Shereenjan’s Story
She spoke in a shaky voice, her hands were rough and calloused and her face was lined with wrinkles. Each line told the story of her life, and, as Shereenjan herself said, her whole body showed what sort of life she had led.
She was sitting in front of me with her legs tucked round to one side, her large scarf partly draped on the floor. On her feet she wore the plastic shoes older people in Afghanistan so often wear, and her brown dress and shalwar were faded. I first met Shereenjan in the summer of 2006 when I was on a work trip to Afghanistan. She lived in the outskirts of Kabul near my grandparents and uncles. I usually spend a day or two with my grandparents and the rest of the family – who all live in one big house – when I visit Kabul, and was one day chatting to my uncle’s wife about the life stories on Afghan Woman’s Hour when she mentioned Shereenjan. I was intrigued by what I heard and asked my uncle’s wife to introduce me to her. I wanted to see if I could persuade her to tell us her story.
When I met her, Sheerenjan said, ‘Look, my child, if I tell you my story in detail, you’ll have to bring twenty cassettes with you. It’s a very long story and most people won’t actually believe what has happened to me.’ At this she laughed. ‘As you can see I’m alive and well, but I do sometimes wonder how I’ve survived everything that’s happened to me.’
I told Shereenjan I would love to hear her story, even if it meant returning with twenty cassettes, and I left her house pleased at having found someone whose life story would relate old Afghan traditions. Back in my room at the BBC guesthouse I lay on my bed and rested, until suddenly my mobile phone rang. It was my mother calling from England, and I was happy to hear from her. She told me that one of our relatives who lived in Pakistan needed some money to help pay for her wedding, so I took the relative’s phone number and promised my mother I would get in touch. That night I slept badly – I couldn’t get Shereenjan out of my mind and was really excited about recording her story. In fact, the UN Human Rights Commission says there are hundreds of women in the remote corners of Afghanistan whose terrible stories are never heard, but at least Shereenjan could finally tell hers.
Another phone call woke me early the next morning. I heard a nervous female voice speaking Pashtu but didn’t recognise it, and asked who it was. The woman on the phone said she was Pana’s auntie, and began crying. I realised that Pana and her auntie were the relatives my mother had wanted me to get in touch with about money for a wedding. I remembered Pana’s mother from childhood memories of when I lived in Kabul. She would often come to our house and, because she was family, would sometimes stay the night, but when the war broke out she had gone to live with her parents in Pakistan. She’d got married, had a boy and a girl, but tragically died when her daughter was only two months old, leaving both her children to be looked after by their grandparents. The grandfather was a traditional village man who believed in following old customs, one of which was the practice of using women to settle disputes, known as dukhmany.
I asked the auntie how Pana was, remembering how, after her mother died, my family and I had been very concerned about her, for she was still very young. Her auntie said she was well but that since she was only a child she didn’t know what was happening to her. She then told me she was in a hurry and couldn’t chat for long.
‘Zari dear, I just called really to say that Pana is getting married and we need money to buy her some clothes and a few other things. It would be nice if you could help us out.’
I was surprised to hear that Pana was going to be married, since, according to my calculations, she was only eleven years old. I agreed to send some money, but asked why Pana was getting married. There was no answer to my question as the phone line suddenly went dead. I was shocked by what I’d heard but still wanted to help them out.
It’s not unusual for girls in Afghanistan to be married at the age of twelve or thirteen, regardless of their ethnic background or whether they come from rich or poor families. When an Afghan girl reaches puberty her parents begin to worry if no one has yet asked for her hand, and girls are often married when they are far too young to cope with the physical and mental demands of marriage. They are still children who should be living with their mothers – rather than becoming mothers themselves – and tend to be completely ignorant about sex and childbirth, as a well brought-up girl is not expected to know anything about such matters. So as soon as a girl starts her monthly period, plans for her future married life are put in train: a husband is chosen and new clothes are bought. Overnight her life changes for ever as she goes from being a carefree schoolgirl to a dutiful daughter-in-law and wife who must look after her husband. That said, pleasing her in-laws is just as important as keeping her husband happy; some wives have told me how they’ve been humiliated if they’ve failed to cook a suitably lavish meal for the whole family.
The legal position on whether a child should be used to settle a dispute is clear: a girl must not get married unless she is sixteen years of age. But in villages where tribal traditions prevail, many families are not aware of the law. If such an arrangement is officially reported it might go to court and be formally dealt with, but if it is a poor, homeless woman who tries to file a complaint, she may find herself being unfairly judged by the police and thereby make herself yet more vulnerable. Terrible things have happened to those women whose cases did get to court. In fact, it’s very hard to find a case that has actually been handled in accordance with the law, so most of these marriages simply go unreported.
