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

with my father not to hurt me, but father shouted back that it was all her fault. I was her daughter and she had spoilt me .
    In between sobs, Nasreen told me that in our culture fathers are credited with a child’s good behaviour, but if the child does something he doesn’t approve of then the mother will shoulder the blame and also be punished. I tried to hold back my tears as Nasreen continued with her story. I was hoping for a bit of Bollywood magic and a happy ending in which Abdullah would whisk Nasreen away to a place where they could be together for ever, far away from those who would judge or criticise them. Nasreen told me how much pain she endured that day and how there had been bruises and scars all over her body. She had even heard Abdullah and his mother crying through the wall.
    The next day my father told me we were going to move to another house. I didn’t realise this idea had already been discussed with my uncle and that behind my back they had made plans for my new life. The next day, my parents began packing up our house and Abdullah and his family watched and wept at my father’s cruelty. To be honest with you, Zarghuna Jan, I will never forgive my father for what he did to me. I don’t care what happens to him and don’t even know where he is now. Yes, we did move to another house, but it was only later I realised they’d done this to separate me from Abdullah. I was naïve. I now know my uncle had advised my parents that they should move unobtrusively so that the neighbours wouldn’t know what was happening. Once we’d moved, he said, a decision could then be made about my future .
    My father had agreed to this move while my mother had no saywhatsoever in the matter. She had given up by this point and no longer told me what was going on. I didn’t blame her, though, because she was in a vulnerable position too. The place we eventually moved to was a long way away from Abdullah. I missed him terribly and every day I’d take out one of his bangles from its box and look at it, admiring the coloured glass in the light: red, green, blue, yellow. Each bangle carried the memory of him and I cherished each one as a precious token of his love .
    A few days after arriving at our new home, I noticed that people kept visiting our house, but I was too miserable at being away from Abdullah and too preoccupied with praying he would come and rescue me to pay much attention. I thought my father’s anger with me had subsided and was even hoping he would change his mind and let me marry Abdullah, but this was all just wishful thinking. I had failed to understand my father fully. In his eyes, I had committed a crime by falling in love and he was planning to punish me for it. I should have guessed what was coming because my father had never really spoken to me in the kind way that fathers normally do to their children. He was always angry with me and treated me badly. I don’t understand why God allows men who don’t care about women and girls to have families. I don’t think my father even loved his own mother. He was always cruel to women .
    I did eventually ask my mother who all these people that kept calling at our house were and she said, ‘I don’t know, but I’m certain of one thing and that is that something bad is happening. I feel as though there is a dark shadow over us and it frightens me .’
    The next day my father told my mother to prepare special food for some guests he had coming. My mother appeared to know who they were but wouldn’t tell me; and this is the one thing I can’t forgive her for. She could at least have told me in secret what was happening. And so the guests – all elders in the Pashtun community – arrived and ate the food my mother had prepared, and I could hear them discussing someone’s marriage. When finally they left my mother asked me to help her wash the dishes, and I helped because there was nothing else to do. From the very day my father had found out about my