The grief of widowhood felt nothing in comparison to the pain of losing her children. Layla lost all hope. She hardly ever saw them. She asked people how they were and friends told her that the grandparents were looking after them well. That did allay some of her fears but she still missed them terribly and found living away from them the hardest thing to bear.
Layla would tell the other women in her village how she now felt like a stone. She said that nothing else could hurt her after the pain of losing the children from her first marriage. Most of the women in the village felt sorry for her and some gave her food, believing that if they helped a woman suffering like Layla they would be loved by God.
A few years later, when Layla was living with her parents, Mujahedeen fighters came to her village and everything changed again. Layla’s brother lost his job, while those who supported the Mujahedeen saw their fortunes rise. They acquired money, guns and land, but Layla’s family saw no such benefit. Then one day, one of the local warlords spotted Layla in the village – Layla was still young and pretty. The warlord visited her parents’ home to ask for her hand in marriage. Her family were poor; they had no means by which to fight for her and refuse his offer so they gave in. Layla was given to the warlord in exchange for money and food.
She was used to being married off and letting those around her decide her future, so she saw little point in protesting. She had lost all belief in love and human kindness. Even though she was still in her twenties, she’d been through enough experience for a woman forty years older. She had become like an unloved ornament in a dark corner of the house. With no help given or sympathy offered, she had gradually stopped speaking and spent days and nights in silence. She cooked and cleaned in other people’s houses but took no care of herself. She felt like the ugliest and most helpless woman in the world. She just wanted to be left alone with her pain.
Her new husband realised he had married a ghost of a woman and, in frustration, found excuses to beat her. He used to tell her he felt cheated because she didn’t respond to him in any way. He would insult her every time he slept with her. Once, he even kicked her off the bed saying, ‘You’ve tasted two men already; that’s why you’re like a stone with me.’
His words didn’t hurt Layla; she would just stare at him and leave the room. Layla was, at least, content that her warlord husband no longer paid her any attention. He was busy with his own activities and she wasn’t interested in finding out what he was really doing. His family’s treatment of her baby daughter was neglectful and cruel so she asked the girls’ grandparents to look after her. It was during this period that Layla’s father died. He was old but he was the only person Layla had felt close to and the only one who had understood her suffering.
With so many losses in her life, when she went to bed at night, she couldn’t choose which loss to focus her mind on: her first loving husband; her second husband, whom she had just begun to love; her children, who were taken away from her; or her father, who had seen and felt her pain but had been powerless to help.
Layla’s marriage to her warlord husband was very unhappy and turned her into an old woman at a young age. Although her marriage to him lasted longer than either of her first two marriages, he too died in the end, and Layla became a widow for the third time. He was killed by his enemies but no one in his family could find out the exact reason why. Instead, they blamed Layla for bringing about his death. They accused her of ‘eating him’ and for being ‘a woman of dark steps’. The women in his family abused and blamed her: ‘Your bad steps killed him,’ they would say.
Layla’s response was, ‘All of you knew I had been married twice before, so why did you want me to marry him? I didn’t choose to marry him.’
She wrapped her large black scarf around her head and body and left their home that instant. Now that her parents had died, she returned to the only place she had left to take refuge in: her brother’s house. Her brother couldn’t refuse her without bringing massive shame on the family; and there she remained.
Layla got up from her bed and looked out of the small window. She felt she had lived her life once again by remembering every little detail of it. How tired she was of being humiliated by her sister-in-law Shakira. She looked up at the clear sky and a feeling of energy and power began to fill her. She would get up early and do all the jobs she was supposed to do. Then, when Shakira left the house, Layla would take her chance: she would go to a women’s rights office in Takhar.
It was the first time she had found the strength to look for a better life. She was tired of being a burden on others. She was taken aback by the warmth and sympathy of the women she met there – she had lost her belief in kindness from her own sex. The woman listened to her story and, for the first time, Layla felt there was something she could do with her life. She explained how she had once been able to sew delicate and beautiful embroideries, but now all she did was household chores.
The women’s rights activist arranged for Layla to get all the help she could. Layla started sewing again, concentrating on the style of embroidery she had done as a teenager. She poured all her energy and emotion into her work. Soon her embroderies were taken to a good market in Kabul, and were sent to exhibitions in the capital and in other cities in Afghanistan by the women’s organisation. Layla made money from her sales and was able to pay her brother for her food and keep.
In her mind she felt she was sewing for her daughters and sons, now older and busy with their own lives. She never saw her children again but it gave her satisfaction to think that they had at least grown up in a family where they were provided for. Her daughters still live in Takhar but she has heard they have been married into very strict families; and her son lives far away in Iran.
Layla feels as if she has never had any control over her life. It is as if she has been thirteen years old three times over, as three times she has been given away to a man. It’s not known exactly how many widows there are in Afghanistan at the moment, but many are young women with stories as tragic and shocking as Layla’s.
