A life as wide as the courtyard: A review of ‘Let Me Write to You’
The story Let Me Write to You by Nahid Mehregan takes place in the city of Herat during the first Taliban rule. The novel narrates the lives of several women whose world is no larger than the courtyard of a house. The women are so tightly bound to this space that even if they went to the most beautiful, grand cities of the world, they would return of their own accord to the four walls that Mehregan calls the koti (a small, enclosed house).
The narrator of the story is a woman whose name is never mentioned. It seems the narrator was born solely to bear witness to the fate of a woman named Elnaz, who sets herself on fire in the very final lines of the story. She renounces every form of joy and success for the sake of Elnaz’s self-immolation, and as a form of punishment, returns from Germany to the koti, to end her life there—just like the women of that confined home.
In the beginning of the story, Elnaz is a passionate young woman who sets up a volleyball net in the middle of the courtyard and dreams of becoming a doctor. In the suffocating presence of the Taliban, she falls in love.
Four women live in this koti: the narrator, her mother, Elnaz, and Elnaz’s mother. The mothers of the narrator and Elnaz are sisters; their fathers are brothers. Samira, Elnaz’s mother, is the quintessential Afghan woman — her life is marked by relentless domestic violence at the hands of her husband. Every joint in her body aches from his kicks and punches, yet she cannot loosen the noose of loyalty tied around her neck. She is denied the chance to truly be a mother to her children.
Years ago, a man had captured Samira’s heart, and following the trace of that love, she arrived at the koti, where they were married. But the relationship did not remain romantic. Ever since, she has endured constant humiliation and beatings. Her sister — who once witnessed that love — now watches her being shamed and abused, and each time, asks with sorrow:
“Will you fall in love again?”
The Taliban’s rule also affected Elnaz’s life, but what drove her to self-immolation runs deeper than their existence. Just hours before setting herself on fire, Elnaz complains about her husband, saying he is exactly like her father: “No one saved me, just as no one saved my mother.” On the first night of her marriage, she suffers violence at his hands. Her hands are wounded, and now — just one day after her wedding — she wants to set herself on fire.
Throughout the story, the narrator mentions that it is Samira’s voice being heard as she is beaten. But no one has the patience to intervene. From adolescence to old age, Samira has endured her husband’s beatings, yet was never able to find safe shelter or justice.
In the end, her daughter Elnaz becomes trapped in a similar cycle of violence, with nowhere to turn for help. Elnaz’s father is deeply aggressive and vulgar, and he doesn’t hesitate to hurl obscene insults at his daughter. In that helplessness, she sets herself on fire.
Online, there are many reports and stories about women in Herat who set themselves on fire. One headline from Jomhor News Agency reads: “86% of women’s self-immolation cases in all of Afghanistan occur in Herat.” That report from 2011 cites local Herat officials who stated that 86 cases of female self-immolation were recorded that year, and more than 50 percent of those women died.
Women in Herat resort to self-immolation due to forced marriages, domestic violence, and a lack of support from both the government and society. The high numbers of these cases reveals a deep tension between the desires and expectations of women and the suffocating traditions that bind them. Women’s awareness of what could be has grown thanks to urban life and education but traditional family structures and patriarchal norms have not evolved. In this context, self-immolation becomes a desperate and devastating protest against a closed society and patriarchal oppression.
For the narrator, the tragic death of her cousin Elnaz affects her more deeply than it does Elnaz’s father, husband, brother, or uncle. Elnaz’s younger brother, under Taliban rule, becomes a victim of sexual assault and eventually joins the ranks of the very perpetrators who violated him.
Samira, after a lifetime of enduring violence, is ultimately left alone, with neither son nor daughter to help. In her solitude, she recites the Quran, laments her situation, and remains terrified of her husband.
In that koti, two men live: the narrator’s father and Elnaz’s father. The narrator’s father is indifferent — he doesn’t react to anything. As his daughter says, he goes to work silently every day and returns home without a word. When the Taliban return to power, he adopts a Taliban-like appearance. On the other hand, Elnaz’s father is a man of brute force and so-called ghairat (honour). He doesn’t change his appearance when the Taliban return, yet nor does he leave the courtyard. His confinement only makes him more aggressive and foul-mouthed.
During the first Taliban regime, schools and universities were closed to women. Public baths for women were shut down. Women in Herat were forbidden from moving about the city without wearing a burqa (the blue full-body veil). Still, the narrator and Elnaz secretly enroll in a clandestine health education class. They wear burqas to walk the streets to attend class and sometimes they buy groceries along the way, in an effort to confuse the Taliban.
The man who falls in love with Elnaz appears to be an ideal partner in the eyes of young women. He is polite, respectful, educated, and seemingly aware of how life works. But he tells Elnaz: “I’ll marry you only if you let go of your dream to become a doctor and stop thinking about wearing a surgeon’s gown.” Elnaz becomes the wife of this seemingly modern man and doesn’t lose hope for her future until their wedding night. What happens that night shatters her completely. The next day, she sets herself on fire.
After the first Taliban regime’s era, a man from Germany comes to Herat to propose to the narrator. Unlike Elnaz’s husband, on their wedding night, this man tells the narrator: “Since you’re feeling anxious, it’s better that you rest tonight.”
But the narrator views her husband’s kindness with suspicion. Until that point in her life, all she has ever known from the men around her is violence, insults, and humiliation. She cannot believe that a husband could say such gentle words on their wedding night.
Khadija Haidary is Zan Times journalist.
