Bakhtawara was used to hearing these words and ignored them but Shah Mahmoud found it hard to dismiss their cries. ‘Hajiani, these boys are always telling me that you’re a narkhazak. Is it true? Are you not a man and not a woman?’
‘Don’t take any notice of them, my child. What do you think I am?’
Shah Mahmoud, who was only seven, looked up at Bakhtawara.
‘I know you’re a man, but sometimes I can see you have big breasts like a woman, so I get confused.’
The children in Bakhatawara’s family had not been told about her gender and did not realise she was a woman until they worked it out for themselves.
Bakhtawara smiled. ‘Your Hajiani is a strong man – you’ve seen pictures of sportsmen, haven’t you? Well, they all have big musclely chests because they’re so strong. This is why I have breasts – it’s because I’m strong. Let these boys say what they want.’
Shah Mahmoud thought for a moment and then said, ‘Of course, it’s because you’re so strong and you have a gun too!’ With that he laughed, said goodbye to Bakhtawara and ran into school.
Being called names by adults as well as children in the village was something Bakhtawara had got used to since she was a teenager. In those days Bakhtawara had genuinely believed she was male. She would wear boy’s clothes, play with boys and tease girls. She had a large dog, which she trained for dog fights. She could even beat the other boys in most of the games. One particular game involved holding the left leg with one hand and then fighting another person doing the same thing. The first one to fall down was the loser. If a boy or girl had called her names in those days she would beat them up.
When Shah Mahmoud asked her if she was a man or a woman Bakhtawara was reminded of the day she reached puberty. When Bakhtawara was born, her family only had one older son – her brother – and after her birth, two other babies were born which didn’t survive. Bakhtawara’s parents owned a lot of land in the village which they were anxious to protect. They were worried that with just one son they would not be able to survive in a tough tribal land like Gurbuz. Jealous cousins and others around them might take advantage.
Finally, after two stillbirths, Bakhtawara’s mother gave birth to a daughter. Her father was worried about only having one son but an idea came to him. When Bakhtawara was three years old she started being brought up as a boy. This meant the family now had the security of two sons and one daughter, instead of one son and two daughters. Her parents didn’t stop to consider what harm this might do to their child, they just started to treat her as their second son. Bakhtawara was dressed as a boy and taken to the men’s gatherings. She had her hair cut short and wore male shalwar kamiz. She would play with her brother and everyone in the family treated her as a boy. At Eid she would get new clothes just like her brother; her father taught her to use his old gun; she was never expected to wash dishes or cook with her mother and sister; instead she attended jirgas with her father. She was respected as a boy but no one ever thought to tell her what changes to expect in her body.
When Bakhtawara’s brother was sixteen years old and she was ten, he was sent to Dubai to work. Now Bakhtawara was the second man in the house. After her brother had been away for a few years, and as her parents were starting to get older and frailer, Bakhtawara began to feel the burden of responsibility on her shoulders. It was also at this time that she began to develop a woman’s body. One morning as she was washing, Bakhtawara noticed that her breasts felt swollen and were getting larger. She was frightened and ran into her room. She tore up an old white scarf and tied it tightly around her chest. She took her father’s waistcoat and wore it over her shalwar kamiz to conceal her changing body. She had no idea why this was happening to her. Before long, her elderly parents’ health began to fail, so her father decided to give her part of the land. Her brother had married a girl in the village and returned to Dubai for work and her sister was now married. It left Bakhtawara with all the responsibility of looking after her parents. As her father’s health worsened he called her to his bedside.
‘My child, my life is near its end. You’re still very young but I want to hand you your responsibilities.’
‘Father, I’m your son; it doesn’t matter if I’m young or old, I’m ready to take on my duties.’
Bakhtawara’s father put his hand on her head and said, ‘You must take care of your sister-in-law; she’s the young bride of our house. Her husband is away and I don’t want anyone to start gossiping about her.’
He asked her to fetch him his gun and bullet belt. When she brought them to him, he asked her to stand. He put the belt around her waist and handed her the gun. ‘From now on, my child, this belongs to you.’
