‘What’s happened, my child? Is Jabar all right?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s fine. It’s me who’s suffering and can’t live with this shame.’
We sat down on a bench in the yard. I told my mother what had happened and she began to cry. She asked me what I wanted to do now.
‘Mother, I’ve come to you. I want to leave him. I cannot live in a house that God doesn’t bless. Jabar is a dirty man. He’s having an un-Islamic relationship with a boy. I don’t want to be with a kuni.’
Then my mother burst out angrily. ‘Do you understand what leaving a husband means? Talaq (divorce)! You can never do that.’
‘What do you expect me to do, then? Live with a shameless man? Do you want your grandchildren to grow up in that kind of house?’
‘Keep your voice down, Anesa. Some things are better kept to yourself. Your sister-in-law is in the house and if she hears this she’ll spread the news to her family, then everyone will know your business. If you divorce you will not be allowed to keep your children, and they’ll be called the children of a kuni. What are you thinking? In our culture women are expected to die in the house where they are married.’
I realised my personal pain wasn’t so important to my mother or to my mother-in-law that they could disregard our customs or traditions. I had gone to them for help because I thought as women they would share my pain. Instead, they had told me to say nothing. I grabbed the children and left my mother’s home. She ran after me but I wouldn’t stop. I was angry with all of them: Jabar’s mother had used me as a camouflage for Jabar and his activities, my own mother wanted me to put the reputation of the family before my suffering and Jabar himself had betrayed me. All the people closest to me had let me down. I had no choice but to suffer in silence. I didn’t realise it at the time but it was the beginning of a new chapter in my life.
Jabar was still there when I got home. He laughed when he saw me. ‘I told you that keeping your mouth shut is the best thing for you and your children.’
I was crushed by the way he referred to the children as being mine. I was pregnant with my third child and felt totally helpless; I even wished God wasn’t giving me another baby. Looking into my sons’ eyes, I felt such sadness for them; they were so innocent.
When Jabar left the house I tried to decide what to do: whichever way I looked at it there seemed no way out for me. I could only do what countless other Afghan women do: I left it to the will of Allah.
Then, late one night, I heard the front door opening. I went to the window in my bedroom and saw Jabar coming into the house with his arm around another man. For a moment I forgot what I had been told about Jabar and was surprised to see him holding this man’s hand and talking to him with such apparent affection. He appeared to be introducing him to the house. Suddenly it dawned on me: this was Jabar’s lover. I ran out to the corridor, and stood in front of Jabar.
‘Please, for God’s sake, don’t pollute my house with your disgusting and degrading acts.’
The man and I recognised each other from the village. I said to him, ‘Don’t you have any shame? Get yourself a wife. You’re sleeping with my husband, with the father of my two children. Did you know he has two children and there’s another one growing in my womb? For the sake of my children, leave my husband.’
The man stared at me as if I had gone mad and then spoke in a thin, high-pitched voice. ‘Anesa, don’t you have any shame sleeping with my man?’
Now it was my turn to look stunned. How could a man say such things?
‘God is pouring his anger on you, don’t you understand?’ I told him. ‘Having sex with another man is prohibited. Where’s your respect for your culture and religion?’
At that Jabar marched across the room and slapped me hard.
‘Babrak is my lover. He has every right to be in this house. So if you want food and clothes for yourself and your children, you’d better learn to keep quiet. I’m sick and tired of living a double life, of lying all the time. I hate forcing myself to sleep with you, pretending to everyone that I’m your husband. I love Babrak and I want him to have all the things he deserves. It’s just as well you know what the situation is now – that my love is only for Babrak. At least now I won’t have to have sex with you any more.’
I wanted to die. I ran out and grabbed some matches and a bottle of petrol to pour over myself. Jabar and Babrak ignored me and went straight into our guest room. But right at that moment, a vision of my children came into my mind – only the thought of their innocence stopped me from taking my life. I began to weep, and wished I was still that young girl who didn’t know what I now knew. I sat in a corner of the corridor and remembered the sound of ankle bells that I’d heard on my wedding night. Now I understood why Jabar had not come to me that night and why he didn’t like to be around me. Now I saw why his mother had told me not to stay up for him and why he was always frustrated around me.
Months passed and I stopped going to my family home because I was getting bigger and bigger with the baby. Jabar brought expensive food and special meat, which he made me cook for him and Babrak. Despite being pregnant, I was only given food if Babrak was in a good mood. My children were gradually becoming his slaves; my eldest son had to clean his shoes and do whatever Babrak ordered him to do. I began to feel like just a cook and cleaner in my own home. This state of affairs showed me the worst of human nature.
After four months I gave birth to a baby girl. My mother came to look after me for a few days, and during this time Jabar didn’t come home at all – he didn’t take any notice of his daughter. When my mother left, he started coming back home with his boyfriend. They used to laugh and talk all night, having noisy sex in the next room.
