Be Her Voice
BY: Jeiran Kurdestani
The story you are about to read is the story of a 32-year-old woman from Afghanistan. For her safety and the sensitivity of her story, I cannot share her name or anymore than she told me, but she wants to be heard. I ask that you listen.
I want the world to listen to me.
I was the first child in my family. For as long as I can remember, my father tortured my mother for giving birth to a girl and not a boy. I cannot recall a time when my father ever hugged or kissed me. My real name was never spoken in our house. I was called dokhtar, “girl”. In Afghanistan, the birth of a son is cause for celebration and the arrival of a daughter is often mourned as a failure.
My father is 25 years older than my mother. It was hard for him to accept this age difference — that’s why he was always trying to humiliate her. My mother’s parents passed away when she was 12. Her brothers sold her to my father. What I know about my mother’s life is that her pride was deeply bruised, and she was betrayed by all the men in her life.My mother was not allowed to put on makeup or wear proper clothes. She was also not allowed to have her hair show.
Similarly, his tone was always harsh. Not only did we never receive any kindness from him, but we were also victimized by his violence. Once I remember he beat my mother up while he was insulting her. I was around six-years-old at the time, and I could not stand it. I threw a stone at his head. The roofs of our house and those of the neighbors were connected, I escaped from one roof to another. Finally, he caught me and he did not let me eat for three days.
I hate my father.
What I remember from my childhood is mayhem, insults, insecurity, and indignity.
One time, as a child, I polished my nails and the moment my father found out, he put my hands into the fire, and he told me: “ A girl should not polish their nails. A girl should not talk. A girl should not walk. A girl should not live.”
To him a girl is someone who spends her life cooking, washing, serving, and fulfilling a man’s desires.
Growing up, I always felt trapped in my family. Eventually, my brothers got older, and they became the new tormentors in my life. I was treated like a slave at home. By age 14 I was married off. Marriage was the last thing I wanted. I had a dream, but it was lost along the way.
I was a girl who wanted to study and be someone, but you cannot escape your destiny. I was left with no choice but to marry. Although it was a forced marriage, I was kind of lucky because my husband was not 30 years older than me, and he did not have a wife and children. I became a wife that any husband wants: a woman who cooks, washes, and gives birth to the next miserable generation of our beloved country.
Time passed and a new chapter of my life began.
I got into an accident with a motorcyclist while I was taking my daughter to kindergarten. The driver did a favor for me and took me to the hospital; I was not injured severely. He was feeling guilty therefore he took my number to make sure that I was okay. A couple of days had passed since the incident when he texted me and asked me if I was alright. He was very polite so I answered him. It was how our relationship started. After a while, I found myself in the middle of an emotional relationship. It was the first time in my life that I felt like I was a human being and not an object.
I cannot describe how happy I was. Half of my heart was living in heaven. I was loved, a feeling I had never experienced before. He was very understanding and caring. I opened up and revealed myself to him, which means that I told him all my secrets. I talked about my family, my children, and my husband. I explained to him how much I had endured as a child. After I revealed my past to him, I would expect him to ask for sex but he was looking for more than that. I felt valued. Time flew by, but I do not know when and how he had changed.
He threatened to reveal our chats and my photos to my brothers, but I did not take him seriously. Things went from worse to horrendous. He threatened to kidnap and rape my daughter if I did not sleep with him. I was defenseless. I had no choice but to accept. First it was once a week, later he wanted me every day. I felt like I was on a rollercoaster that I couldn’t get off.
I was forced to meet him in the same house against my will. I didn’t really want to go but he insisted. While we were having sex, the door opened. My brother caught us. For a second, my whole world collapsed in front of my eyes. Not only did he not defend me, but he blamed me for everything. He could never accept that he had been at fault. Like the cold breath of a grave, his words seemed to cut my soul. My heart almost stopped beating. I will never forget the look on my brother’s face. I was stricken into silence.
I felt a hand pull my hair and push me against the wall. I tasted blood in my mouth, and my nose was bleeding. He knew how to use brute violence when it was needed. I wished I was dead. I could barely remember what happened. I’m not sure how many days and hours had passed. When I came around I found myself in a warehouse, tied up. My body was hurting so much. I hardly could move. My pain felt like a sharp-toothed creature eating me from the inside.
What happened to my abuser? I do not know, and I do not care.
My brother was coming to me every two hours and explaining the different methods he had in mind for torturing and killing me. One time he told me that he wanted to tear me into pieces, or bury me alive. Stoning was a favor to me, he said.
To this day I am always wondering, how?
The same blood is flowing in our veins. My brothers and I grew up in the same house for many years, I looked after them, and we were breastfed from the same mother. They did not let me tell them that I was forced, that I am innocent. I made a mistake, but I did not deserve to be tortured. I was always paying for the mistakes of others.
After a couple more rounds of this kind of torture, my father visited me. Murder was in my father’s eyes. “I should have killed you when you were born,” is the only thing that I recall he said. They did not let me say even a word to defend myself. They should have known that I was forced.
I was left there with my thoughts. I was thinking about the future of the children whose mother committed adultery — how they would deal with it. I wanted to kill myself to bring an end to this madness, but I could not because I was tied up.
I was half asleep, half-awake, when I heard the door open. Someone took my shoulder; I could hardly move. I could not recognize the person pulling me into a car outside. They drove for a long time. After, I saw my husband and his friend. They were there to save me. My husband didn’t ask any questions. We did not talk. Meanwhile, they dressed my wounds and put some clean clothes on me and took me directly to a smuggler’s house.
The next morning, I fled to Iran illegally. I went to my husband’s friend’s house. They took care of me until I recuperated. After ten days, my husband and my children joined me, and we escaped to a far away place. Still, I am a fugitive. My husband told me that my mother and youngest sister helped him to save me. Later, I learned that they were beaten by my brothers and father.
Once I asked my husband why he forgave me, he didn’t have an answer — maybe because of our children. Perhaps because of our life, or maybe love.
My brother sent me a threatening message one day:
“You are not my sister anymore, bear in mind that I will find you wherever you are and I will kill you, I will destroy this black mark, and I will kill your cowardice husband.”
I live with the fear of prosecution every moment of my life. I am pregnant. I wanted to abort my child; I wondered why I should give birth to a child whose mother is a fugitive? But, when I saw my baby girl’s hands and legs in the monitor, I changed my mind. Maybe it’s a new hope for me. I have never felt love for my husband, and I think that he feels the same way, but what I do care about is what he did for me. It means a lot, and maybe one day I can love him.
I do not want my girls to experience the life that I have lived. I do not wish for anything except for the world to hear my voice. I am a representative of the thousands of Afghan women who live the same life in Afghanistan. I want the world to listen to my story so that, one day, women like me can live a safe, just life.
Jeiran Kurdestani completed her MA in Urban Planning from Tehran University of Art. For her master’s dissertation, she spent two years researching, meeting, and interviewing different kinds of people in underserved parts of Tehran. She has always aspired to work with a social justice organization, which led her to work with the UN Habitat Office in Iran. Through her extensive research and outreach, Jeiran is committed to helping victims of domestic violence.
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