Bakhtawara understood this gesture. In Afghan culture when a gun is handed to you it means the whole pride and dignity of the family now rests in your hands.
‘If you look after the family well,’ her father said, ‘our honour will remain and you will keep my name alive.’
Bakhtawara promised her father that she would look after every member of the family, just as he had done. She would do as she had learnt from him and follow in his steps. She would protect and uphold the dignity of the family, just as he had done.
Bakhtawara stopped thinking about her childhood when she reached the house of Malik, the head of the village. She entered the house, took off her sandals, and the male villagers all greeted her. In Afghan villages everyone knows about everyone else. All the adults would have known about Bakhtawara’s life and identity, and known and accepted how she had been brought up as a boy. She was respected for fulfilling her parents’ wishes and taking on the responsibility of the head of the family. Her name became a byword for strength in the village and she was upheld as a role model.
Bakhtawara sat on one of the charpoies. Khan Mohammad and his brother – the two men at the centre of the dispute – sat opposite each other.
Malik opened the jirga: ‘In the name of Allah, the jirga is resumed,’ he said.
Then he began to explain to Khan Mohammad’s brother why everyone in the room believed the brothers’ house should be divided equally between them.
Bakhtawara interrupted and said, ‘Malik saab, I agree that the two brothers should do as our religion dictates, and inherit an equal share of what their father left. However, we should also consider the work that Khan Jan’s family has already put into the building, and compensate him for this.’
Many of the men who were present in the jirga agreed with Hajiani Bakhtawara’s suggestion. The jirga therefore ruled that Khan Mohammad should pay a sum of sixty thousand rupees to his older brother to build another room for his larger family, and Khan Jan agreed to abide by the jirga’s decision.
The deal was sealed with green tea and sweets. There was relief that the jirga, which had already lasted for several days, had come to an easy and amicable solution, and Bakhtawara was praised for her leading role and for her fair treatment of both brothers.
It was harvest time and Bakhtawara was anxious to get back to her farm, and asked Malik if she could be excused to leave after tea. Before she left, Khan Mohammad invited her and the other elders to dinner to show his gratitude and respect for the jirga’s decision. Bakhtawara accepted the invitation, shook hands with all the elders and headed back to the fields.
She chatted with one of the other elders whom she had agreed to share the farm work with as they made their way back to their farms. Once she reached her land she removed her turban and gun and hung them on the branches of a tree. She rolled up her shalwar to her knees and set to work. Bakhtawara didn’t acknowledge her tiredness; she just continued to dig in the hot sun. She wanted to do some work on the land before her nephew brought her lunch. She ignored her hunger and thirst as she tried to make the land softer for further cultivation. She took the bailcha (spade) She took the bail and drove it deeper into the ground. With every push she panted and sweated. Bakhtawara was proud that she could work as hard as any man. Her sister-in-law and nephews and nieces al
l respected her efforts, but her brother who was working in Dubai wanted to spare his sister this exhausting work. He promised her that once he had made a lot of money he would hire a farmer to look after their land so that Bakhtawara would not have to do it. But Bakhtawara had insisted that she wanted to work and that it was important for her to keep her promise to her father to look after the family for as long as she could.
Bakhtawara was still busy working when she heard her little nephew calling, ‘Hajiani, Hajiani, look, I’ve come with food.’
She pushed the bailcha into the ground and walked towards the tree where she had hung her turban and gun. Shah Mahmoud greeted her, put the food on the ground and went to fetch the water pot. He first poured it over Bakhtawara’s hands and then washed his own. This was one of Shah Mahmoud’s daily chores: after school he had to bring food for Bakhtawara, which they would share under the shade of a tree. Bakhtawara unwrapped the food and found potatoes and hot bread, which her sister-in-law had cooked on the griddle pan. She took the onion, pressed it down with her hand until it split and gave some to Shah Mahmoud.
‘Did anyone tease you at school today?’ she asked him.
