Read Online Dear Zari: Hidden Stories from Women of Afghanistan by Zarghuna Kargar - Free Book Online
Authors: Zarghuna Kargar
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have.’
I remember we were sitting in the corner of our college grounds, under the shade of a small tree. We would often sit there and chat. I wiped away the tears from Sharifa’s face with my scarf and tried to reason with her that it wasn’t anyone’s fault that she didn’t have a brother, or her mother a son. These things were in God’s hands, and there was no point in getting so upset about it as life has to go on. But Sharifa insisted that she personally was being blamed for the situation, ‘My grandmother says it’s my fault. I was the firstborn daughter and therefore all the other girls followed me. I brought bad luck on the family.’
I desperately wanted to do something to help Sharifa, but the bell went and we had to go to our next class. Sharifa dried her eyes and tidied up her hijab while I wiped the dust off my trousers. But after that conversation, I couldn’t stop thinking about Sharifa, and prayed that her mother would have a baby boy.
Weeks passed, and school broke up for the holidays. A month later the new school term started and I saw Sharifa again. We hugged each other and met in breaktime under our usual tree. I couldn’t wait to hear her news; I wanted to know what clothes she’d made, what earrings she had bought and where she had been during the holidays. ‘Zarghuna, I’m so happy. I think our life is finally going to change for the better. My mother is pregnant again and we’re all hoping that this time she’ll give birth to a boy.’ I promised to pray for the outcome they longed for, but then suddenly she became very emotional. She looked down at that dusty floor and then up at me, before saying quietly, ‘Zarghuna, I really hope God will be kind to my mother this time. I so hope she gives birth to a boy, because if she doesn’t something terrible is going to happen’.
I looked at her for a few moments before asking what she meant. Shelooked down and then up at me again, and said, ‘My father is planning to get married again, and the marriage will be in exchange for me.’
I was horrified. ‘No, that can’t be right. He can’t do that!’
But Sharifa said simply, ‘If he does decide to take a new wife in exchange for me, I think I will die.’ Her words filled me with dread. Even at our young age, I knew she was contemplating suicide. We’d both heard of girls who had set fire to themselves to avoid arranged marriages; it was the last resort for those who feel trapped.
Sharifa took a deep breath and continued, ‘He has even chosen a girl who is the same age as me. In exchange for her, my father will give me to the other family’s son.’
‘You can’t just accept this,’ I said crossly, and reassured myself with the thought that nothing definite had been decided because Sharifa’s mother’s pregnancy still had some months to go, and she might yet give birth to a boy.
‘God will be kind,’ I said. ‘He will give your mother a son.’ Sharifa agreed and tried to be cheerful.
Several months later Sharifa and her sisters were busy choosing names for the brother they so longed for and – as was the custom amongst the Afghan refugees in Pakistan – my mother and I went to visit the family (as it was usual for mothers to befriend the mothers of their daughter’s friends). We arrived to find Sharifa’s family all getting very excited in anticipation of what they hoped would be the arrival of a baby boy, and both my mother and I prayed that this time God would indeed give them a son.
We sat in Sharifa’s house in a small dark room with Afghan mattresses positioned by the walls and a traditional red Afghan carpet in the middle. The weather was unseasonably hot, so Sharifa served Roh Afza , a sweet juice that smells of perfume and is famous in Pakistan for its sugariness. As we sat drinking the juice, I could see how confident and hopeful Sharifa’s mother was in her heavily pregnant state, and was pleased to see the family so happy. It was one of the most
I remember we were sitting in the corner of our college grounds, under the shade of a small tree. We would often sit there and chat. I wiped away the tears from Sharifa’s face with my scarf and tried to reason with her that it wasn’t anyone’s fault that she didn’t have a brother, or her mother a son. These things were in God’s hands, and there was no point in getting so upset about it as life has to go on. But Sharifa insisted that she personally was being blamed for the situation, ‘My grandmother says it’s my fault. I was the firstborn daughter and therefore all the other girls followed me. I brought bad luck on the family.’
I desperately wanted to do something to help Sharifa, but the bell went and we had to go to our next class. Sharifa dried her eyes and tidied up her hijab while I wiped the dust off my trousers. But after that conversation, I couldn’t stop thinking about Sharifa, and prayed that her mother would have a baby boy.
Weeks passed, and school broke up for the holidays. A month later the new school term started and I saw Sharifa again. We hugged each other and met in breaktime under our usual tree. I couldn’t wait to hear her news; I wanted to know what clothes she’d made, what earrings she had bought and where she had been during the holidays. ‘Zarghuna, I’m so happy. I think our life is finally going to change for the better. My mother is pregnant again and we’re all hoping that this time she’ll give birth to a boy.’ I promised to pray for the outcome they longed for, but then suddenly she became very emotional. She looked down at that dusty floor and then up at me, before saying quietly, ‘Zarghuna, I really hope God will be kind to my mother this time. I so hope she gives birth to a boy, because if she doesn’t something terrible is going to happen’.
I looked at her for a few moments before asking what she meant. Shelooked down and then up at me again, and said, ‘My father is planning to get married again, and the marriage will be in exchange for me.’
I was horrified. ‘No, that can’t be right. He can’t do that!’
But Sharifa said simply, ‘If he does decide to take a new wife in exchange for me, I think I will die.’ Her words filled me with dread. Even at our young age, I knew she was contemplating suicide. We’d both heard of girls who had set fire to themselves to avoid arranged marriages; it was the last resort for those who feel trapped.
Sharifa took a deep breath and continued, ‘He has even chosen a girl who is the same age as me. In exchange for her, my father will give me to the other family’s son.’
‘You can’t just accept this,’ I said crossly, and reassured myself with the thought that nothing definite had been decided because Sharifa’s mother’s pregnancy still had some months to go, and she might yet give birth to a boy.
‘God will be kind,’ I said. ‘He will give your mother a son.’ Sharifa agreed and tried to be cheerful.
Several months later Sharifa and her sisters were busy choosing names for the brother they so longed for and – as was the custom amongst the Afghan refugees in Pakistan – my mother and I went to visit the family (as it was usual for mothers to befriend the mothers of their daughter’s friends). We arrived to find Sharifa’s family all getting very excited in anticipation of what they hoped would be the arrival of a baby boy, and both my mother and I prayed that this time God would indeed give them a son.
We sat in Sharifa’s house in a small dark room with Afghan mattresses positioned by the walls and a traditional red Afghan carpet in the middle. The weather was unseasonably hot, so Sharifa served Roh Afza , a sweet juice that smells of perfume and is famous in Pakistan for its sugariness. As we sat drinking the juice, I could see how confident and hopeful Sharifa’s mother was in her heavily pregnant state, and was pleased to see the family so happy. It was one of the most
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