After talking to a number of human rights and feminist activists I discovered that many premature and forced marriages are arranged as a way of solving a family dispute or problem. Sometimes daughters are exchanged to enable the son of the family to marry, and sometimes disputes are settled by giving a girl away. No matter that the Afghan constitution, which is based on sharia law, says it is illegal. Sadly the government and courts have little power to intervene in such cases, and according to the Ministry of Women’s Affairs in Afghanistan, and various non-governmental organisations, approximately 57 per cent of Afghan girls marry before the age of sixteen (though the circumstances of these marriages do vary).
One particular memory stands out. In 2007 in Kabul I met some family relatives who were very poor. The two older sons were doing building work to earn money, and the two young daughters had just reached puberty. The mother complained to me that her sons and husband struggled to provide enough for the whole family. Then the elder of the two daughters, who seemed very bright, asked me if I had finished school. I told her I had. Then in front of her mother, she told me that she and her sister were no longer allowed to go to school because they were ‘becoming young’ (by this she meant reaching puberty), before going to fetch her schoolbooks and showing me how she had been awarded top marks.
I asked the mother why she’d taken her daughters out of school and tried to explain how important it was for them to have an education, and she replied, ‘It’s just not important as these two girls are going to be given in exchange for my sons. Their brothers have been working hard all their lives to provide for us, and now that they are of a marrying age, the girls can pay them back.’
I asked her what she meant.
‘We’re very poor – too poor to be able to secure brides for our sons – so we’ll use our daughters and exchange them as daughters-in-law. In any case, it is better that they stay at home because it’s seen as shameful for a young girl to go out by herself. What would other people say? They wouldn’t want to marry into our family if they thought we were too liberal.’
One of the daughters looked at me and began to cry. ‘You heard what my mother said; I’m to be given in exchange for my older brother. She says I’m to be married into whichever family is prepared to give my brother a wife.’
I realised I wasn’t going to be able to persuade the mother to change her mind. As I prepared to leave, the eldest daughter implored me with her eyes to save her, but there was nothing I could do.
<
br /> Shereenjan lived in a neighbourhood of narrow streets and tightly packed buildings on the outskirts of Kabul. When I went to interview her the driver and I had difficulty finding her house. It was a hot and sunny day and I had my recording equipment in a simple plastic shopping bag. I clutched it tightly as I stood outside Shereenjan’s house and knocked at the door, trying to focus on the task in hand while my mind kept drifting back to Pana and how she was going to get married when she was only eleven years old.
Shereenjan’s two grandsons answered the door. I told them my name and that I had come to visit their granny and they smiled shyly. One shouted that the woman from the office had arrived and then they both ran away giggling. I went into the house and was greeted by several women who directed me to Shereenjan’s room, which was across a courtyard. At the far side of the yard, I could see Shereenjan. She had a stick in her hand and was beating a donkey and it brayed loudly while Shereenjan shouted and cursed, ‘You useless, lazy donkey, if I don’t beat you, you don’t move.’
Shereenjan then called for Khudai Dad, one of her grandsons, and told him to take the donkey to fetch wood for the household. Khudai Dad ran to her, took the stick and began beating the donkey himself. Shereenjan was wearing the same clothes as when I’d last seen her: baggy, old trousers and a long dress. She greeted me and kissed me on my forehead, as is the custom for older Afghan women with younger women, and invited me to sit by her. Her room was shaded and dark but it still felt hot and humid, and when I sat next to Shereenjan on a thin mattress, it felt damp and oddly cold. I took out my recording machine and plugged in the microphone, and at the sight of it Shereenjan laughed.
‘I’m scared I might cough or sneeze. I’ve never heard my voice recorded. I don’t know what to do and I want my voice to sound good, even though my story is sad!’ I reassured her that it wouldn’t matter if she coughed or sneezed, as I could edit out any unnecessary noises, and told her to relax and just talk normally. Shereenjan giggled like a schoolgirl, and pointed to the microphone and asked if it could also take her photo. I replied that it could only record her voice and that for radio we wouldn’t need her photo. She sounded so cheerful and normal as she settled down for the interview that I really didn’t expect what I was about to hear.
Everything started to go wrong when my father married a second wife. He’d had an argument with another family and wanted to settle it so he paid them a lot of money, but they wanted more. But the disagreement was far more serious than money could settle, as my father had argued about land and the distribution of water in the village and had ended up killing one of their family members. As a result, my father lived in constant fear, and my mother and stepmother seemed worried all the time. Even though I was only a child of nine or ten years old, I knew there was something seriously wrong. Every day men would arrive at our house and intense discussions would take place. I used to carry the water jugs so our guests could wash their hands. I had no clue what everyone was talking about, nor was I that interested either; I just wanted to finish handing out the soap and towels so I could get back to playing with my friends. One day I filled the koza (water jug) and took it with the lagan (bowl) to the guest room. One of the guests, who was like an uncle to me, looked closely at me as I poured water over his hands. He then said to my father, ‘You know, Jabar Khan, there is another way to solve this dispute. We could use Shereenjan.’
