One day, Salmi Suhili, one of our reporters based in Kabul, came to me with an idea: ‘Zari dear, I want to introduce our listeners to the wedding customs from my home province of Kunduz. I’m going for a family wedding and, if they agree, I could take my recording equipment and get lots of good material.’
I didn’t want to miss a great opportunity like this and so readily agreed. After two weeks, Salmi returned from Kunduz, and in one of our regular planning meetings between London and Kabul, where reporters and I would exchange ideas on the phone, she burst into the discussion.
‘Zari dear, I must tell you all about my experience in Kunduz. I met lots of women there and have recorded heaps of material, but there is one story in particular that I want to share with you.’
We all listened intently as Salmi went on. ‘I met a woman called Anesa,’ she said, and even though the sound quality on the phone wasn’t very good I could hear some anxiety in her voice. ‘She was very beautiful; a lovely, kind woman with three children. I can’t believe someone facing—’ And then she broke down into tears.
‘Salmi dear, we’re all listening to you,’ I said, trying to calm her down. ‘This isn’t the first time we’ve heard a very sad story of an Afghan woman. Please carry on.’
Salmi cleared her throat. ‘I met Anesa at our family wedding and she called me especially to tell her story because she knew I was working for Afghan Woman’s Hour and she was asking for help. She told me the story of her wedding, how she had married as a young girl but—’
Salmi’s voice choked and she was unable to speak. Our meeting was drawing to a close and I still needed to listen to the ideas of four other reporters that day, so I suggested that Salmi send the story to me as an audio file.
Later that day, I received Anesa’s story. I was impatient to hear what had made an experienced journalist like Salmi break down. What could be so upsetting and shocking? I downloaded the material onto our editing system and heard Anesa’s voice. And I discovered one of the most wonderful storytellers our programme had heard. Anesa, with a very quiet voice, began her story.
It was about eight o’clock in the morning and I was wide awake but I stayed in my bed. The sun cast lines of light as it made its way through the dark maroon curtains of my room. It was already very hot. I was still wearing my glittery red dress and bright red shalwar. The previous evening most of my cousins and the young girls from our village had gathered in our house for the most special night of my life. I smiled to myself as I remembered how my cousin Fareba had smeared dark green henna on my feet. The girls had all been wearing colourful clothes, dancing and teasing me about my groom. This was my henna night. I wore clothes that my in-laws had made especially for me. It’s a tradition for people in Kunduz to bring new clothes for the bride on her henna night.
I loved all the presents and the attention I was getting from my family and friends. Everyone was treating me like a queen. This was to be my last day in my parents’ home. I was so excited that at last I was going to see the man I would be marrying. This was my wedding day!
I admired the kheena paich (triangular handkerchief) my mother had made for the day. After the henna, my hand had been covered with some white cotton and then the green glittery kheena paich. A flowery smell of henna filled the room. I stretched out my legs on the charpoie, forgetting that they were also covered with kheena paich.
Fareba came into the room. ‘Wake up, you lazy girl. People who’re getting married can’t spend all day in bed!’ She pulled back the curtains. ‘Auntie told me that you have to have a bath, get dressed and have your make-up done.’
I was very excited at the prospect of getting my make-up done. I loved make-up and new clothes. I knew I was lucky. My brothers, sisters and I always had new clothes for Eid and New Year. My father was a government clerk and my mother used to do some tailoring, so they could afford to buy us nice things.
I told Fareba I couldn’t walk because my legs were covered with kheena paich. She laughed and asked if I expected her to carry me to the bath.
I said, ‘Yes, you’ll have to. I’m a bride, and in a few hours’ time I’ll be leaving you all, so today you have to treat me like a princess.’
Fareba came towards me as if to pick me up but instead, just kissed me on the cheek. ‘Of course, you’re the bride but I’m not the one who’s going to be holding you in their arms. Tonight the man of your dreams will hold you tightly and carry you off.’