Mahgul’s Story
Afghan Woman’s Hour wasn’t just a forum to provide information to women about their rights; it was also meant to be a celebration of their achievements and a sharing of experiences. My colleagues and I set about creating a series of interviews with Afghan women who had used their skills and resourcefulness to bring change to their lives.
It was 2004 and Afghanistan was emerging from the political and cultural suppression it had been through during the rule of the Taliban and Mujahedeen. People were beginning to rebuild houses, and millions of Afghan refugees were returning from Iran and Pakistan. The security situation was improving but people were still struggling economically. We arranged interviews with an Afghan female judge, reporter, photographer, cleaner and teacher. At that time my editor and I worried that we would struggle to find enough successful women to fill the slots, wrongly assuming that after years of being denied an education and years of war and violence, it would be almost impossible for women to gain skills. How wrong we were! The women we found proved that you don’t need a university education to bring about a positive change to your life.
As more women joined the reporting team so we were able to bring a greater variety of voices to the airwaves. We heard from a tailor, beautician, embroiderer, carpet weaver, engineer, baker, leather worker, farmer and a woman who used to make artificial limbs for disabled war victims. These interviews received such a positive response, and many listeners – male and female – contacted us to say how much they appreciated the hard work of Afghan women.
Mahgul is from Mazar e Sharif in the north of Afghanistan. It is the capital of Balkh Province and the fourth largest city. It is famous for its beautiful blue-tiled mosque in the city centre. Some Muslims believe it is on the site of the tomb of Ali ibn Abi Talib, the cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet Muhammad. The name Mazar e Sharif means noble shrine.
Our reporter Mariam Ghamgusar spoke to Mahgul and discovered how she
had used her talent and skill to bring hope back to her family, a family that had once lost all hope of a brighter future. Of all the enterprising women we spoke to, listeners told us that they learnt the most from Mahgul’s life story. One woman wrote that, ‘in our darkest hours we remembered the example of Mahgul and her words brought us hope and strength’.
It was late afternoon and many children in my village in Balkh Province were out playing. It was a moment of relaxation for me, too. I took the teapot, my cup and our local sweet called kunjed and went to sit by the window. I massaged my aching hands and pulled on my fingers until they gave a satisfying click. I would do this a lot because the repetitive work I had to do made my hands very tired and stiff.
I opened the window so I could feel the fresh air on my face but it was colder than I expected and felt chilly on my skin. My fingers needed warmth so I wrapped them around the teacup and allowed the heat of the green tea to warm me up. I enjoyed the soothing breeze on my face and the glow of warmth around my fingers. I savoured the moment: I felt as if my life was under control and I was creating a better future for my children.
I was thinking I ought to return to work when I heard a group of boys running along the road shouting, ‘Azadi, Azadi’. Azadi is the kite that has been cut from its string by a rival kite and is now flying free. They were chasing after it and as they ran they kicked up a large dust cloud. I followed the boys’ eyes and saw a large blue and yellow kite falling through the air. It was a square kite decorated with stars and a sun.
I watched the village boys run and shout after the kite, every single one of them desperate to possess it. High in the sky it seemed as if the kite was showing off, enjoying the fact that so many children desired it. They were dashing around in all directions but no one could catch hold of the string that was dangling down. The boys kept saying to one and another, ‘This kite is chalak (clever). We don’t know which direction it’s going in next. Bloody kite, why won’t you come down?’
I laughed at the way the boys were talking to the kite, and the way the kite sailed higher and higher, away from the boys. Quite a large group of boys had gathered by now, watching the kite fly freely through the air. Some tried to follow its every twist and turn, running to the left and then to the right. Others were content to stand and wait. I watched for several minutes. It seemed to me that the kite was dancing like a beautiful bride sought after by so many boys. Her colours were bright, with a small red star on the edge, and orange flames in the two corners to enhance her beauty. A moon-shape of yellow paper was stuck to the top of the kite, and when the wind blew it looked as if the bride was smiling to herself while contemplating which lucky boy she would ultimately bestow her favours upon. I was enjoying the spectacle as much as the children; but I soon realised that I had drifted off and wasted precious time away from my work.
The boys had kicked up a lot of dirt when they chased the kite. I closed the window to shut out the dust, but the scene I had enjoyed so much was still in my mind and brought a smile to my face. I hadn’t been aware how very tired I was. The sight of those happy children and the excitement that the kite had given them had a profound effect on me.
Just as I was taking my teapot and cup to the small kitchen I heard someone banging on the front door. It sounded familiar so I rushed to answer it, taking care to put on my headscarf as I did, just in case it was a stranger. (I could not open the door and be seen without a headscarf.)
‘Who is it?’ I asked as I opened the door. My two girls and two boys had just come home from school. Seeing their faces and knowing they had just returned from studying gave me such a feeling of pleasure and satisfaction – I knew that for every day that they went to school their future got brighter. I quickly made some food and we all sat and ate it around the desterkhan. I used to make them hearty and healthy food like vegetable soup. I made sure they ate a proper meal because we all had to work hard and as well as helping me they had to study too. We would eat our soup with fresh bread that I had made early in the morning. After we finished eating, each child knew what duty they were expected to carry out. My two daughters collected the dirty dishes and wiped clear the desterkhan while my sons and I began our daily work: kite-making.
