Dear Zari: Hidden Stories from Women of Afghanistan (36 page)

At around eleven o’clock she would return with her flock to her tent. Warishmeen would usually be up by then and would have made breakfast for himself and his two sons, saving some food for Ghutama. But on some occasions Ghutama would return to the tent and find she had to make breakfast for the whole family. After breakfast was finished, Ghutama would sew dresses for village girls. She used an old sewing
machine to make the golden lace for dresses for girls who were about to marry or who were attending a wedding party. She would sew until late in the afternoon when it was time to take the flock out again onto the hills. She would stay out until dusk, and then as it started to get dark she would once again lead the animals back to the tent. Warishmeen and his two sons would know when Ghutama was returning home from the sound of her jewellery.

The Afghan refugees in Shadalan camp did not live as close to each other as they did in other camps in Pakistan; yet even though their homes were spread out, these refugees still had a sense of community and of supporting each other during difficult times. There was a mosque where the men would go for prayers, and after prayers they would stay behind to chat. Warishmeen wasn’t that companionable and didn’t have many friends, but Ghutama’s popularity made up for his lack of sociability. Ghutama would maintain contact with people by being kind and helpful. She was good at numbers and counting money, which most of the women in the village found hard, and so she would help them make business deals with men. Men respected her for her bravery and her trading skills. Many boys in the village were desperate to find any excuse to talk to Ghutama. They wanted to gaze longingly at her beauty, but her confidence prevented them from showing her insufficient respect.

Ghutama’s excellent animal husbandry skills meant that her sheep produced lambs that she could sell at the local market; and her handicrafts were so popular that word quickly spread of her talents. Her crafts had an artistry and skill that only a daughter of the hills and deserts would know how to make; only someone well acquainted with nature could work with such purity and delicacy, people said. Some even paid in advance for Ghutama’s handicrafts. And what she couldn’t sell in the village, she would sell to a shopkeeper she knew in the main bazaar, or she would go with her father and sell her pieces of art there herself. With the money she earned Ghutama was able to care for her lazy father and her two younger brothers. Sometimes she would even help some of the poor refugees in the village. Ghutama didn’t hide her face like
the Afghan refugee women in the village would do. She did the same jobs as men, and that took her out into the village, into the hills and the market place.

One night a fierce storm hit Shadalan camp, the wind blew down their tent and tore the sheets, and the rain scattered their possessions. Ghutama woke to find their home damaged and their belongings in disarray. Warishmeen sat on a stone in the corner of their plot complaining to Ghutama. She knew her brothers were too young to do the heavy work of rebuilding the tent so she rolled up her sleeves and said to her father, ‘You just sit there and relax. I know it’s upsetting to see your home ruined, but I’ll see what I can do.’

Ghutama knew exactly what she was doing because she had helped her mother make the tent on numerous occasions before. She told her father to take the sheep and camels to the nearest grazing ground, while she set about mending and reconstructing the tent, which she managed to do by the end of the day.

When she wasn’t earning a living and caring for her family, Ghutama’s heart was also beating for a Kuchi man called Babray, for whom she had made a specially embroidered handkerchief. They would meet when she went to fetch water or when she took her animals to graze on the green hillsides, and would spend hours talking to one another, exchanging stories and jokes. It was a very pure and simple love.

However, Ghutama’s beauty had also been spotted by Malang, a young man who had just returned to the camp after several years working in Dubai. He had earned quite a sum of money in Dubai, and had come back to Shadalan camp to look for a bride. One day as Malang walked through the village’s green hillsides, he saw Ghutama and was immediately drawn to her beauty, her confidence and her love of life.

Malang’s family called on Warishmeen’s tent several times to ask for Ghutama’s hand, but Warishmeen knew that if he gave his daughter to Malang he would lose both the breadwinner and the carer of his household. He was also aware that his daughter was unlike other Afghan girls
in the village; she had the power to say who she wanted to marry and who she didn’t want to spend her life with.