I used to pray to God to take me out of this situation. I spent two years just living for the sake of saving his reputation. But slowly more people in the village came to realise the truth of the situation. My children would come home from school crying, telling me that their classmates had called their dad a kuni. Their friends wouldn’t play with them any more as they thought we were a family that didn’t obey Islam. They were told that if the Taliban were in power their father would have been executed. I knew that even with the new, more liberal Karzai government this sort of relationship wouldn’t be accepted. It wasn’t just the Taliban; no government in an Islamic country like Afghanistan would accept such a relationship. I felt helpless. I went to Jabar’s family and asked them to release me and the children but Jabar’s father warned me that if I left, the children would be taken from me.
My children’s fate depended on Babrak’s mood. If he was in a good mood he wouldn’t say much and would let us be, but my God, if he was angry with my children, especially my eldest son, who hated him, then he would tell Jabar and Jabar would beat the boy like an animal. We often went hungry because all the money was spent on Babrak. Jabar would buy new clothes and the best food for him. He bought him expensive shoes and would pay taxi fares for him when he went out. Meanwhile, the children and I got weaker and weaker. My babies wore old clothes and we had little to eat. We only got something when Babrak told Jabar to buy it. Otherwise, the children and I got no attention or kindness. My parents would sometimes buy things we needed. They saw how we were suffering and went to Jabar’s family to ask for justice but his family said I had to stay as his wife to protect him in the village.
‘If the villagers have proof that our son is a kuni, the mullahs will have him killed,’ they said. ‘At least while you and the children are with him, the rumours remain just gossip.’
My parents didn’t push the matter because they were also scared of the shame of divorce. When I questioned my rights I was told that under Islam my children could be taken away from me if I divorced, and yet when it came to my husband neglecting me and my children and sleeping with a man, Islam didn’t apply. Jabar’s parents were doing everything in their power to protect their son.
His mother pleaded with me: ‘Anesa, I beg you to keep him
safe. I’ll die if they kill my son.’
I was crying. ‘Why can’t you ask him to change?’
She told me it would be of no use as he had liked boys since childhood. They had married me to him because he never listened to them and wouldn’t give up this awful habit.
I went to the independent Human Rights Commission in Kunduz but they couldn’t help either. According to their rules, Jabar would get custody of my children if I got a divorce. How could I accept this? I didn’t want my children to grow up in a sinful house. What would happen to them if I left them with two kunies? So I had no choice but to stay and protect them.
I have lost count of the number of times I’ve decided to end my life, but because of the children I’ve always stopped. Sometimes I think of ending mine and my children’s lives altogether. It’s now the fourth year of living with them and it’s not got any easier. Every morning Jabar goes to the hamam (steam bath) and then he has sex with Babrak. Babrak is the commander in our house: he decides what I and the children can do. Their father eats with him, most of his money is spent on him and his family. They know about their son but keep quiet because the money makes it easier for them. Jabar has told me he loves Babrak and will die if he leaves him. I know the children and I are just slaves in an unlawful relationship and our happiness is being sacrificed for the sake of our traditions.
So this was the story that had shocked and upset Salmi. It was shocking for me, too, how Anesa was still suffering and couldn’t find a way out of her difficult situation. Divorce was too big a shame for her to consider and would have had a negative impact on her life and her children’s lives. Even though divorce is accepted in Islam, as the last resort, there is still a stigma attached to it. Even men who divorce are ostracised. There is a saying that a widower should be given a bride but a divorced man a stone. A divorced man is no longer considered trustworthy. However, divorce for a woman brings even harsher judgement. A divorced man will still be able to find another wife, but it is virtually impossible for a divorced woman to marry again. In my unhappy marriage I could, only too well, identify with Anesa’s fears and worries. I also saw that in comparison I had a lot of advantages: I wasn’t financially dependent on my husband and I didn’t have any children; I didn’t live in Afghanistan or follow Afghan cultural values. These principles no longer meant anything to me, but for a woman like Anesa divorce would have meant losing everything. She would no longer be respected, and her every action would be judged. If she was seen dancing at a party, people would say she had become a slut because she hadn’t got a husband; if she got into an argument people would say that now her husband has left her she’s angry and desperate. Everything she did or said, her mood and her style of clothes, would be judged in the context of her being a divorced woman.
The only option Anesa had was to stay and suffer. Without support from her or his family and without financial assistance what else could she do?
I tried to work out why Salmi had been so upset by the story. Initially I thought it might be because she had met Anesa – she had seen her in her old clothes, had witnessed her tears and felt her helplessness. This was a possibility, but then I remembered that I had been affected by stories of women I hadn’t met, just by listening to them.
The more I thought about it, the more I realised that I was less shocked by a story about a homosexual because I live in London. I have friends and colleagues who are gay and for me they are the same as someone who is straight. I guessed that Salmi was shocked by the homosexuality in a way that I was not, although we were both horrified by the way Jabar was using Anesa as a human shield.
Anesa’s predicament in Afghanistan was miles away from my life in London. In an Islamic society homosexuality is a sin. If you are homosexual you are considered to have no shame, to be abnormal, even; and you have no right to live as a normal citizen because you are living against human nature and religion. There is no respect or tolerance. Of course, there are homosexuals throughout Afghanistan but, like Jabar, they have to hide their sexuality. If they dare to make it public they will face punishment – they may be disowned by their parents, and they will certainly be judged harshly by their community.
