Escaping husband’s violence in Taliban times
I live in a province in central Afghanistan. I studied up to the 12th grade. I lost my dreams even before the Taliban took over as I was unable to consider going to university or building an independent life after finishing school. My current life was shaped through a combination of misfortunes, Taliban restrictions, the traditional beliefs that dominate my family, and societal backwardness.
My maternal cousin was my suitor. He is Shia. My aunt frequently visited our home to propose, only to be repeatedly rejected by my father, who declared, “I won’t pollute my blood.” He meant that because we are Hanafi Sunni, my marrying a Shia man would taint our lineage.
This back-and-forth of my aunt insisting and my father refusing continued for some time. My father didn’t hesitate to use violence against the women of the family. Whenever I tried to talk to my father, I was beaten as was my mother. We had no right to protest.
A girl’s fate in Afghanistan is in the hands of her father. If he decides to act out of stubbornness, that single act can doom his daughter for life. Fathers don’t apologize to their daughters. They believe they have absolute authority to destroy their daughters’ futures. Before the fall of the Republic, my father was an educated man, a colonel working in Kabul. I never expected him to ruin my life with his own hands.
One day, amid my aunt’s repeated proposals, my father came home and announced that he had chosen a groom for me and that I was engaged. We were completely blindsided and had no choice as protesting would only result in my mother and me being beaten yet again.
The groom was in Iran. We were engaged for seven long years — a period that felt like prolonged torture. Over the phone, he harassed and mistreated me. I repeatedly complained about his behaviour to my father and begged him to call off the engagement, but my pleas were in vain.
When the groom returned to Afghanistan, I was so distressed by his treatment that I preferred death to becoming his wife. I attempted to die by suicide. I consumed poison and cut my wrists with broken glass. After I lost consciousness, my family rushed me to the hospital and saved my life.
With no other choice, I reluctantly prepared for marriage. On the wedding day, my father told my groom that he was handing me over in a bridal gown and would only accept me back in a burial shroud [meaning divorce is not an option]. My brothers were complicit in my father’s actions. None of them cared enough to listen to me. Instead, they sold me for money.
After my wedding, my husband sold my gold jewellery, claiming it was to pay off his debts. When I protested, he punched me in the mouth causing my teeth to hurt for a month. A year later, I discovered he was cheating on me and had relationships with multiple women. I wasn’t naive — I noticed everything and suffered in silence.
One day, I caught him with another woman. Unable to bear it any longer, I went to the Taliban’s local security office to report him. They told me I had been deceived by the devil and warned that my complaint could destroy my home. They said it was normal for men to behave this way and that women should neither protest nor complain.
I insisted that they investigate my husband. They summoned him, but there was no physical evidence to prove that he had committed adultery. My husband told the Taliban that I was either crazy or dreaming, and as a result, I was blamed in court. The authorities handed me over to the Department for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice, where they lectured me for hours about the virtues of obeying my husband.
We returned home after the court session. On the doorstep, my husband beat me severely, then threw me out of the house, declaring I no longer had a place there. He said I was free to go wherever I wanted.
I went to my sister’s house, but two weeks later, I learned that my husband had sold all the furniture from our shared home and left for Iran. I had no home to return to.
My father refused to let me stay at his house. Sometimes I think there must be a shelter I can go to for safety and spend my nights, but I don’t know of any such place.
The consequence of protesting my husband’s behaviour has left me homeless and without refuge. At the beginning of our marriage, my father and brothers had said that my husband was my new master. Now he has abandoned me.
For several nights, I’ve been sleeping near parked cars or in the corners of alleyways. During the day, some people mistake me for an addict or a beggar and offer me food. But at night, I have nowhere to go. Every moment, I live in fear — fear of sexual assault and fear of being arrested by the Taliban.
Where can I go? What can I do?
This story was narrated to a Zan Times journalist by a woman who was given the pseudonym of Sama for her safety.
