She left the school with shaking legs and began the walk home. The echoes of takbir still rang in her ears, and her body trembled like a willow caught in the wind. When she reached the house, everything stood exactly where it belonged. Red, yellow, and pearly blossoms still glowed in their colors, existing in a silent and fragile calm. Shogofa’s hands had gone numb from the cold, and her body felt frozen to the bone. Nothing around her felt safe anymore.
Her mother returned home, her breath heavy and burned, and said, “The girl who was stoned was Begum, your classmate. Did you see her?”
Shogofa shivered. “Begum? But she was engaged. She had not committed adultery, had she?”
“Yes, she was engaged,” her mother replied. “But the mullah wanted to marry her himself. When people argued with him and said the girl was already promised, he refused to listen. Begum was married to her fiancé and taken to her husband’s house. When the mullah learned of it, he raided the house at midnight, dragged Begum and her husband outside, and today they stoned them to death for adultery.”
Her voice broke as she continued. “All of this happened in less than twenty-four hours. Do you understand? Is there anyone here who dares speak against a mullah’s order? You? Me? Did I throw a stone or not? I had no choice.”
She let out a long sigh, sat beside her burqa sewing machine, and whispered, “May God remove these burqas from our lives.”
With trembling fingers, Shogofa touched the flowers and murmured to herself, “Here, in this hell, what will happen to me? Will I dry up like you? I ran away from school because I had to. Otherwise, I would have been forced to throw stones at Begum’s body. Did I throw a stone or not? A stone fell near her, but others killed her. Mother threw stones too because she was forced.”
Begum’s story slowly disappeared, but the fear stayed behind.
One afternoon, the sound of the courtyard gate crashed through the house. Shogofa and her mother froze in sudden terror. Two women alone at this hour of the day felt like a crime in itself. Who would come looking for them in such a small village? The mother opened the gate. A turbaned man entered with his guards and said, “This house must be searched. What are two women doing here alone? Where is your mahram?”
Shogofa trembled beside the flowerpots and rubbed her hands together. The man’s eyes lingered on her pale, soft legs. One of the guards said, “There is no man here and nothing suspicious. These two women live alone. They must be practicing prostitution, otherwise why would they have no man?”
The man fixed his gaze on Shogofa’s frightened eyes, ran his fingers through his beard, and said, “Take the girl.”
Her mother cried out, “Why? We have no mahram because you killed them. He died in a suicide attack. I had a father. I had a husband. His father and brother were killed together. I had a son. I had everything, and you killed them all. Do not take my daughter. As long as I am alive, I will not allow it. Step over my body first, then take her. Have mercy on my white hair.”
She pulled the chador from her head and, with her white hair exposed, fell to her knees before the turbaned man, sobbing. A gunshot rang out and shattered the air. The bullet struck her mother’s head. She collapsed among the blue burqas beside her machine. Blood splashed across the room. The machine went silent. Her mother’s voice disappeared forever.
Shogofa could do nothing but stare.
The man spoke again. “Accursed infidel, worshipper of flowers. You bow to dried flowers. Why do you not read the Qur’an? Do you seek freedom from these flowers?”
He stepped closer and ordered, “Walk.”
Shogofa did not move. “Kill me too,” she said. “I am not going anywhere.”
The man seized her long hair through her black headscarf, gripping it like a closed bud in his wrinkled, blood-stained fingers. “You are not staying,” he said. “I am taking you. From now on, your fate belongs to me.”
They dragged her away.
Autumn surrendered to winter, and spring never arrived. Drought spread across the land, and the flowers withered. No green tree or living blossom remained, as if an endless winter waited ahead. From time to time, only the sound of stones echoed from the schoolyard, followed by the mullah’s voice calling, “Sisters and brothers, come and see…”
You can read the Persian version of this Afghan woman’s story here:
بخش دوم – مکتب و سرنوشت گلپرست؛ جایی که نه برای درس، که برای سنگسار فراخوانده شدیم
