She stopped clapping and went back to sit in the corner with Shah Mahmoud. She felt suffocated surrounded by all these bitchy women and wished she were at the men’s party where they respected her for behaving like a man. She was considering making an excuse and leaving, when the groom’s family entered the room singing. They hadn’t met Bakhtawara before and didn’t know the truth behind her masculine exterior. When some of the women spotted Bakhtawara sitting in the corner watching them they assumed she was a man and suddenly stopped singing and covered their faces with their scarves. The mother could hear that the singing had stopped abruptly.
‘What’s happened? Why have you all stopped?’
One of the women stepped forward. ‘We have all our female relatives here. Yet there’s a man here who keeps staring at us. It’s very shameful and disrespectful to be treated in this way.’
Another joined in: ‘You know, we came to your house with trust. All our men have gone to the men’s room. Why is this one still here sitting and watching us? It’s an insult.’
The mother of the bride saw Bakhtawara and smiled. ‘That is our Hajiani. She’s not a man. Come, let’s carry on singing.’
But the women were not so easily reassured or diverted. ‘No, I’m going to call for the family men to come here and look at him. If he’s not a man then I’m a man!’
The bride’s mother said, ‘Bakhtawara is a narkhazak. She’s neither a man nor a woman. Don’t worry, we know how to keep the respect of our guests. Come on, let’s carry on singing.’
When Bakhtawara heard the bride’s mother refer to her as narkhazak she got very upset. She stood up and went over to face the women.
‘Do you have a question about me and my gender? I’ll tell you what I am. I’ve got the same things as you have, I have the same breasts and the same hair and what’s more I’ve got the same feelings as you. It’s just that I’ve been unlucky, I’ve been brought up as a man – my parents raised me as a boy because they needed a son. I’m going to leave now. I just want you to be careful not to do what my mother did to me. Never change your daughters into sons because no one can change the feelings God has given us. You can change a person’s clothes, you can change the way they walk and talk, but you can’t change their feelings. I may look and act like a man but my feelings are the same as yours!’
Finally, Bakhtawara pointed to her sister-in-law and said, ‘She will go home with Shah Mahmoud.’
That night Bakhtawara cried until the early hours of the morning. Her dress, her sheets and pillow were all wet from her tears. She would never go to another women’s party at a wedding again.
The days were usually easier for Bakhtawara because she didn’t meet many women and she was busy with her work. She also knew that in many ways she was freer than other women. She didn’t have to stay at home, didn’t have to suffer domestic violence; she could meet men in public and they respected her. She was in charge of her own life. There was no one to tell her what to do. She worked hard and had money of her own, which she could spend as she liked. If she needed to see a doctor, she just went. No one would gossip about her if she were seen talking to a strange man. She was given respect in the home and in the village.
But at night she felt tired, lonely and unloved and it was hard to forget she was a woman. She wished she could have a family of her own. It hurt her that no one had asked for her hand in marriage and she was frightened of becoming old and frail. She worried that she would be abandoned when she no longer had the strength to farm the land, attend the jirga and provide for the family.
Each day on her way to the fields, Bakhtawara would pass men in the village. She would shake hands with them and stand chatting for a few minutes with each of them. The men would talk to her as they would to any other man but they would not greet her with a kiss or embrace, as they would with other men, because they knew she was really a woman. Bakhtawara was a powerful figure in the village. She was influential and enjoyed the respect and attention she got from men in her community. She felt comfortable in their company; they didn’t call her spiteful names; she was just considered a good Muslim and a hard-working person. Men judged her less, and so for a long time Bakhtawara stopped mixing with women.
As they had promised, Khan Mohammad and his brother hosted a dinner to thank the jirga. It was held at Malik’s house. After a day in the fields, Bakhtawara got ready to go to the dinner. When she arrived at the house, the villagers stood up out of respect and shook her hand. The atmosphere was easy and friendly. No one called her names because they respected the fact that she could farm as well as them, shoot her gun as accurately as them, debate with the same reason and eloquence as them, provide for her family as they did; in all, she acted the same as them. Even though Bakhtawara felt comfortable with the men, she sometimes missed washing up a cup instead of digging the land, and sometimes she longed to bake bread instead of growing wheat. Even cooking the meat instead of just bringing it home from the shops seemed appealing.
After the meal was over, Bakhatawara walked home. Everyone in her house was already asleep. She went straight to her room where she took off her gun and turban and laid them on the table. Once again she stood in front of the mirror; she stroked her greasy and unwashed hair, and saw that her face was full of wrinkles. She looked closely at her reflection and realised she couldn’t change her appearance to become more feminine. The time for that had passed. Now cooking for the family was more of a challenge to her than digging a field; sewing a pattern was a bigger test than oiling her gun.
Bakhtawara thought about the practicalities of her life and accepted her lot without shedding a tear. She had come to terms with the fact that her parents and local traditions had forced her to become a man. She had learnt over the years how to suppress her femininity but there were times when she found it difficult to hold back her feelings. It was impossible for her to throw away her dreams completely. Bakhtawara knew the harsh realities of both worlds: the world of the man and the feelings of the woman – she had experienced both. Her parents had altered the course of her life in order to make the family more secure. Bakhtawara’s advice to the listeners of Afghan Woman’s Hour was simple: ‘Please, never change the fact that God has given you a girl. You might be able to change her appearance or the way she lives but you’ll never be able to change the natural feelings God has given her.’