I got embarrassed and told Fareba to be quiet. I knew she was only teasing me but I was excited and anxious about seeing my future husband. I knew my parents liked him and I’d seen him from a distance when he visited our house during the dawra-e-namzadi (period of engagement). His family had sent me lots of gifts, as is the custom: clothes, shoes, bangles, henna and many glittery scarves.
I also knew that this was the day I would start behaving like a grownup, with proper responsibilities – my mother had constantly been reminding me of that. I had set my heart on becoming a wife, a mother and a daughter-in-law. I was still day-dreaming about the future when Fareba tugged my arm and ordered me to get up for my bath.
Everything I was using was new. The soap was unwrapped from its packet, the shampoo was in a new bottle. Both were gifts from my in-laws. My mother had also put some cold milk into a pot – it’s a tradition in Kunduz to wash the bride with milk as a symbol of her purity and to bring luck and prosperity. I held my towel in front of me and told Fareba that she had to leave because I was too shy to wash in front of her. I sat on the stool and washed myself with the warm water, which Fareba had fetched in a bucket.
After my bath Fareba came in and recited the prayers for a new bride. We have a saying in Kunduz that pure and chaste girls gain the Noor (or grace) of Allah on their wedding day. It means God will shine his light on you. Fareba said I looked very beautiful, and I hoped I had gained the spiritual glow that comes from the Noor of Allah.
Fareba took out a new white bra and white lacy knickers from their packets and handed them to me. Everything I would wear that day would be new. I slipped on the white glittery dress that the tailor in our village had made for me. The neck was in a star design and the sleeves were long and flared. My shalwar were white and silky with embroidery at the ankles. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought how grown-up I looked.
Soon all my other cousins and friends surrounded me, laughing and joking. One was painting my fingernails, another my toenails. Fareba was combing my hair, attaching lots of colourful clips to create a pretty design.
Guests had already arrived and were wandering around our house. My mother and older members of my family were busy preparing the food. At noon the groom’s family would arrive and take me away, so there was a sense of urgency. I noticed my mother hadn’t changed her clothes. It’s traditional for the mother to express her sorrow at losing her daughter by not wearing new clothes. I could see my mother was under pressure at having to provide food for so many guests. She also seemed a little sad. I guess she was upset because I was going into someone else’s family. She wanted my last day with her to be special.
‘Fareba, you have to look after Anesa,’ my mother instructed her. ‘She’s our guest this morning. Give her everything she needs and make sure she has enough to eat.’
Fareba and I had grown up together and were close friends. She did more than my mother asked. While Fareba was making up my hair she gave me some advice.
‘When you go to the groom’s house today you’ll be taking care of many people, not just one man. His mother, father and family will all want respect and attention from you. Make sure you pay them the proper attention – I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. You remember what happened to Shigufa? She lives like a prisoner with her in-laws.’
I asked Fareba why they treated her like this. She said it was because she only took care of her husband and didn’t look after his family as well, who showed their displeasure by not allowing her to return to visit her own family. I wasn’t surpris
ed by this – I had heard that in-laws could be spiteful and make a new bride’s life a misery. I told Fareba that I would of course respect my in-laws as they would be my family after the wedding. I laughed and said that I wanted them to respect me, too.
Fareba pulled my hair and told me to stop being so naughty. When she finally finished doing my hair I thought it looked very impressive. She had copied the style from a postcard of the Indian Bollywood actress Sri Devi. Fareba and I had promised each other that we would do each other’s make-up when we got married. All our dreams were of Bollywood movies, and we would eagerly follow the latest styles and fashions of the beautiful and famous actresses. On Eid days and special occasions we would copy their clothes, hair and make-up, desperately trying to look like them. We were known throughout our neighbourhood for doing this.
Finally, Fareba took my velvet chador and placed it at an angle on my head so it looked like a wedding headdress. She draped a green silky shawl around my shoulders and guided my feet into a pair of extremely high-heeled cream shoes. My mother brought in all the jewellery she was giving me and gave it to Fareba to choose what to adorn me with. There was a heavy golden necklace with matching earrings and several rings. On my left hand I was already wearing my gold engagement ring. When one of my cousins saw me she exclaimed, ‘Oh my God, Anesa, you look like a donkey with lots of bells around its neck.’
