By Anousha
This narrative was inspired by the courage of a woman known as Elaha, a role model who inspired many to tell their own stories. I want to write about what has happened to me in the last months. I’m not sure where to begin. I have to confess that I don’t even know how to begin. The neglect and denial I’ve experienced cannot truly be expressed in words. I am aiming to speak up like Elaha did, with all my courage. I am going to overcome the fear of death, as Elaha did, and tell the story of death I have lived through these months.
When I saw Elaha’s upset face, I knew I should no longer feel ashamed. Yes, like Elaha, I am going to tell the story of my life. Here is the story of how this territory is a cemetery for Elaha, and the wishes of many Elahas.
When I was 14 or 15 years old, it was the first time that I noticed the glances of a neighbour girl. Her large and bright eyes made her the most attractive creature that I had ever seen. She was about a year older than me. She had a kind heart and abundant intelligence. We always used to walk to school together. She used to polish her shiny black shoes every day and iron her snow-white scarf. At seven o’clock every morning, she would come to my apartment door. I knew she was there when the fragrance of jasmine filled the hallway. We used to walk 2,500 steps to school every day.
She was my type and my equal. Neither she nor I paid attention to the taunts of men on the street. We avoided looking at the insolent and shameless faces of those who put their hands between their legs or exposed their penises when they saw us. However, we trembled in fear and anger. It was as if we were defenceless and naked. Men on the street scared us to the death. It was as if they were also multiplying as we grew older. Several people harassed us every day, and, in return, we avoided certain areas to avoid being seen by them. However, it was no use. It was as if they smelled our fear and reappeared on our route again.
The days, weeks, and months flew by. In a blink of an eye, high school was over and we entered university. Both of us were accepted into the fields of our choice! She was going to be a scientist and I was going to be a writer. It was as if we’ve aged 30 years in three years. My love for her or her love for me had grown and matured as the number of days we had spent together with happiness. Like an ivy flower, our love had grown tall and blossomed. She was all my world when I was 19. She was all my faith. At the time, we were grown up and mature, and everyone told us we had a bright future. Like a gazelle, she was agile, tall, slender, and beautiful. Her blue eyes, her heavenly voice, and her angelic laugh was amazing. And I … I still don’t know what I meant to her.
Finally, after waiting long, our round-the-clock efforts paid off. Our university, the house of 1,000 dreams and wishes, began. On the first days of university we realized that we were in love. I don’t know if it was the feeling of walking with her under those tall pines or the mysterious whisper of the wind that drew me to her. Whatever it was, it happened one day in the university yard. When we jumped from a runnel, we held hands and never let go of each other.
The moment when she took my hand, I felt the ground beneath my feet was empty. Unless I sat down and took a deep breath, I felt like my heart would burst. I blushed at the thought of her knowing my feelings. Despite the breeze of autumn, everything was so warm and fluid next to her that I couldn’t feel my own weight. I glanced into her eyes for a brief moment. Her eyes were full of tears. In silence, hand in hand, listening to the whisper of the old university pines, we became part of the glorious tableau of existence, forgetting the passing of the time and the surroundings!
Four years flew by like lightning and wind. Even for a moment, we were not able to recognize we’d entered the forbidden land. We were not able to recognize we were in the land of prohibitions and calamities, and we were surrounded by war and insanity. All we could or wanted to think about, was our secret, romantic bubble. During our university years, we learned other languages, we read and researched, learning that our feelings are natural and human. We learned that men and women may fall in love with the same sex. Like us. She in biology and me in literature and art were looking for answers to our endless questions about love.
Our families’ chatter and plans about a future that wasn’t our choice were growing more serious during those days. My family, knowing I would never accept getting married, was determined to send me abroad for further education. Her family pressured her to marry.
Then, the day had arrived, a day we could never imagine. Political and security conditions were deteriorating rapidly. In Doha, the United States and the Taliban reached an agreement. In every corner of the country, the Taliban were capturing more and more territory every day. In the midst of fear and despair, we graduated from university. She worked in a laboratory and I worked for an international organization. Almost every evening, at the end of the day, we would meet in a cozy café in the city centre, watching each other greedily. Every day, we watched the city from its highest point and made plans for its bright future. We were talking about our dream of union, and creating a land where love prevails over enmity in all its corners.
One day, she came to the café, restless and impatient. She explained that her family had asked that she marry a wealthy man who lived outside Afghanistan and who had been asking for a long time that she marry him Apparently, her father was concerned about the political situation and the return of the Taliban and did not think it would be appropriate for her to stay in Afghanistan. According to her father, the man was a famous and successful businessman abroad. She showed me an image of a man with dyed hair and false teeth on her mobile phone.
In Afghanistan, lesbian women are condemned to double suffering. Silence and patience are our only options. Dominant mores do not recognize our love. Culture, language, ethics, and politics are all against us in this geography and serve prejudice against us. But why? Isn’t living a right granted by God? Isn’t the right to choose and be chosen, the right to be free, and the right to love inherent in every human being’s nature? Don’t women like us have free will and authority as human beings?
As women, neither she nor I had the opportunity or means to confront patriarchy. Both of us were aware of our vulnerability. Amid the willful play of powerful and rich men around us, our love for each other was born as an innocent dove in a cage, about to be sacrificed. As women in Afghanistan, we were doomed to surrender and obedience. We had witnessed extreme and hostile masculinity everywhere, at home and on the street. She and I had repeatedly challenged misogynist thinking, justified in the name of ethics, values, and principles. However, we both knew that in a land where our love is forbidden, our love wouldn’t yield fruit without a revolution and fundamental change.
She accepted that wedding contract. She got married and handed over her authority to her body, mind as well as her future to the rich man. I stayed. I stayed to resist in her place, too. During the last year, I haven’t left my house except for a few times. In a sense, I am a prisoner, as I refuse to submit to their forced coverings and shameful restrictions. I don’t want to leave the city where I fell in love. I don’t want to rot in exile and regret.
I know many people do not have that option. I’m aware that a great deal of human capital, especially women, has been thrown to the corners of the world since these criminals rose to power. However, I will stay here as long as I can.
In the shelter of my special situation and under my family’s support, I will stay to take roots in the land of my love. In this dungeon, I write and narrate. I stay to document forbidden love in the land of death. For me, being surrounded by books and texts is the most peaceful refuge. In the past year and in the midst of this darkness, I have gained the courage to stand in front of the mirror and tell my story. Now, even if I am killed, I know that blue is the warmest colour! Her blue eyes.
Anousha is the pen name of a lesbian writer who lives in Afghanistan.