‘Yes, the boys are still calling you a narkhazak.’
The mention of this word again set Bakhtawara’s mind back to the time when she’d become a woman. As she ate, she remembered the day it had happened. She had been playing marbles with the boys in the village – they all thought she was another boy and treated her like one. Suddenly she felt an ache in her back, then as she got up to chase the marbles she felt a pain in her legs and stomach but ignored it. She kept playing and running, and was on the verge of winning the game. She squatted down as she pushed her marbles into the little hole, making her the winner and then stood up in triumph. As she did so, she felt some liquid escape between her legs and thought that perhaps she had wet herself. She ran home to change, but when she looked down at her cream-coloured shalwar she noticed it was stained with blood. Bakhtawara ran towards the wash-room, shouting to her sister-in-law that she had been shot and was bleeding. When her sister-in-law saw where the blood was on Bakhtawara’s shalwar, she guessed it was her monthly period. Bakhtawara was still checking her legs to see where she had been shot. Her sister-in-law told her not to worry and that this sort of bleeding happened when girls became women. It was the first time Bakhtawara had heard such things; she was embarrassed and upset. She went into her room and wept. She wanted to be like the other boys but nature had shown her otherwise. Alone in her room, Bakhtawara unwrapped her breasts and looked at them. She hated her body and hated being a woman. She wanted to play marbles with the boys and be free like a man.
Bakhtawara went to speak to her mother who was now old and weak. She told Bakhtawara that as her father had given her all the responsibilities it was impossible for her to return to being a normal girl. She had no choice but to accept living like a man. So Bakhtawara started to wear baggy clothes and a waistcoat to hide her female form.
Shah Mahmoud interrupted Bakhtawara’s memories. ‘Hajiani, should I go now?’
Bakhtawara told him to take the pots back to the house immediately and not to get involved in fights with other boys. Then she said her prayers and returned to work.
After several more hours’ work, Bakhtawara picked up her gun and turban and headed home. It was getting dark but she noticed that the small shop in the village was still open. She went inside to buy sweets for the children and a notebook for Durkhani. This was a typical day for Bakhtawara: working in the fields, sorting out problems in the village and providing for her family.
Back at home, Bakhtawara ate with the family and told them how tired she was and how she would be going to sleep early. Once she was alone in her room she tried to work out why so many past memories had come back to her today. She realised it was the word narkhazak that had reminded her of her past life. Bakhtawara had long accepted this was her fate but there had been one occasion when she had bitterly regretted it. A couple of years ago there had been a wedding for a close family member of her sister-in-law. Her sister-in-law’s family knew that Bakhtawara was really a woman but there were some women from the more remote areas of the community who didn’t know this. This wedding was to be a grand affair because the family was rich.
In Khost a man might pay several thousand dollars for a wife. The man’s family is responsible for all the wedding expenses but sometimes the cost of the bride’s jewellery and items for the couple’s new home would be shared. In rich families the event can last for three or four days. The groom’s family will start their celebrations a month in advance of the actual wedding. Women in the groom’s family will be bought several new outfits – the more expensive the clothes the happier they are. On the day that the bride arrives at the groom’s home, food is served to hundreds of people. Rich people will slaughter cows and sheep for the wedding feast. Women and men are kept in separate areas: the men usually gather outside in the courtyard and are entertained with professional musicians; the women are given a large room inside the house where there is singing and drum playing.
In Afghan weddings, especially Pashtun ones, the groom’s sisters and female family members will all dance. The women in the bride’s family will also wear new and expensive clothes – a sign that they are upset that their daughter is leaving. Sometimes the mother will be too upset to wear new clothes since she does not know if the new in-laws will treat her daughter well.
Bakhtawara’s sister-in-law had persuaded her to go to this wedding so that she could see what a rich bride’s wedding was like and enjoy the lavish celebration. Bakhtawara would usually go to village weddings as a man and attend the male parties. Occasionally, at close family weddings, she was allowed to go to the women’s party but this was the first time that she would be attending a larger wedding as a woman.