Fareba told her off for calling me names, then turned back to me. ‘Don’t worry, Anesa. She’s just jealous of you because you have so many things and she doesn’t. You’re special today and she isn’t.’ Then, with tears in her eyes, she added, ‘You know, after today, Anesa, I’ll have to go to the tanoor by myself. I’ll be baking bread alone. You won’t be there.’ And she flung her arms around my neck.
I said, ‘I’ll still come to the tanoor with you every day. No one can stop me. I’m sure I’ll have the right to see my family and my dearest cousin.’
Then Fareba smudged dark green eye-shadow onto my eyes; she traced khol around my eyes and brushed black mascara onto my lashes. Bright pink blusher was dabbed onto my cheeks and finally my lips were painted with a vivid red lipstick. Fareba picked a fiery red colour for my lips to turn the groom crazy, but I told her it was shameful to speak like this in front of the other girls. My cousin held the mirror in front of me and I stared at my reflection. Now, when I look back, I think I must have looked like an over-painted doll. My lips looked as if I had someone else’s lips painted on top of them and there was too much glitter, but at the time it was the height of fashion in my village and I thought the effect was simply wonderful. The other girls told me I looked very pretty, and Fareba said she was sure no one else in the groom’s family would have my looks and I would make the in-laws jealous.
Listening to Anesa’s story took me back to my own wedding day. How different it had been! I wish I’d had a close friend like Fareba with whom to confide my anger and distress. I remember how I didn’t care what I looked like and how I deliberately left behind a white pearl necklace that my mother had bought me to wear with my wedding dress. Later in the evening she asked me why I wasn’t wearing my new pearls and I pretended that I’d forgotten them. I was angry with her and with the whole arranged marriage but I had to hide my feelings and suffer in silence. I refused even to look at myself in the mirror at the beauty parlour after they had done my make-up and hair. I thought I was the ugliest woman in the world. The make-up, wedding dress and flowers didn’t mean anything to me. In the wedding hall some of the women told me how beautiful I looked but I didn’t believe them. Unlike Anesa, I didn’t enjoy all the fuss and attention.
My mother called for me to be taken to a larger room that had been made ready for the occasion. Two wooden chairs had been placed in front of a small table, which was covered with a red glittery cloth. Mattresses had been put around the edge of the room; the middle was empty except for Afghan carpets. Fareba and another cousin held my hands and slowly led me in. I was followed by a procession of women and children. Wherever I went girls followed me playing the daira (tambourine) and singing Afghan wedding songs. The girls were playing the ‘Ahesta Bero’ song:
Ahesta bero, Anesa Jan. Ahesta bero.
Go slowly, dear bride. Walk slowly, bride.
This is a traditional song that expresses the sadness of a family at losing a daughter. It’s sung when the bride leaves her parents’ house for the last time. My mother approached me and began to pour some sweets onto my head. Immediately the children started scrabbling and wrestling on the floor for them. Fareba shouted at them to stop and told their mothers to take them away. She said they had to get out of my way in case they tripped me up. She was quite right: I could barely walk in my high-heeled shoes.
My mother kissed me on the forehead. ‘Anesa, my child, you look as beautiful as the moon. I hope that your life will be as warm and light as the sun.’
My procession finally reached the chairs and my mother ordered the girls to tidy the room because lunchtime was getting close. The groom’s family had paid for a cook to help my mother prepare all the food. It’s usual in our culture for the groom’s family to pay for most things. My father only asked for a small amount of money for me, even though the groom’s family was willing to pay more. My father didn’t believe in the tradition of taking money for his daughter’s hand in marriage, though it is usual practice in Kunduz.
While the room was being cleared and the final preparations were made, I sat on my bridal chair and Fareba sat on the one reserved for the groom. She said if he didn’t turn up she would be my husband. I laughed and told her that my fiancé would kick her from the chair and take me from her.