As a child I often wished I had been born a boy rather than a girl. I am sure many girls still wish the same when they see the significance that is attached to having a son. Girls are brought up to give priority to their brothers. Until I heard Bakhtawara’s story I wasn’t aware of the lengths to which some families would go to produce a son. While researching this book I discovered several stories similar to Bakhtawara’s. I found that dressing a girl as a boy was very common in families that didn’t have a son, or sometimes only had one son and many daughters; but very few would carry on with this into adulthood. The girl would be allowed to resume a female identity once she reached puberty. Until then the girls would be dressed as boys, play with boys and do all the activities that boys were allowed to do. The adults were aware of the girls’ real sex but the children often were not.
I also heard the story of Berond, another woman living a man’s life. She was born into a strict tribal Pashtun family in Ghazi Abad village of Kunar Province in east Afghanistan, close to the Hindu Kush mountains. This is an area renowned for disputes over land and other family matters. Berond was a tall, broad-shouldered woman with dark skin who usually hid her long hair in her turban. She had worn men’s clothes since childhood and the male villagers showed her the same respect as they would show to any other male villager. She used to take part in jirgas, worked as a man on the land and was the breadwinner for her family. She was brought up as a boy because her father and brother were in prison due to some land dispute and there were no other men in the family. Berond suddenly had to be transformed into the man of the family.
Women like Berond and Bakhtawara are much respe
cted amongst villagers. They are praised for their bravery and for taking responsibility for their families. They are accorded the same respect as a man. In an Afghan family when they want to praise their daughter they say she’s like a son and when they want to praise a woman they say she’s strong and brave, just like a man.
In Khost, Bakhtawara’s province, I heard of two other women – Mangala and Senzila – who had also lived as men, but this was many years earlier. Fawzia, our reporter there, told me that she thought perhaps Bakhtawara had been made into a man as a result of the popularity of these two women in their communities.
Ghutama’s Story
Ghutama was unlike any other woman I’ve ever met. She was a strong and free-spirited Kuchi or nomad. The Kuchis travel all over Afghanistan and to neighbouring countries to graze their animals. There are approximately six million Kuchis living in Afghanistan (out of a population of twenty-five million) and they are mainly Pashtun and Baloch nomads. They have their own unique lifestyle. A Kuchi woman once told me that they cannot bear having to live under a roof in a large building. She said that for Kuchis to be surrounded by four walls would be like living in a prison. So wherever they go, wherever they graze their sheep and build their tents, there in the middle of God’s land is their home.
You’ll find Kuchis in any part of Afghanistan that has water and fertile ground. They have a reputation for hard work, with both men and women taking care of the animals: sheep, goats, cows and camels. They make cheese, ghee and different kinds of yoghurt from their cows’ and goats’ milk, and they use the wool from sheep and goats to make cashmere and carpets. These are then sold in markets or by going door to door to people’s houses. According to the UN High Commission for Refugees, before the last thirty years of war Kuchis owned thirty per cent of the country’s sheep and goats and most of the camels. They were also responsible for slaughtering animals and spinning wool, as well making dairy products.
Family ties amongst Kuchis are very strong. Kuchi women are renowned for being particularly beautiful – tall, tanned, with generous lips, high cheekbones and mesmerising eyes. They would not look out of place on a European catwalk, such is their grace and elegance. Kuchi men are no different – tall, broad-shouldered and handsome, their renowned bravery makes them attractive to most Afghan women. However, Kuchis only marry within their own tribe.
Kuchis have suffered along with everyone else from the decades of war in Afghanistan. In some ways they have endured more because they have had to stay put and look after their animals without the opportunity to flee if they needed to. The UN has identified them as being one of the most vulnerable groups of people in the country. They have been especially harmed by landmines because they often travel to remote areas where landmines have not been cleared. They are also vulnerable to natural disasters like floods, droughts and heavy snow. Their nomadic way of life means that they have limited access to hospitals, schools and clean water, and the lack of security means they sometimes can’t travel to better grazing land.
I met Ghutama early in 2001 while I was in Peshawar working for a BBC radio education project for Afghan children. I used to visit the refugee camps in Pakistan every week and record interviews with the women and children there. Ghutama’s life story was one that I’ll never forget. I can still remember her face and how she talked very clearly. I had seen some Kuchi women before but I’d never had the chance to talk to them and find out about their way of life. Previously I had only seen them from the window of our apartment in Kabul. It was a breathtaking sight to see the caravan as it passed by our house: the women, men and children walking in a long line with their animals.
