Dear Zari: Hidden Stories from Women of Afghanistan by Zarghuna Kargar Page B

laughed.
    ‘I’m scared I might cough or sneeze. I’ve never heard my voice recorded. I don’t know what to do and I want my voice to sound good, even though my story is sad!’ I reassured her that it wouldn’t matter if she coughed or sneezed, as I could edit out any unnecessary noises, and told her to relax and just talk normally. Shereenjan giggled like a schoolgirl, and pointed to the microphone and asked if it could also take her photo. I replied that it could only record her voice and that for radio we wouldn’t need her photo. She sounded so cheerful and normal as she settled down for the interview that I really didn’t expect what I was about to hear.
    Everything started to go wrong when my father married a second wife. He’d had an argument with another family and wanted to settle it so he paid them a lot of money, but they wanted more. But the disagreement was far more serious than money could settle, as my father had argued about land and the distribution of water in the village and had ended up killing one of their family members. As a result, my father lived in constant fear, and my mother and stepmother seemed worried all the time. Even though I was only a child of nine or ten years old, I knew there was something seriously wrong. Every day men would arrive at our house and intense discussions would take place. I used to carry the water jugs so our guests could wash their hands. I had no clue what everyone was talking about, nor was I that interested either; I just wanted to finish handing out the soap and towels so I could get back to playing with my friends. One day I filled the koza (water jug) and took it with the lagan (bowl) to the guest room.One of the guests, who was like an uncle to me, looked closely at me as I poured water over his hands. He then said to my father, ‘You know, Jabar Khan, there is another way to solve this dispute. We could use Shereenjan .’
    I looked at my uncle and smiled at the mention of my name; I had no idea what he meant. I giggled and left the room, thinking that he was perhaps praising me for carrying out my duties so well. Of course I now know just what he meant, and these days whenever I think about that man, I have nothing but contempt for him. He put the idea into my father’s head, and I sometimes think it would never have happened if it hadn’t been for him .
    My nightmare began on a lovely sunny day when I wanted to be out playing with my friends. My mother called me into the house and told me to get ready because we were going to a wedding ceremony. I told her I didn’t want to go but she handed me my new pink shalwar kamiz. She had made it especially for Eid and I had only worn it once. She tried to comb my hair, but it was sticky and greasy because I hadn’t washed it for a while. When I was a little girl, I used to run around like a boy, getting dirty and into all sorts of scrapes, and I didn’t much care for washing or looking tidy. I could see tears in my mother’s eyes as she struggled to pull the comb through my hair and asked her why she was crying. She said she was sad because I was leaving, so I hugged her and said I didn’t want to go to the wedding and would stay behind with her. But she pushed some sweets into my hand and said I had to go to the wedding with my grandmother and two other women. My grandmother held my hand tightly as we walked there, and I asked, ‘Grandma, why are you not wearing new clothes for the wedding?’ She told me there was no need and that I should stop asking so many questions. I could see she was upset too. When we got to the house where the wedding was to take place I was surprised to find there was no music or food .
    ‘ Grandma, what sort of wedding is this?’ I asked. ‘There’s no music or food. It’s stupid. I want to go home and play with Laila and Bassmeena .’
    My grandmother now became agitated and got angry with me, saying that this was how some weddings were and that I wasn’t allowed to