‘We are doomed’: Four days after her father died, the Taliban demanded she marry their leader
By Shahab Ariayi
This narrative was told to reporter Shahab Ariayi by Tamana*:
I had just successfully passed the mid-year exam. My teachers had informed me that I had received excellent grades and retained my top rank. On August 1, 2021, the head teacher came to my class and asked us to each contribute 50 afghani for the graduation ceremony’s expenses as well as the Independence Day celebration, which would occur on the same day: August 19.
But that day would be unlike previous ones. Gunfire echoed throughout the city. I hadn’t even considered the possibility of our province falling to the Taliban. However, some of our friends from areas already under Taliban control had warned of the group’s violent behaviour.
My father, who had a heart condition, became seriously ill upon hearing the noises. He had retired three years earlier from his military position as a general. My life’s darkest period began that night: due to the roads being controlled by the Taliban, my father died before he could reach the hospital. My brother called our mother with the news: “We are doomed; our backbone is broken.” She dropped the phone, screaming, “We have lost your father.”
The next day, the Taliban took control of our entire province. Four days after my father’s death, local elders approached a Taliban commander and got permission to move his body from the morgue. (A few months ago, that Taliban leader was killed in an explosion in Badakhshan.)
During my father’s burial ceremony on the fifth day, several armed men entered the women’s gathering and fired into the air. My mother, my paternal grandmother, and one of my sisters fainted, while the rest of us sat on the ground and attempted to muffle the noise.
The gunfire was so loud that we couldn’t hear properly for hours. We couldn’t understand what the armed Taliban members were saying as they talked to us. Later, we were told that they were warning us that, because my father had served the previous government, we were to bury him without ceremony. They even denied him the right to a funeral prayer.
Two days after his burial, a group of armed individuals in two police Ranger vehicles parked behind our house and knocked on the gate. It was early in the morning. We were petrified, and no one dared to open the gate. Finally, my younger brother, Omar*, headed toward the entrance. When he opened it, one of the armed Talib said that they wanted to talk to us. My elder brother, who was 25 years old, invited the unwelcome guests inside.
My mother and I watched from the window as Taliban militants ran back to one of the vehicles to get six sealed cartons, which they handed to my brother. “A green leaf is the gift of a dervish,” is how one Taliban explained those boxes.
My mother thought they might have come to share our sorrow, but, at the end of morning tea, they announced that they had come with a marriage proposal. “We have come to take your sister Bibi Tamana as a wife for our mujahid brother, Qari Abu Hamza, who has fought like a lion in the trenches of jihad,” one of the armed gunmen explained.
My brother was completely silent for a few minutes. Then, he asked, “Mother, did you hear what the Taliban are saying?” My mother said, “Yes, I heard. Tell them your sister is still very young and will turn 17 in three months. My son! Handle this gently with them; God forbid anything dangerous could happen to us.” My brother responded, “That’s right, Mom, don’t worry; after all, we have family and kin, and they can’t forcibly take our sister.”
I was pale, my mouth dry, and I was crying. My mother came and hugged me, saying, “My daughter! Don’t cry! This will not happen, and we will not give you to them at any price; after all, you are a child, and not even your older sisters have not yet married.”
When my brother returned to the guesthouse and conveyed my mother’s words to the Taliban militants, we heard the sound of gunshots. We thought they had killed my brother. My mother entered the guesthouse where she threw herself on my brother, and begged them not to kill him. She implored them to have mercy on us for God’s sake.
They stood up, told my mother to prepare me for a wedding, and announced that they would take me to my groom’s house next week. My brother took their boxes to their vehicles, but they refused to accept them, and they were left in the street as they drove away.
The stress of my father’s death as well as this marriage threat overwhelmed my mother. She spent three days in hospital. As soon as she returned home, she wanted us to leave Badakhshan. That night, she asked my uncle to take us to Kabul. Our journey ended when our car was stopped at a checkpoint at the main gate of the Badakhshan-Takhar highway. We thought it was a routine inspection but it turns out that they were waiting for us; we later discovered that a neighbour had informed the Taliban about our escape.
After being detained for around 30 minutes, a Ranger stopped in front of our car. Inside was one of the Taliban militants who had gone to our home with that marriage proposal. He rolled down his window and mockingly said, “Trying to run away? Go back. Who is the driver? Take our bride back home; the groom is anxiously waiting.” My uncle turned the car around. A Taliban vehicle stayed parked outside our home until the next morning.
The next day, the same group of Taliban gunmen returned to our home and asked my mother, “Have you decided and reached an agreement? Which day should we set for the wedding ceremony?” With a trembling voice, my mother insisted that I was too young for marriage “She is still a school student, and we have no plans for her wedding until she finishes her studies,” she said. They laughed, saying that my school days were over. After they left, a Taliban soldier remained at our home to prevent us from leaving.
The pressure on my family was now severe. My mother said, “What can we do? They won’t back down.” Omar said, “Mother, if we can save ourselves by giving them Tamana, let’s marry her off.” At that, my older brother threw a cup at his sibling, responding, “Are you out of your mind? Would we sacrifice our sister to save ourselves?”
My mother consulted with relatives and close friends. Most relatives told her to marry me off to the Taliban. One uncle, who had previously had ideological differences with my father, said, “What’s the problem? They came like human beings asking for your daughter’s hand and to take her away respectfully. If you disagree, I’ll tell them to take her by force.” After two weeks of threats, fights, violence, sorrow, and tears, my family members were convinced that their safety depended on marrying me off to the Taliban.
I knew nothing about marriage and had recently begun menstruating. One dark evening, they forcibly handed me over to a harsh man who had come to the city from the mountains just over a month ago, a man whose lousy breath I will never forget. On our first night together, he beat and raped me. I woke up in the hospital. None of my family members were at my bed. A young female nurse told me that I was unconscious when I was brought in. After two days of treatment, my husband took me back to his house.
He stayed home for a week and then left for Kabul. He was a member of the Taliban’s Badri forces. When he left, he said he would find a house and send for me. Almost 45 days later, I was told he had been killed in the Panjshir war. But it was too late: I was pregnant. I went to doctors to get an abortion, but none agreed. I gave birth in excruciating pain that I had never experienced in my life. Now, my 18-month-old daughter and I live at my older sister’s house in a remote village. My sister’s husband is a day labourer, and since he goes days without finding food, his children and my daughter are often hungry.
These days, I’m not allowed to talk to the rest of my family, who have all gone to Canada. My only close friend is a neighbour who has endured a similar fate as myself. More than 30 years ago, she was forcibly married to a jihadist warlord. Now, she has eight children, boys, and girls. Like me, she has no hope for her future.
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the interviewees and writer. Shahab Ariayi is the pseudonym of a journalist in Afghanistan.