When Ghutama refused to accept Malang as her husband, rumours started circulating about her – mostly spread by Malang’s friends. People gossiped about Babray and his relationship with Ghutama, and criticised Ghutama for rejecting a rich young man like Malang. So Malang tried to win over Warishmeen by offering him large amounts of money for his daughter. He finally persuaded him that if his daughter married a poor Kuchi she would leave her father without an income and he and his two sons would be left hungry and poor. He promised enough money for Warishmeen and his sons to secure their future.

One evening, those with tents near Ghutama and her father could hear raised and angry voices. Warishmeen had been convinced by what Malang had told him and was willing to give his daughter to him. Ghutama wanted nothing of it and shouted back at her father. Their noisy argument gave her a bad reputation in the village, and the next morning when Ghutama left the tent to take the animals out to graze, people gave her black looks, and some boys even shouted out after her, ‘Ghutama doesn’t want a rich husband, she wants a poor Kuchi man.’

Ghutama was upset by the change in people’s attitude towards her. That day she was quiet, she didn’t sing or smile and she didn’t touch her handicrafts. She knew a major decision was being made, one that would change her entire future, and it might go in her favour or against her. She decided to return home in the early evening even though she would have preferred to stay out on the hillside in the fresh air, alone with her thoughts. She knew she couldn’t stay out any longer or more gossip and bad looks would come her way. She was being judged for falling in love.

As Ghutama walked towards her tent, she recalled the time when she had had an argument with her mother about making a dress. Ghutama loved her sleeves to be big and wide but her mother would protest, saying it was not right for a young girl to show her arms. Ghutama remembered
the words her mother used to say when she was angry with her: ‘May you marry a village man.’ By this she meant: ‘I curse you to marry a man who lives in a house in a city.’ For Kuchis this was a terrible fate, as every Kuchi girl wanted to be free in the green hills with her family and animals and not tethered to a brick house. For the first time since her mother had died, Ghutama cried. It was as if her mother’s curse was coming true. She was afraid that her father would make her marry Malang – a city man with money. The thought of living in a city was like being sent to prison for Ghutama, but she was also thinking about the loss of her love, Babray.

That evening Warishmeen was so angry with his daughter that he wouldn’t speak to her. He made the boys eat separately from her and didn’t care whether she ate or not. Her father’s attitude just served to make Ghutama angrier still. She accused him of trying to blackmail her and said she would never marry Malang and that if he forced her then she would be forced to take a more drastic step. Warishmeen accused her of being selfish and said if she agreed to the marriage he and his two sons would have a better and happier life. Ghutama’s anger rose.

It was just before the call for evening prayers. As usual, Warishmeen didn’t go to the mosque. Ghutama was determined to resolve the issue. She left their tent and ran towards the mosque; as usual the sound of her jewellery rang out across the camp but she didn’t pay any heed to this. Warishmeen assumed Ghutama had run out to weep by herself. Ghutama ran and ran, each step faster and more urgent than the last. She wanted to reach the mosque before the evening prayers were finished. When she reached the mosque, she knew that almost every man in the village would be there, including the rich Malang and her love, Babray.

She stood in front of the mosque as the village men came out one by one after their evening prayers. Ghutama was still so angry she didn’t care what people thought or said about her. When she saw Babray among the other men, and with Malang not far behind, she walked up to him and stood in front of him. All the men were surprised to see Ghutama
in front of the mosque and stared at her. Had she gone mad to stand in front of a man and hold his arm? They were shocked by what was going on and waited to see what would happen next. Babray was also surprised and fearful.

‘Ghutama, what’s happening? What’s gone wrong? Why are you behaving so strangely?’

Malang watched Ghutama closely. He suspected she was here to tell Babray that she was leaving him, and that she would now accept his own proposal because of all the money he had offered her father. However, Ghutama’s words took everyone by surprise.

Taking Babray’s hand, she announced in a loud clear voice, ‘Babray, you are the love of my life and I want to be your wife.’

Then, still holding his hand tightly, she waited for his answer.

Babray was in shock but his love for Ghutama gave him the courage to speak.

‘I’d be happy to be your husband!’