I looked at my uncle and smiled at the mention of my name; I had no idea what he meant. I giggled and left the room, thinking that he was perhaps praising me for carrying out my duties so well. Of course I now know just what he meant, and these days whenever I think about that man, I have nothing but contempt for him. He put the idea into my father’s head, and I sometimes think it would never have happened if it hadn’t been for him.
My nightmare began on a lovely sunny day when I wanted to be out playing with my friends. My mother called me into the house and told me to get ready because we were going to a wedding ceremony. I told her I didn’t want to go but she handed me my new pink shalwar kamiz. She had made it especially for Eid and I had only worn it once. She tried to comb my hair, but it was sticky and greasy because I hadn’t washed it for a while. When I was a little girl, I used to run around like a boy, getting dirty and into all sorts of scrapes, and I didn’t much care for washing or looking tidy. I could see tears in my mother’s eyes as she struggled to pull the comb through my hair and asked her why she was crying. She said she was sad because I was leaving, so I hugged her and said I didn’t want to go to the wedding and would stay behind with her. But she pushed some sweets into my hand and said I had to go to the wedding with my grandmother and two other women. My grandmother held my hand tightly as we walked there, and I asked, ‘Grandma, why are you not wearing new clothes for the wedding?’ She told me there was no need and that I should stop asking so many questions. I could see she was upset too. When we got to the house where the wedding was to take place I was surprised to find there was no music or food.
‘Grandma, what sort of wedding is this?’ I asked. ‘There’s no music or food. It’s stupid. I want to go home and play with Laila and Bassmeena.’
My grandmother now became agitated and got angry with me, saying that this was how some weddings were and that I wasn’t allowed to leave.
After a while my grandmother and the other two women got up to leave, and I got up to go with them but was told to stay where I was. I started crying, shouting that I wanted to go with my family, and even tried to cling on to my grandmother’s dress but she pushed me away saying, ‘You are this family’s property now.’ I didn’t understand what she meant and screamed at being left behind, but no one took any notice. And so began my new life in a house full of strangers.
I was put in a room that I had to share with animals, and I was too small to reach the lock of the door; I had to use a bale of straw to stand on. But when I peered through the keyhole, I discovered they had locked me in. After a few minutes somebody brought me some food, but when I refused to eat it eventually they gave it to the dog. One of the men, now my brother-in-law, said to everyone, ‘Don’t give her any food. Just show it to her. That’s as close as she’ll come to enjoying the wedding feast. This is her welcome to our family, a family that was torn apart when her father killed my brother.’
At first, I didn’t understand why they all hated me quite so much. I was scared of everyone. Men, women and children would beat me whenever they felt like it and my life was no better than that of a dog. In fact, it was worse. Only Allah knows what I went through. Soon, though, I realised that I had been taken from my family so that this family could take their revenge, and at the age of nine I started to understand what dukhmany was.
The younger family members would tell the elders that they were looking after me, but in reality I was eating scraps of food left by the dogs, and as the days passed I got weaker and weaker. I missed my family and my friends terribly, and was hungry and miserable. Then one day my grandmother gave a neighbour who was visiting the house some meat wrapped in bread for me. This woman knew all about the terrible conditions I was living in and asked to see me and then slipped me the food. I ate it ravenously, swallowing it as fast as I could, but one of the children spotted me and called out, ‘Hey, the waste of space is eating meat. Come and look!’ My mother-in-law rushed in and snatched the food out of my hand and told the neighbour off for giving it to me. Although I didn’t manage to finish it all, the two or three bites I’d had tasted good.
Of course at this stage I didn’t know this woman was my mother-in-law. All I knew was that she was cruel; cruel enough to take the food from me and give it to the dog. I wanted to beat the dog but I couldn’t, as they would just have beaten me. All I could do was cry. Do you know, my child, they didn’t even let me sleep.
I could scarcely believe what I was hearing. How could one person have suffered so much? I told Shereenjan how brave she was, and that her story was extraordinary. She continued.
One day, I
was locked in my room, when I heard a man shouting loudly, ‘Where’s the knife?’ At this, my heart started beating faster and my legs began to shake; I thought they were going to come and kill me. My brother-in-law used to taunt me by saying one day he would kill me so that my father would know how it feels to lose someone. I stood behind the door, too scared to move, and waited for someone to bring the man his knife. Then I heard one of the boys saying they couldn’t find the hen. I was so relieved. The knife was to kill the chicken, not me. Gradually, I calmed down but from then on I would often be afraid that at any time they might come for me.
On a different occasion my in-laws brought wet sticks and wood and put them in my room. I thought they were going to use them to beat me with, but later realised they were just being stored there and they were for the sheep. This is how it is when you are beaten daily. You can’t think straight and become paranoid. Nobody was kind to me. Not my own family and certainly not my in-laws; they were my enemies.
Dear Zari: Hidden Stories from Women of Afghanistan Page 8