Living in the UK has made me realise how different societies can be. I have learnt through my friends that being a gay man or woman in the West is considered a normal thing, and that as far as human feelings between adults are concerned, there should be no boundaries of religion, culture or society. But in my original country, homosexuality is a big taboo; I know even if I say I hang out with people who are gay I will be judged in a negative way for accepting them as my friends.
When I finished listening to Anesa’s story, I called Salmi. I told her I’d heard the story and agreed it was shocking and upsetting, and that Anesa’s life was sad, but that we should not forget that Jabar was also suffering. At this, she got annoyed, ‘Zari dear, why do we need to think about him? He’s cruel.’
I agreed that Jabar was treating Anesa and her children unfairly but I suggested that he was a victim, too. He was trapped in a situation he didn’t want to be in. Salmi couldn’t grasp the point I was making. She found it impossible to respect or have sympathy for Jabar. I tried to explain how homosexuals are seen in western countries. I told her that in London I knew Muslim men who were gay but did not need to use anyone to shield their homosexuality.
I asked Salmi if she had heard of any other married men who were also having relationships with men and she replied that at the wedding she had attended women had told her that this sort of thing was common. I explained to Salmi that it was normal human behaviour and that there are gay people everywhere in every culture and society.
I began to wonder if we could use Anesa’s story as the starting point for a studio discussion about homosexuality in Afghanistan. As I’ve said, same-sex relationships are not accepted or even openly acknowledged in Afghanistan. The only sexual relationship that is recognised is that between a man and a woman within marriage. However, it is a relatively common practice for some older more powerful men to have boys who they use for sexual relations, even though it is illegal. These men use their wealth and power to buy sex from poor boys. Like the bacha be reesh described by Anesa, the boys dance for men and are often kept as sex slaves. They are sexually abused and then shunned by society for their homosexual activity while their abusers somehow evade the law and any blame. If, however, you are reported to the police for homosexual behaviour you can expect to be arrested because it is a crime in Afghanistan.
Salmi and I both realised this was a highly sensitive subject and it was going to be difficult to find the right interviewees. However, we felt it was our job as journalists to try to make this programme and so we began researching the topic. We spoke to male and female doctors and found people in the provinces to speak to. Many people told us that they knew examples of gay men, but when we asked them to come on the programme, they refused. No one would go on the record. One doctor in Kabul told me that a few men had come to him and said they had difficulty sleeping with their wives because they loved and wanted to have sex with men. I asked the doctor if he would come on to our programme and talk about this. ‘Zarghuna Jan, I respect you and your programme,’ he told me, ‘but as an Afghan citizen living in this country, I have to bear in mind the sensitivity of the topics I talk about.’
He said he needed to watch what he said for his own security. ‘Homosexuality is a taboo subject in this country, as you know. Some men are gay and do have sex with other men, but it is still an unmentionable topic. No one talks about it. It exists, but people ignore it as it is against our traditions and religion. I’m sorry, but I cannot come on to your programme. Please excuse me!’
Salmi and I listened carefully to the doctor’s words. How could we try and persuade him when we knew that appearing on the programme might put his life in danger? We decided not to go ahead with the programme and for years Anesa’s story has remained only in my notes. I kept the file so I could write this story and sha
re it with others in a way that will not endanger Anesa, Salmi or me.
Wazma’s Story
In 2005 I went back to Afghanistan after more than ten years’ absence. I had left Kabul as a child and I was now returning as a young woman. I could never have imagined that the city of my childhood could have changed so dramatically. When I left in the mid-1990s Afghanistan was in the middle of a civil war, with different factions fighting one another. Every day we would hear rumours of what was going on, but we have a saying in Dari, ‘What you hear is nothing like what you see.’ This saying perfectly matched how I felt on the day I arrived back in Kabul. This was the city where I had been born and spent my childhood. I had nurtured the hope that one day it would be peaceful enough for my family to return and live there once more.
I remember that the day we left had been especially beautiful. It was winter and the high mountains that surround Kabul were dressed in white snow. When it snows in Kabul you can look forward to a clear blue sky the next day. It casts such a brilliant light on the snow that it hurts your eyes to look at it. Despite the bitter wind that day, the streets were full of people rushing about on their business. All the shops were open and doing brisk trade as people hurried to buy all they needed before the firing started up again. Women and girls mingled in the crowds, dressed in winter coats and trousers with scarves tied round their heads to keep out the cold air.
This time when I landed at Kabul International airport – not far from the area where I grew up – the atmosphere was very different. A crowd of unkempt men with long beards unnerved me as they surged towards the passengers at the airport. Some wanted to earn money by carrying bags, others were waiting for other passengers, but they all stared at me because I was an Afghan woman who had arrived on her own. As I waited in the long queue at passport control, I held my headscarf tightly. It seemed to me as if every man was staring at me.
Dear Zari: Hidden Stories from Women of Afghanistan Page 15
