On my way back from the city, I felt someone walking behind me. It seemed like someone was following me. Fear crept into my heart, but I kept my head held high and continued walking with confidence. Until I heard a voice from behind me. I pretended not to hear it. The voice called out again, this time louder and more gruffly. I couldn’t understand his language; he was speaking Pashto, and I didn’t understand. I didn’t stop and briskly continued on my way. I was almost near our alley. I was afraid he might rob me, and I was also afraid that if anyone from our neighborhood saw that man following me, what accusations they might level against me. I entered our alley and breathed a sigh of relief, but I wasn’t at ease.
I hurried along the edges of the raceway, making my way to our courtyard gate. If anyone saw me in that state, they’d think a wolf was chasing me, the way I was running. As I neared our courtyard, I hesitated whether to enter or not. Could I see if that man was behind me or not? The children playing in the alley stared at me. I paused for a moment, catching my breath, and then entered our neighbor’s courtyard.
Two days later, our neighbor woman came to our house in a panic. Her hands and feet were trembling as she told us that the Taliban had come to her house to ask for her daughter’s hand in marriage. This woman had been longing for a daughter for years. I felt like I had been struck dumb as if someone had emptied a cold bucket of water over my head. The neighbor woman said the addresses and details they provided were from you. She was worried about her own life and her husband’s too. She said the Taliban are not to be trusted, fearing they might take her husband away to extract a confession from him. She was genuinely terrified, and I didn’t have the words to tell the truth. This was the first spark of such an event.
A week after they came to our neighbor’s house again. This time, they turned our neighbor’s house upside down, examined their documents, and asked all the neighbors if they had daughters or not. Finally, they believed that our neighbor woman didn’t have a daughter. But this wasn’t the end of it. Thinking that the Taliban had left me alone, I started going to neighbors’ houses and the city after a month, only when necessary. Of course, this time I was cautious and changed my attire. My mother insisted I wear a chador, and I complied. But even the chador didn’t veil the Taliban’s gaze.
After some time had passed, the Taliban stormed our house. This time, they had a photo of me in their hands and my father was left dumbfounded, unsure of what to do or say to these savages. The first time, my father, standing firm and resolute, told them that his daughter had just come of age and had no intention of engaging with anyone. Among our people, it’s uncommon for anyone other than our tribe to give their daughter away, and inter-tribal marriages are not prevalent. Moreover, if it comes to marrying someone from another tribe, it can be exceedingly difficult. But between us and the Taliban lies a red line that cannot be crossed. Even the thought of a Taliban setting foot in someone’s house is terrifying, let alone becoming their bedfellow.
Now, several months have passed, and the Taliban hasn’t let go of me, still warning my father that if he doesn’t hand over his daughter willingly, they’ll take her by force. We’re at a loss for what to do. There’s nowhere else for us to go. Before we could even consider leaving, the Taliban had informed my father that they were keeping an eye on our house to ensure we didn’t try anything. You might wonder why they haven’t acted yet. It’s because the Taliban commander has gone to another province for a more critical task, leaving his henchmen to watch over our house.
I’m exhausted. Utterly exhausted. Every time I hear a loud noise or knock on the gate, I think it’s the Taliban coming to take me away. My days and nights pass with this sense of misery and helplessness. Although my father reassures me that he’s doing something about it, we all know what the Taliban are capable of.
Note: The writer has written this narrative from the perspective of its narrator.