I began to feel hot and sweaty in my clothes so Fareba ordered one of the girls to fan me with a paka (paddle-shaped fan). This poor girl was thrilled to do it because it meant she could be close to the bride.
A loud burst of music and dancing signalled the arrival of the groom and his family, and Fareba grabbed my hand. ‘Oh my God, Anesa. They’re here already!’ All the women stood up, some went to watch the arrival from the windows but most stood out in the yard to welcome the guests. My mother gestured for Fareba to cover my face with a shawl. I struggled to see what was going on from two small peep holes. I could just make out the groom’s family. They were all dressed in brightly coloured clothes and wore lots of gold jewellery. Their song went like this:
Ma dismal Awardem.
We have brought the handkerchief.
Aroos Biadar jana ba sad naz awardem.
We have brought our dear brother’s bride with lots of joy.
Two of the groom’s sisters danced in front of the other women. They must have been very hot and sweaty, but they wanted to show their happiness for their brother’s wedding. I was desperate to see what Jabar, my groom, looked like but he was whisked off to the men’s room. Instead, his mother made her way to me. She kissed me on the forehead and dropped some Afghani notes on me. Immediately, the children rushed to grab the money. Two young boys were tugging over the same note until it split in half. Fareba tried to push the children away and suggested that my mother-in-law should not put more money on me.
At this, my mother-in-law spun around to address Fareba. ‘What business is it of yours, young girl, how I express my happiness at my son’s wedding?’
Fareba didn’t reply to the older woman but later she whispered in my ear, ‘God, did you hear your mother-in-law just then? She’s a right sergeant major.’
I hoped that Fareba was just joking and this wasn’t really the case. There are lots of jokes about domineering mothers-in-law in my culture. My mother-in-law lifted the taj (crown and veil) so that my face could be seen and I lowered my eyes to the ground, as is the custom. Then the groom’s family approached one by one to take a look at me. I hoped desperately that they thought I was pretty, for I knew that afterwards the women would be gossiping about me and how I looked. The women were shouting to one another, some were dancing and others were clapping to celebrate my wedding.
After a few minutes I was told I could sit down. Finally my mother came into the room and told my mother-in-law it was time to eat. Then women and girls from my side of the family brought water for the guests to wash their hands, and a desterkhan (large plastic tablecloth) was opened out on the floor. The plates of food – large dishes of rice, chips, spinach, kofta and qurma, and huge slabs of bread freshly baked in the tanoor – were spread out upon it. Cans of Coca-Cola, Fanta and drinking water were offered to the guests. Girls stood by to bring anything else a guest might need.
My mother-in-law got up from the floor and brought me a plate of food. She told me to eat it and I was relieved that she seemed kind. But as I ate, I realised that this would be the last time I would eat in my parents’ home as their child, and I started to worry about what my new life would be like. Fareba must have seen me frowning at my food. ‘His lot look very scary,’ she whispered, which only made me feel worse.
The women sat around the desterkhan, shovelling food into their mouths. I could see my mother fussing over the in-laws, making sure everything was to their satisfaction. She knew that if they were happy then things would be easier for me. I guessed a similar scene was being played out in the men’s room. I imagined my father ordering the boys around and making sure the male guests had everything they wanted. Young boys and girls were free to wander around as they liked and could eat with either their mothers or fathers.
My wedding was a grand affair for our small village. Hiring a cook was special. I could see my mother had worked hard to get everything prepared. As guests finished their food, my cousins cleared away the dirty plates and wiped clean the desterkhan.
The groom’s mother and sisters started to sing and clap again: the Nikkah time – the contract between a bride and groom – was approaching. The Mullah began reading and Fareba whispered to me to say my prayers. I asked God for happiness and for a good life for my family and myself. My uncle and one of my cousins came to ask me if I would accept Jabar as my husband. According to my religion, I had to say I accepted him three times. As soon as I had done this, the men fired their rifles into the air. Fareba said this meant I was now legally Jabar’s wife.
Dear Zari: Hidden Stories from Women of Afghanistan Page 13