Bakhtawara wore a new white shalwar kamiz and her niece had polished her leather chapli until they shone like new. She felt happy and carefree when she left the house with her family. All the women were wearing brightly coloured and glittery Pashtun dresses and lots of makeup. Bakhtawara walked ahead of them with Shah Mahmoud. When they arrived at the house, they found the garden had been decorated with bright plastic flowers. Bakhtawara followed her sister-in-law into the part of the house where the women were gathering. As she got closer she heard the women giggling.
‘Oh, I see you’ve come with your narkhazak,’ they teased her sister-in-law. ‘What does this narkhazak carry in her trousers? A kus or a khota?’ And they dissolved into peals of laughter.
Her sister-in-law warned the women that if they didn’t keep quiet Bakhtawara would get angry and attack them. At this, the women quietened down. Meanwhile Bakhtawara went to sit by herself in a corner of the room. She pretended that she hadn’t heard any of this exchange because she knew her sister-in-law would be embarrassed at her family’s behaviour. Bakhtawara felt helpless. With men she had the strength and skill to fight them, but she had no idea how to defend herself against the mockery of these giggling women. For the first time Bakhtawara recognised she had less power and confidence amongst women than she did amongst men. On that day, too, she realised exactly what she had lost with the denial of her womanhood and she felt a grief almost as profound as when her parents had died. Her physical strength, her gun and turban all helped her gain respect from men, but she had nothing in her armoury to defend herself against the maliciousness of women.
Bakhtawara sat silently with Shah Mahmoud at her side. Delicious plates of food were brought in but Bakhtawara had no appetite. Her heart felt heavy and broken. Bakhtawara’s sister-in-law could see she was upset and came to ask if she needed anything more, but Bakhtawara shook her head and with that her sister-in-law fled, ashamed by her family’s attitude towards Bakhtawara. Bakhtawara wanted to cry but she was so used to being strong and manly that she couldn’t. Her parents had taught her that only weak men cry and that if she were seen to be weak people would take advantage of her. Tears may not have fallen dow
n her face but her stony expression couldn’t mask the fact that Bakhtawara was shattered.
After all the guests had eaten, a young girl went around the room with a water pot, offering it to the guests to wash their hands. Bakhtawara moved her hands towards the girl so that she could pour water on them but the young girl couldn’t stop laughing. After Bakhtawara finished washing she asked, ‘What’s so funny? Have you heard a good joke?’
The little girl stepped back and said, ‘Hajiani, my friends and I think you are the joke!’
The girl burst into giggles again, and other young girls joined in the laughter.
‘You shameless girls,’ Bakhtawara said, her anger rising. ‘What’s so funny about me? Is there a joke written on my forehead?’
The girls ran to each other and shouted, ‘Yes, the joke is that you’re a man with no beard. You look funny, like a cartoon. You pretend to be a man but you’re really a narkhazak, aren’t you?’ And with that they laughed and went away.
Bakhtawara didn’t want to make a fuss and spoil the wedding for her sister-in-law, so she told herself that she must say nothing and suffer in silence. A crowd of women were singing as they walked in procession with the bride. They were leading the bride to her place in the corner of the room. Bakhtawara gazed at the bride in her red glittery dress, green shawl and gold jewellery. She looked so young and happy. As Bakhtawara joined in the clapping for the bride, she again felt that yearning to be a woman, a mother and a bride. How she wished that she was standing in the bride’s place. Surely she deserved all this, too, but she remembered that she was over thirty years old and that no one had ever praised her for her beauty, no one had ever knocked on her door to ask for her hand in marriage. She knew, however, that people would soon come and ask her for her niece Durkhani’s hand. It wasn’t the first time that Bakhtawara had felt this hunger to be cared for and loved as a woman. Whenever she saw her brother behaving attentively towards his wife she felt this pang of envy and whenever her sister came to the house with her children she wished she could have a family too; but she never spoke to anyone about these feelings.
Dear Zari: Hidden Stories from Women of Afghanistan Page 25