I would start by cutting the large pieces of coloured tissue paper, which were very delicate, whilst my sons concentrated on assembling the sticks to make the kite’s frame and my daughters would focus on the decoration. They were good at the small details: from left-over pieces of paper they would cut shapes – hearts, stars, suns, moons and flames – and stick them on the sides of the kites. My sons were expert at putting together the kites and knowing how to build them so they would fly strong and high. They understood where the string should be attached. I would watch them and be ready to help with the gluing. I didn’t want them to use the glue because it can harm their young hands. Mine have already been damaged but I don’t care because I’ve already had my youth. I want to take care of them now so they can lead a happy life when I’m not there to look after them.
After a couple of hours of hard work we would put away the kites and materials in a safe place. My sons love to fly kites themselves, so sometimes after our meal I let them go out and play with other boys, but not every day. I remind them how their situation is different to that of other children. My sons and daughters all go to school. They have to do their homework before it gets dark because there’s no electricity and otherwise they cannot see what they’re writing. I let them take turns – while one studies the other makes kites and then they swop.
This is my happy family, the family of Mahgul and her four children. What more can an Afghan mother want? I get pleasure from seeing the children in my village get excited playing with the kites that I and my children have made. From our window I can see some boys running after a kite that we have made with our own hands. We are a family of breadwinners. If you were to ask me how we got to this stage my answer would be, ‘Not easily!’ I went through a lot of pain and suffering, starting back in 2001.
My husband was a taxi-driver, and he used to take passengers on the main highway between Mazar and Pul-e-Khumri. We were poor but had a good enough life because he was hardworking and kind, and God gave us our four wonderful children. My husband had a small house, which had been left to him a long time ago by his parents. He had no other family members so my children and I were everything to him. He sometimes earned extra money at Nowrooz (Afghan New Year) and he would be busy taking people to the shrine of Hazrat Ali, the fourth Imam of Islam.
People would come from other provinces to Pul-e-Khumri and my husband would take the passengers to the shrine in Mazar for prayers. Women, men, boys, girls, elders, everyone wanted to visit Mazar; our city is considered holy because of the shrine and mosque. My husband was soft-hearted and even if it was getting late he would still take passengers who were ill and wanted to pray.
I used to tell him, ‘Look, you’re getting tired and it’s not safe to drive at night. I get worried when you don’t come home on time. We don’t want you to work any harder. We’re content with what you can provide for us. We would rather have you at home.’
He would smile at this. ‘You know, Mahgul, I enjoy working hard and taking passengers to the shrine. Going to those holy places gives me energy. And what’s more I can earn extra money for you and our children. I want them to go to school and have books and pens so they can become teachers and doctors and not have to work as a taxi-driver like me. My father didn’t care if I went to school or not because he was a simple man who didn’t understand the value of education, but I do. I can’t read or write – that’s why I’m just a taxi-driver. Our children have me as their father and you as their mother and they know we will do anything to give them a better future.’
He held my hand in his and massaged it. ‘I want my children to have all the things I never had. I love you, Mahgul, because you’re such a wonderful wife and mother.’
I loved the way he used to talk to me. After years of being married
to him he became everything to me. The way he gave such love to me and the children was amazing. He had so much energy and enthusiasm for making the family happy. He took so little from us and gave us so much in return. He became my friend, my soul-mate, my everything. On occasions he was even like a sister to me and we would gossip together. He was my support and my teacher in life as well as my husband and lover.
After a couple of years of marriage my mother complained that I didn’t go and visit them as often as I should. ‘Mother, it’s your mistake I don’t visit very often.’ My mother was shocked and thought she had upset me in some way. She asked what kind of mistake. I smiled. ‘It’s your mistake that you married me to this man I love so much.’
At this my mother started laughing. I remember how happy my mother was to see me so content with my family. That’s what every mother wishes for her daughter, isn’t it? I would love my own daughters to be as happy in their marriages as I’ve been in mine. I can’t forget what a kind and caring person my husband was from the first time I met him on my wedding day. Every memory of him brings joy to me, except the time when sorrow came to my heart and my world turned black. From that day onwards I have felt incomplete.
I can recall every detail of that day. I woke up early that morning to find my husband sitting on the mattress and quietly drinking tea. It seemed odd to me. I got up and sat next to him.
‘My dear, why didn’t you wake me up? I would have made your tea for you?’
‘Mahgul,’ he said softly, ‘why would I wake you? I didn’t want to disturb you.’ He smiled and joked, ‘You were fast asleep and looked like you were having some sweet dreams.’
Dear Zari: Hidden Stories from Women of Afghanistan Page 22
