My husband sold me and my daughters
One day my husband unexpectedly told me that we were heading to Pakistan in a few days. He said a friend there had arranged a job for him. We had no money, and there was nothing valuable in the house to sell.
When we reached Pakistan, there was no job. His friend had just wanted a companion with which to do drugs. My husband started spending all his time with his friend. He was always intoxicated. He didn’t care about how we were managing. Every time I protested, he beat me so badly I was bruised or injured for weeks. Once, he dislocated my shoulder forcing me to go around trying to find a bite of food while one of my shoulders hung limp from my body.
Most days, I vowed to leave this useless man right then and there, but I was afraid of the shame among the Afghan community in Pakistan. We stayed in Pakistan for six months, but he never found a job. Our situation worsened with each passing day. Finally, we returned to Kabul.
Just as I was feeling a bit at peace in Kabul, my husband came back and made life miserable again for my daughters and me. Every day started with a fight, and every night ended with shouting and arguments. My mother works as a cleaner at a hospital in Kabul, and she gave me some of her salary so I could buy warm clothes and blankets for my children. My husband found out about the money, which I had hidden, and demanded that I give it to him. When I refused, he hit me over the head with a gas cylinder. When I regained consciousness, I realized I’d been left out in the cold yard, lifeless like a corpse.
After that attack, I sought refuge at my mother’s home. I stayed there for a few days, but once again, my husband came after us. With a series of lies and pleas, he convinced my mother to let me and the children return to him. Some time passed, and then he informed me that we were going to Iran. He made decisions for our life as though I were his slave or prisoner. He didn’t answer any of my questions. Instead, he told me to be ready — we were going.
Six years ago, my father married me off to him without our consent, even though my mother and I didn’t know this man or his family. From the beginning, I wasn’t happy, but I went along. He had a job and an income. Two years after our marriage, he became an addict. Whenever I objected, he’d beat me to the point of near death. He felt entitled to live however he pleased and to treat me and his children however he wanted.
When he was fired from his job, our misery deepened. He began selling everything in the house. Every day, something went missing — the TV, the sewing machine, the washing machine, the mattresses, and other household items. There was nothing I could do. When there was nothing left to sell, he decided to sell me and his children.
Under the pretext of going to Iran, he took us from Kabul, and after a 20-hour journey, we reached Nimruz. In Nimruz, he took us to a guesthouse. Moments after we arrived, I noticed him outside, loudly talking with some men. I realized they were talking about me and my daughters. My husband said, “Haji Sahib, come see for yourself; my wife and daughters are here. I brought all three.” He intended to sell us to a stranger. In fact, he already had and had pocketed the money.
I was shaking. I pulled my scarf around my head and sat in a corner. The men entered the room, and, seeing that my daughters and I were there, went back outside. As they spoke in the hallway, I woke my daughters and prepared to escape through the only window in that room. I lowered each of my daughters, one by one, then somehow squeezed myself through the small window and fell into the alley.
I was crying as I took my daughters’ hands and began to walk. At the end of the alley was a shop where an elderly man stood. I begged him for his phone. He only spoke Pashto, so he couldn’t understand my Dari. I kept crying, and perhaps because of my tears, he handed me his phone. I called my mother, told her about my situation, and pleaded with her to do something quickly.
After wandering the streets for an hour, I found a small group of Taliban fighters and told them that my husband had brought us from Kabul and was planning to sell me and my daughters. They didn’t understand me as none of them spoke Dari. My mother had gone to the Taliban office in Kabul and filed a report. The Taliban in Kabul notified their members at the Iranian border. The Taliban commander asked my name, and after verifying it with the details my mother had provided, they took us in.
I was still crying, but one of the Taliban told me, “Women don’t speak loudly.” I was asking for help, but he wanted me to be composed and silent. They detained my daughters and me, and then they also arrested my husband and the two other men. My husband had been paid 200,000 afghanis for us, and they found the money in his pocket.
After two days in detention, my mother came to our aid and got us released. She took us to her home. Now, I live with my mother, but I hear that the Taliban have released my husband and that he has gone to Iran. I fear that he’ll return to kill me some day.
Many times, I’ve told my mother that I want a divorce, but she says, “Under Taliban rule, where can we go to file a complaint?” Really, which authority listens to women’s voices, and which court will rule in favor of a woman so I can go to them for justice? My husband may come back and kill me. Perhaps after my death, he’d spend some time in prison and be released, just like when he was briefly imprisoned after selling me and my daughters.
Nazila is the pseudonym of a 29-year-old woman living in northern Afghanistan.
