Afghanistan Diaries: Madina

I was at home with my four daughters. Deprived of having a son, I endured constant beatings from my husband. Beyond that, he never treated our daughters well. To him, they were nothing more than servants, that is to collect sheer baha or toyana (a sum of money traditionally paid by the groom or his family to the bride’s family).

It was a sunny day. My daughters sat together in the courtyard, playing with their wooden toys. My eldest was only eight years old, and the rest were even younger because, in my husband’s desperate hope for a son, I was forced to give birth every year.

In our village, when a girl was engaged, the groom’s family, along with the elders of the community, would come to the bride’s home to perform the religious ceremony.

That day, my husband stormed into the kitchen and ordered me to prepare tea and sweets. “Important guests are coming,” he said. “Today, we will marry off our daughter.”

His words left me frozen in shock. I screamed, slapped my own face in sorrow, but he silenced me with kicks and blows until I gave in and began the preparations. I thought I was dreaming a nightmare that would end any moment. But no, it was all real.

I turned to my daughter and said, “My love, today you will become a bride.” Still lost in her childhood innocence, she did not grasp the weight of my words.

By evening, the guests arrived. My daughters and I were locked in a room because all the visitors were men, and we were required to remain unseen.

Then, I heard the voice of the village mullah declaring the marriage complete. “The nikah is done. Congratulations to all.”

That voice still reflects in my ears. The voice that marked the beginning of my daughter’s destruction.

I can never forget her cries as she said goodbye to her sisters. My helpless gaze, full of sorrow, fixed upon my daughters. And on the other side, a father, his pockets now heavy with money, indifferent to the fate of the daughter he had just sold.

They took her away to a place we knew nothing about.

Two years passed—two years of separation, longing, and silence.

Then, one day, a body was brought to our courtyard. Wrapped in a white shroud.

Inside it lay my ten-year-old daughter.