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Authors: Jenny Nordberg
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offer of marriage for his eldest daughter. It came from one of his nephews and was delivered by his widowed sister-in-law. Marriage between first cousins is both favored and common in Afghanistan, as a way to keep property and other assets within the extended family. Most important, such marriages are thought to strengthen family bonds by avoiding dilution by outside blood.
Azita had been regularly targeted for marriage by both relatives and sons of entirely unknown families since the family had settled in Badghis. She did not give it much thought; in her mind, people had no way of knowing she just wasn’t available on the Badghis bride market. At least not yet. She was on a different track—in Badghis, sheconsidered herself merely on hiatus from the rest of her life. Several of her classmates in Kabul had nurtured forbidden fantasies about marrying for love and having fairy-tale wedding parties. But Azita had remained fairly oblivious of the idea throughout her teenage years. If anything, she had been guilty of pride and raw ambition. In her staked-out immediate future, there was no time for boys. She had never even met those who proposed marriage in Badghis—they were received by her parents, who had a stock answer for anyone who came asking for their daughter: “She is going to be educated, and we don’t want to waste her talent.” And certainly not on an illiterate farmer like her cousin—to Azita, that was almost too obvious.
S HE WAS UNPREPARED for the conversation she overheard one evening. Mourtaza was angry again. He had been fooling himself that Kabul would return to normal any time soon, he told his wife. It put him in an impossible situation. He could not maintain the family with just their ten-year-old son. If Azita had been a boy, she heard him say, it would have been different. The family would have been stronger and more respected. Azita’s younger sisters only added to the difficulty, and made Mourtaza weak, with a weak family, exposing him to threats from outsiders and with few prospects for future income.
For nineteen years, Azita had hoped her father was not angry she had been born a girl. But it was what he said next that took her breath away. He had changed his mind about the initial proposal from Azita’s cousin. Mourtaza would accept it. Azita was to be married.
Her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor.
It would solve their problems, Mourtaza continued. Marrying his daughter to a relative would tie another adult male to his family and carry them all through these hard times. It would ensure the safety of both Azita and her younger sisters: If the eldest was married, at least, it showed his resolve to others; that he had a plan for his daughters. She must agree, he said to his wife, that it was better to have Azita safely married to a man they knew than to risk the family’s future.
But Azita’s mother, Siddiqua, did not remotely agree. She begged her husband to change his mind. She even raised her voice to him. It would not be a good marriage, she said. What would become of their daughter if she married into an illiterate family from the village? The argument escalated into a fight, and Mourtaza threatened to leave Siddiqua if she did not support him. His decision stood firm, and he demanded that she bring Azita the news. It is how it should be done, he told her: It is a mother’s task to tell a daughter she is to marry and who her parents have chosen for her.
When Siddiqua came to her daughter the next day, she began by asking her forgiveness. She had lost the battle, she said. She cried as she told Azita that she would soon be a wife. After more than two decades with Mourtaza, she could not go against him but had to keep the family together. Siddiqua bowed her head in sorrow before her daughter, pleading that she would honor her parents’ decision.
“This is your destiny,” she told her daughter. “You must accept it.”
Azita rebelled as best she could. She screamed. She
Azita had been regularly targeted for marriage by both relatives and sons of entirely unknown families since the family had settled in Badghis. She did not give it much thought; in her mind, people had no way of knowing she just wasn’t available on the Badghis bride market. At least not yet. She was on a different track—in Badghis, sheconsidered herself merely on hiatus from the rest of her life. Several of her classmates in Kabul had nurtured forbidden fantasies about marrying for love and having fairy-tale wedding parties. But Azita had remained fairly oblivious of the idea throughout her teenage years. If anything, she had been guilty of pride and raw ambition. In her staked-out immediate future, there was no time for boys. She had never even met those who proposed marriage in Badghis—they were received by her parents, who had a stock answer for anyone who came asking for their daughter: “She is going to be educated, and we don’t want to waste her talent.” And certainly not on an illiterate farmer like her cousin—to Azita, that was almost too obvious.
S HE WAS UNPREPARED for the conversation she overheard one evening. Mourtaza was angry again. He had been fooling himself that Kabul would return to normal any time soon, he told his wife. It put him in an impossible situation. He could not maintain the family with just their ten-year-old son. If Azita had been a boy, she heard him say, it would have been different. The family would have been stronger and more respected. Azita’s younger sisters only added to the difficulty, and made Mourtaza weak, with a weak family, exposing him to threats from outsiders and with few prospects for future income.
For nineteen years, Azita had hoped her father was not angry she had been born a girl. But it was what he said next that took her breath away. He had changed his mind about the initial proposal from Azita’s cousin. Mourtaza would accept it. Azita was to be married.
Her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor.
It would solve their problems, Mourtaza continued. Marrying his daughter to a relative would tie another adult male to his family and carry them all through these hard times. It would ensure the safety of both Azita and her younger sisters: If the eldest was married, at least, it showed his resolve to others; that he had a plan for his daughters. She must agree, he said to his wife, that it was better to have Azita safely married to a man they knew than to risk the family’s future.
But Azita’s mother, Siddiqua, did not remotely agree. She begged her husband to change his mind. She even raised her voice to him. It would not be a good marriage, she said. What would become of their daughter if she married into an illiterate family from the village? The argument escalated into a fight, and Mourtaza threatened to leave Siddiqua if she did not support him. His decision stood firm, and he demanded that she bring Azita the news. It is how it should be done, he told her: It is a mother’s task to tell a daughter she is to marry and who her parents have chosen for her.
When Siddiqua came to her daughter the next day, she began by asking her forgiveness. She had lost the battle, she said. She cried as she told Azita that she would soon be a wife. After more than two decades with Mourtaza, she could not go against him but had to keep the family together. Siddiqua bowed her head in sorrow before her daughter, pleading that she would honor her parents’ decision.
“This is your destiny,” she told her daughter. “You must accept it.”
Azita rebelled as best she could. She screamed. She
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