar
to her knees and set to work. Bakhtawara didn’t acknowledge her tiredness; she just continued to dig in the hot sun. She wanted to do some work on the land before her nephew brought her lunch. She ignored her hunger and thirst as she tried to make the land softer for further cultivation. She took the
bailcha
(spade) She took the bail and drove it deeper into the ground. With every push she panted and sweated. Bakhtawara was proud that she could work as hard as any man. Her sister-in-law and nephews and nieces all respected her efforts, but her brother who was working in Dubai wanted to spare his sister this exhausting work. He promised her that once he had made a lot of money he would hire a farmer to look after their land so that Bakhtawara would not have to do it. But Bakhtawara had insisted that she wanted to work and that it was important for her to keep her promise to her father to look after the family for as long as she could.