Once a girl in my homeland was a lovely friend. But those were bitter days. From the thirteenth spring, her life was passed. She was like the bird in the sky without feathers. She didn’t know in time how they would hunt her and hurt her. Frishta was someone to hurt. Like a broken bird, her father sold her for money to marry an old man. Frishta hated the sight of him. She couldn’t get used to her husband, so he beat her. With a hungry stomach and a soul in rags, she spent the days and nights. One night she broke away in the midnight, ran into the street, and with her hands, she stopped a car.
With his eyes the driver of car looked at her. He worried and went on, but after some time, he came and stopped and invited Frishta inside of his car. Like the pack animals, he abused her, and like the used-up thing, left her in life’s playground. Frishta didn’t know where she should go or what she should do. She didn’t know, so she walked alongside the cars on the street, and when she neared Kabul, the police followed her. She was arrested by them and sent to Kabul city. Everyone looked at her like she was a killer or thief, but she was only a child counting the days and seconds she spent in jail. Her term ended, and she came out from the prison, alone, without anyone.
She went to her father’s house. He said “Get out from this home !” That home, where she was born and became a young girl. He said “This isn’t your place. Go! Go! Go.” That father who sold her to an old man. They used her life as their game and hobby for themselves, for money, and they said to her “You are a stigma, Frishta. Move and go!” She went. Where she went no one knew! She is gone. And there is no word of her.
By Fariha F.
Photo: REUTERS/ Omar Sobhani