The sun gleamed radiantly in the vast sky, draping everything below in a soft, golden embrace. Now and then, it slipped behind a veil of clouds, reappearing playfully, like a child at a game of hide and seek. The clouds floated like graceful, white-winged birds drifting through an endless blue sea. I sat in the park, with a gentle breeze brushing against my cheeks as if in a tender greeting. The branches swayed in a soft, whispering dance, and I drifted deeper into my thoughts.
Then, my gaze caught a woman seated across the park, her shoulders gently trembling as she cried in quiet solitude. She looked as though fear had frozen her, but to guard her sorrow, she kept her eyes tightly shut. Yet, even so, tiny beads of tears escaped, sliding delicately along her temples before settling at her ears. In those closed eyes was a glimpse of something timeless—a haunting, profound sorrow that lingered like a distant echo, reaching into the heart.
Without any prompting, her words began to spill forth, as if they flowed like the first snow down a wintery mountain slope, soft and relentless, unburdening her soul with each syllable. Though she seemed to hold herself back, her thoughts slipped like smooth, glistening stones, tumbling one by one from her mind before quietly sinking back into the depths of her heart. I found myself drawn in, captivated by the mystery of her sorrow and the silent ache it carried. Listening to her felt like an unexpected comfort as if her words were tracing lines around something hidden in my own heart.
She opened her mouth again and said, “I was in twelfth grade, just coming of age and beginning to understand my place in the world when a family came to propose to me. Because they were educated people, I thought I would be happy. My family agreed, and I, in turn, accepted whatever my family decided for me.”
Gently and with great care, as though recalling her memories while crossing a fragile bridge over a deep, turbulent river, she continued, with tears slipping down her prominent cheeks. “My wedding marked the beginning of my misfortune. They showed me nothing but violence, suffering, and oppression. Day by day, my situation grew worse. In my father’s home, we at least understood that poverty was the reason for our hardships. Here, there was plenty of everything, yet the house was filled with indescribable fear and agony. They beat me so badly that I would lose consciousness. My mother-in-law clung to me like a constant, metal clanging in my soul. One day, the entire family beat me so severely that I couldn’t bear it anymore. In a dreadful state, I ran away from that house. In that condition, I returned to my father’s home and decided to seek a divorce. A small hope had begun to grow within me. I was prepared to endure any hardship if it meant I would never have to step back into my husband’s home. However, due to the traditions we live by, my family did not allow the divorce. My father said, ‘We are Pashtuns. When you leave your father’s house in a wedding dress, you can only return in a shroud.’ They sent me back to my husband’s home…”
As she recounted her story, a stream of tears flowed from her eyes. I thought to myself how difficult it is to be a girl in Afghanistan. This is but one story among thousands that remain untold and unwritten in this homeland. There are countless women who, upon marriage, fall from the ditch of patriarchy into the abyss, left to languish in that dark pit until death finds them. The painful and deeply tragic aspect is that family and tribal customs force this bond to persist, even when it brings nothing but captivity and violence. Many of our cultural practices across various ethnic groups deprive girls of the chance for a safe and healthy life. Unfortunately, it is our parents, our society, who uphold these customs, and few dare to stand up and break free from such rigid traditions. I hope that one day we all come to understand that nothing is more important or sacred than a good and dignified life for a human being.
You can read the Persian version of this Afghan woman’s story:
«وقتی با لباس عروس از این خانه رفتی، تنها با کفن میتوانی برگردی» | روزنامه ۸صبح
