Yesterday when I got out of my English class, I got on the bus to come home. There was an empty seat and I sat there, but after some minutes an old, weak woman got on the bus.
She was wearing a long, dark red dress. Her face was dark and wrinkled, her lips were dry, and she looked about 46 years old. She was carrying a child on her back. The girl looked about three years old and I assumed it was her granddaughter. I stood up and offered my seat to her and she thanked me.
When the person beside her got up to leave, the woman asked me to sit beside her. As I sat down, I asked her about the little girl. “Is she your granddaughter? She is pretty,” I said.
She said, “No, my dear. She is my daughter. She is two and half years old. Why do you think she is my granddaughter, my dear?”
She sounded as old as she looked, but her language was very kind, like my mother. I felt awkward having asked but after some minutes of silence she started telling me a story about herself, as if she understood the reason I asked her that question.
She looked out the window as she began to speak. “My name is Masum and I was born in a Khan family, the head of my village, 30 years ago.”
“All I remember is that my family hated me as evil hates an angel. I did not know the reason until one day my mother told me that when she was pregnant my father had wanted me to be a boy and was always telling people how his son will be like a king and will bring happiness to the village. But my birth ruined everything.”
She went on to describe how her father treated her. When she was four years old, she used to run to her father and say “Hi!” every day when he came home, but he would push her away or slap her on the face. It hurt and she would cry all night. But her grandmother told her that “every day is a new one.” She believed her, so she would start each day new, but the ends were always the same. She told me how her father thought of her as a shame to him. He did not let her go to school and she was not allowed to study at home.
She said, “I would hide somewhere to read the book that a neighbor boy had given to me and was teaching me while I went out for about three hours a day to take the sheep to the hills for pasture. His name was Namath, he was going to school and was teaching me everything he studied at school. When I was thirteen, I was able to read any passage.”
One day she was reading the book that Namath gave her on New Year’s Eve, a book his uncle brought from Kabul, and her father found her reading. He slapped her so hard that her head crashed against the wall and bled. He wanted to know who taught her to read, but she would not tell him. So he beat her and he locked her in the room for three days. Her mother fed her once a day.
“I did not stop reading the book,” she said. “For the next five years, I read the books that I hid somewhere. When I was 15, my family forced me to marry a 34–year-old man and when I refused, they locked me in a room with him for a whole day. He raped me and beat me; I screamed and wanted help, but it seemed like the entire world was dead; nobody came to help me.
“When they opened the door, the man left and then my auntie came and told me that if I accepted the wedding these things may not happen to me anymore. After that, I accepted the wedding. It has been 15 years and I am living with my husband in Zabul province.”
The woman had come to Kabul only for her father’s funeral. She told me she did not understand why she was punished all the time, even though her mother told her it was only because she is a woman. “My father left this world and me with all the disaster and pain in this world. I always wonder to myself if it is a sin to be a woman or a daughter or a wife.
“If it is so, it has to be a great one because I have been punished and have suffered a whole life with a pain that never diminishes but becomes greater.”
I could feel that she wanted to cry out loud, but instead she cries in her heart. This is how women have been treated, to never argue with what others decide for them. No matter what the cost is, they just keep doing what their grandfathers did. These traditions ruin many lives.
By Arifa, aged 15
This piece has also been published on Women’s eNews. Photo by Polar Lights.
Dear Arifa,
This is a heart-breaking story of deep, stupid cruelty. The real joke is that it is MEN who determine the sex of children. It is their sperm that ensures whether a baby will be a boy or a girl. And why did this poor woman’s mother allow her husband to mistreat her daughter?
The cruelty of men toward women could not persist if ALL women opposed such men. Women need to unite. Mothers need to protect daughters. Aunts need to protect their nieces, not allow rape and forced marriage. Mother-in-laws need to love and protect their daughter-in-laws.
You have written this story very well, but it breaks my heart that you, a young girl of fifteen, met this woman and reported her story. I hope that some good comes into her life and the life of her daughter. I hope that you go on to write many wonderful stories and help to change our world for the better.
Thank you Arifa for sharing that story with us. It is a very sad story, but I think that you helped the woman just by listening to her. She knew she could share her story with you and that you would understand. Just as you can share your stories, and know that we will understand. Simply knowing that someone is listening can help ease the burden…
Salaam
Philippa
Wow. Thank you so much for sharing that story. It’s a heartbreaking story that oddly is filled with so much strength. The courageous spirit of loving her father, believing that the next day would be different, despite the beatings. The love for education and reading–an escape from that difficult situation–is so powerful. I hope that others will read this story. I hope that you continue to write, because you are a strong writer. Thank you again.
The thought that that woman actually married the man who raped and beat her, apparently with the approval of her family, is nearly unbearable simply to read it. I cannot imagine living that life. I am sorry that her grandmother so badly misled her, as if every day there was the chance that her father would change. Perhaps the grandmother couldn’t protect her, but she should not have told her such a lie, either, even if she meant well. The woman’s love for reading and learning is truly awe inspiring.
Arifa, I wish you the best and hope that you are supported in your dreams.
What an amazing, heart-wrenching story. Thank you so much for sharing it.
It was amazing and it really made me cry:(
Dear Arifa: I am very proud of the way you’ve been writing and telling these very important stories. I read these passages, especially this one, and it’s hard for me not to consider them modern day slave narratives:
She said, “I would hide somewhere to read the book that a neighbor boy had given to me and was teaching me while I went out for about three hours a day to take the sheep to the hills for pasture. His name was Namath, he was going to school and was teaching me everything he studied at school. When I was thirteen, I was able to read any passage.”
One day she was reading the book that Namath gave her on New Year’s Eve, a book his uncle brought from Kabul, and her father found her reading. He slapped her so hard that her head crashed against the wall and bled. He wanted to know who taught her to read, but she would not tell him. So he beat her and he locked her in the room for three days. Her mother fed her once a day.
“I did not stop reading the book,” she said.
You are capturing the pain this woman experiences–the pain that only increases, not diminishes. And you are showing us the clear truth as to why she hurts so badly. There is so much power in what you’re doing. I pray for the women in your writings and I hope you will continue to document their stories.
Stacy