I sat down to listen to the story of a woman whose face was thinner than usual, with the hardships of life having stripped the flesh from her bones. Her eyes are swollen from intense crying and sleepless nights, and she struggles to keep her eyelids closed. Oppression, injustice, and cruelty have left her so exhausted and hopeless that she sees no open doors to a brighter future. Every moment of her life tells a myriad of stories, each filled with sorrow. She begins to speak about her husband. Her husband was a soldier in the National Army of Afghanistan. His duty as a soldier, serving the people and the nation, was a source of pride and joy for him and his family. She recounts her life story as follows:
“My husband was mostly on the front lines and could come home only once every three months. Each time he returned to the front, he would tell me and our children to pray for the hero. But the last time he left home, he said to say goodbye to the hero, as if he knew this time he wouldn’t return. I lost my husband in the recent battles of the republic against the Taliban, and one of his comrades delivered the bad news to me in a sudden phone call. Due to the intensity of the war, even the bodies of the fallen soldiers were not returned to their families. My husband was one of them.
A week after my husband’s martyrdom, our city fell to the Taliban, and terror engulfed everything. As the Taliban fighters entered the city, most people preferred to flee to other cities, and we were no exception. With my two daughters and young son, we set off for Kabul, but I wish we had never left home that day. (With eyes filled with tears and a voice barely audible from crying, she continues.) We hadn’t even left the city when we encountered a Taliban checkpoint. One of them approached our car, looked inside, and asked me where my male guardian was and where we were going. I fearfully replied that we were heading to Kabul because my husband had passed away and I had no older son.
Without saying a word, he returned to his group and started talking to one of them. During their conversation, they glanced at our car several times, which made me lose my courage and tremble. After a few minutes, several of them approached us, and one of them, likely their commander, told me that there was ongoing fighting on the road ahead, so we couldn’t pass. During his speech, his eyes were glued to my daughter’s face, and she covered her face with her scarf and hands out of fear. They ordered the driver to turn back, and we had no choice but to return home.
Throughout the journey, a motorcyclist followed us at a considerable distance, instilling a deep sense of fear in me. I called my brother-in-law and asked him to send one of his sons to our house so we wouldn’t be alone in this situation. About half an hour after we returned home, there was a knock on the door, and my son, thinking it was his cousin, opened the door without asking any questions. But standing at the door was the same man who had stopped us from going to Kabul. Several others were with him. They entered our home without a word and closed the door behind them. Upon their entry, my daughters screamed in fear and began calling for help.
The commander pointed his weapon at us and shouted, ‘Will you be quiet, or should I silence you myself?’ My daughters’ voices quieted, but they were trembling and silently crying. We sat down without speaking as they ordered. My children tried to hide in my arms out of fear. The commander’s gaze was fixed on my daughter, and he said to me, ‘We are here for a marriage. You shouldn’t obstruct us, as it will be to your detriment.’
I fell at their feet, crying and begging them to spare my daughter, but they didn’t listen. I screamed and wailed, asking what religion or law permits marrying off a fifteen-year-old girl, but my cries were in vain.
They forced the marriage at gunpoint and took my daughter away with them (her sobs prevent her from speaking, and she covers her face with her scarf). They took away a girl who had no experience with life and its hardships, who knew nothing of married life or running a household. She was still too young to become a housewife.
I can’t forget my daughter’s cries and pleas. She begged me not to let them take her. I tried my best to convince them and prevent them from taking her, but I was powerless against them. Since that day, I have had no news of my daughter. Everywhere I went, I returned empty-handed. Who says the worst grief for a mother is the death of her child? Not knowing whether she is alive or dead is far more painful. I don’t even have a grave to cry over. I have no news of her well-being or an address to visit. For a long time, I have wept for my child and have found solace only in crying and praying.”
You can read the Persian version of this story here:
بازماندهگان قربانیان ارتش؛ «با زور اسلحه دخترم را نکاح کردند» | روزنامه ۸صبح