The news spread rapidly that Ghutama, a Kuchi woman, had chosen a husband for herself. It was considered a massive taboo amongst all the tribes in Afghanistan. Malang accused Ghutama of being shameless and it wasn’t long before the gossip reached Warishmeen’s tent. When Ghutama returned, her father was at a loss for words and just stared at his daughter.

But Ghutama said, ‘Well, Father, if you had acted with more kindness and hadn’t forced my hand I needn’t have done this. Now according to our Kuchi and Pashtun culture no one can take me away from Babray. Tomorrow you are called to the mosque where the Mullah will make a decision about us.’

Warishmeen had no choice but to go to the mosque with Babray for the village meeting. According to Pashtun culture, once a woman calls on a man to be her husband, the man cannot leave her, so the
jirga
decided that Babray should become Ghutama’s husband. Ghutama was called in and the Mullah performed their
Nikkah
there and then.

Ghutama was the first young woman to choose her husband in
front of everyone. She was lucky because she called on a man who loved her and in the village she was very popular. At first Ghutama went to live with Babray but after a few weeks she persuaded him to move to her tent and live with her father and two younger brothers. So Babray and his old mother moved in with them and they began living as an extended family. She looked after the family and animals with Babray and eventually Warishmeen forgot how wounded he had felt. Ghutama and Babray were liked and respected in the village for being kind and helpful. Malang returned to Dubai to earn more money while Ghutama and her love lived a long and happy life in the village with their animals.

For a woman to go to a man’s house or to ask a man in public to marry him is considered a hugely shameful act. Such a woman brings dishonour to her family and that kind of dishonour never fades – if she has children, people will still remind them of how their mother once called on so and so. These women are shown no respect in the family unless they are fortunate enough to be loved by their husbands. It often happens to women and men who have a love affair like Ghutama. There are stories of widows who have called on their brothers-in-law or men they liked. It becomes the responsibility of the man because the man is involved in the affair. For an Afghan woman, having a love affair with a man is still a big taboo. Obviously in Ghutama’s case she didn’t care about what people said.

I’m not sure that I would be strong enough to take such a step. On the other hand, I do know that I’m not one of those Afghan women who would judge Ghutama or girls like her. So much has changed for me over the past few years since I divorced my husband. Sometimes I think about how much I enjoy the free spirit I have now – I really do appreciate it immensely. I believe this kind of freedom is the basic right of every human being, but you need confidence to achieve it. Some people, like Ghutama, are braver and can seek out what they want early in life; sometimes you need to learn how to gain your freedom and get
the confidence to speak out, thanks to the experiences you have gone through.

I spent more than three years married to Javed. During this time, I discovered I wasn’t the only one who had accepted family and cultural pressures and married an unwilling partner – Javed was in exactly the same position. We were like two birds who didn’t care for each other but had been put together in a cage. In Afghan culture, you brew up a revolution if you try to push against the system and force open your cage. One of us had to be brave and break down the door.

Even though I was very unhappy, the thought of divorce didn’t cross my mind. It wasn’t until I began working on the life stories section of Afghan Woman’s Hour that I realised I could break my silence. These stories gave me the confidence to start my own revolution. I decided I had to tell my family how unhappy I was in my marriage.

Initially I was a much-praised daughter-in-law. Javed’s family complimented me for accepting this marriage and for looking after Javed, even though he was lazy and clearly didn’t love me. But the moment I decided to leave him and he lost his right to live in my flat, they turned against me. I was cursed and called a prostitute. I felt very alone and abandoned by those closest to me, even by my own family. I was denied a family home and denied the right to call someone my mother or father.

The programme I worked on was blamed for turning me into a feminist. I was accused of being a shameless woman who didn’t care about the dignity of her family. No one asked me what I was feeling. Instead I was told to keep up appearances by taking Javed back and not bringing the shame of divorce on the family. I was told that a Pashtun woman should suffer in silence. No one in my family or my community supported me through my divorce. Islam says that the family is the base for society but if two people cannot make a happy family then divorce is agreed to be the final solution. But if being a Pashtun woman means being treated as a second-class citizen and not fighting for my rights, then I am no longer a Pashtun woman.