Like me, Ghutama was a refugee in Pakistan but our lifestyles were very different. I was a city girl while Ghutama was a child of nature. Life for Afghan refugees wasn’t easy as most lived in extreme poverty. Those who had fled Afghanistan in the Soviet era tended to live in better conditions because they had built houses and settled down in Pakistan. Their mud houses were far superior to the plastic tents of the Afghan refugees who had fled the Mujahedeen and Taliban. Only refugees who had jobs like my dad and those who had family members in the West and Europe were able to rent places in the cities like Peshawar, Islamabad and Rawalpindi. Many thousands more spent their lives in those basic tents with no clean water and no money.
Ghutama had been a refugee for many years. Her family had fled Afghanistan during the years of the Soviet-supported communist government. Her story stayed in my mind all that time. Almost every woman and man in Shadalan refugee camp knew who Ghutama was. In the last few years there wasn’t a woman who hadn’t shared their life stories and secrets of the heart with her, and there wasn’t a man who hadn’t been captivated by the sound of Ghutama’s jewellery. Wherever she went, there would be the sweet sound of bells ringing as she walked through the village. Equally famous were the ornaments she made, carefully crafted with her long feminine fingers. Almost every villager owned at least one of her handicrafts.
Many boys were in love with Ghutama. She stole their hearts with her free nomadic spirit and her songs. When they saw her approaching, the boys would even break into song themselves:
Your golden nose ring looks so beautiful,
The leader of Kuchis, you walk with lavender in your hair
Among the happy, playful girls,
You are the leader of Kuchis with the flowers in your hair,
The boys are mad for you, crazy girl!
Ghutama’s beauty was irresistible. She had large, mesmerising black eyes, her dark brown skin had a golden glow and her smile was framed by high cheekbones. She wore a long kochani kamiz, a traditional nomad dress. Its sleeves were flared at her wrists, and whenever she raised her hands they would fall open to reveal her arms and her glowing skin. Like all other Afghan Muslim women, she wore a headscarf, but her hair refused to be contained and flowed down her shoulders and back. When Ghutama walked in the green hills of Shadalan camp wearing her nomad shalwar and her long flowing skirt, the fabric would sway from side to side as she walked. Nomadic women would only make two or three dresses in their lifetime but these dresses had so much time and effort poured into them that a typical Afghan woman would have been able to make a dozen or more dresses in the same amount of time. Ghutama’s dress appeared to be deep red but on closer inspection it was made up of a patchwork of fabrics, all cut into different shapes and carefully sewn together, their colours shimmering. Across the chest Ghutama had created a Kuchi-style of charma kari (golden lace) onto which were sewn real silver rupees. Ghutama liked to hang a lot of jewellery on this part of her dress and so wherever she went the sound of tinkling bells would announce her arrival to villagers. She also wore two taveez (amulets), which would hang around her neck to ward off evil. Ghutama said they had been made by a mullah and given to her mother a long time ago.
Shadalan is a mountainous region in Tal district in the North West Frontier region of Pakistan, bordering Afghanistan. Alongside the Pashtuns from this area, there were many Afghans who had fled the conflict and made this new region their home. It was a fertile area with fresh breezes passing through its mountains every morning. The small villages of Tal were spread out from one another along the mountain-side. Here the Afghan refugees built small clay houses for themselves and began farming. They lived alongside the Afghan Kuchis who pitched their tents and grazed their animals here too.
Ghutama’s father’s name was Warishmeen. His wife, Ghutama’s mother, had died while giving birth to Ghutama’s youngest brother. This is the fate of many Kuchi women – giving birth in their tents far away from doctors and hospitals there is no one to help if something goes wrong. Ghutama’s mother had left behind her daughter, husband and two young sons. Warishmeen wasn’t a typical Kuchi man: he didn’t work hard to provide for his family but spent most of his time in his tent resting. He had long hair, a messy beard and a grey moustache. Ghutama knew that her father’s laziness had lost them many sheep and now they were left with only ten. They also
owned one adult camel and two baby camels, which Kuchis call jongi.
After his wife’s death, Warishmeen had become even more ineffectual. Ghutama was forced to become the breadwinner and head of the family because she was the only one who earned any money. Every day she would get up early and take their animals to the hillside to graze. When she left her tent in the morning, people in nearby tents would know it was Ghutama because of the jingle of the bells on her anklet. Her animals also made noises as they moved up the hillside. The little group was like a mobile alarm clock for those in the tents they passed, but the strange thing was that no one seemed to mind. In fact, most young men in Shadalan camp would wake up to the sound of her jewellery and their hearts would beat a little harder and a little faster in anticipation of seeing Ghutama. Ghutama walked with confident strides and in one hand carried a long stick. It was said she had the elegance of a giraffe. She would call to her flock of sheep and sing a traditional Kuchi song as she herded the animals up to pasture. When Ghutama reached an area that was green she would stop so the animals could graze. Then she would find a large stone to rest on and start her other job. In an embroidered bag that she wore on her shoulder, she carried her sewing kit. She would embroider Kuchi designs on clothes for men and women; she was particularly good at the delicate embroidery on the front of dresses. But Ghutama also made small Kuchi jewellery: covers for small mirrors, key rings, necklaces and bracelets from small colourful beads. It was a lot of work, but she had little choice: she had lost her mother and needed to earn money to feed her brothers and her aging father.
Dear Zari: Hidden Stories from Women of Afghanistan Page 26
