Wrinkles wrapped around her neck as if for centuries. She wore two or three silver rings and pointed to the Mandarsi tent, saying, “So-and-so gave me these. I’ve worn them for many years and pray for them.” She then asked me for my old clothes, saying, “I will take them to my bride.”
She spoke about her daughter-in-law, who was too young to be a widow, and about her husband, paralyzed by the death of their children and unable to walk. The orphans and the widow of her second son, whose husband was a land grabber, all weighed heavily on her shoulders. She had to resolve everything with no authority, except over people who didn’t listen to her. She wondered why such a fate had befallen her and why her sons were killed for simply being soldiers. Her house was destroyed overnight, and her husband and child were lost thousands of kilometers away.
Her first son had served in the Afghan army for ten years in various provinces before being killed by a roadside mine in Faryab province. His battered body was sent back to his family with two lakh Afghanis. His mother lamented, “He had just renovated his house. It had been repaired. He didn’t get a chance to live in it.”
At 28 years old, her second son became a casualty of hand-to-hand combat between the Taliban and the Republic forces. According to her, he too was a martyr, who left behind his wife and child. Unlike his brothers, he was a shopkeeper, not affiliated with either the government or the Taliban, solely focused on his business.
However, when danger threatens your elder and younger brothers, you are not safe either. He was killed due to the same danger that endangered both of his brothers, and according to his mother, his house was destroyed, his children were orphaned, and his wife was left in dire straits.
The woman said, “The house is broken! When the war broke out, the tanks came, loaded the wounded, and passed by his shop. They didn’t close the shop, thinking there wouldn’t be a war. When the deadline comes, it will be like this. In the middle of a hot war, a rocket hit his shop, and he was blown to pieces.”
The second bride’s family claimed they couldn’t afford to support a widow and several orphans. Despite this, the woman took on the responsibility of caring for the orphans and her widowed daughter-in-law, urging everyone to contribute something for their welfare. She pleaded with me, saying, “Give me the old clothes and things you don’t use, so I can take them to my bride. Jacket, dress, tent, handkerchief…”
I was overwhelmed by all the suffering and hardship that time had imposed on this woman. She said, “My second son was killed because of his stupidity.” I thought that her son might have lacked intelligence, but he also didn’t ask God not to be destroyed by a rocket.
The second son was a victim of the war—a war of madmen, a war of religion and democracy, a war of heaven and hell, faith and disbelief, will, money, lust, and wine. The woman also cried for her second son, and complained about her widowed daughter-in-law’s family for not cooperating in taking care of their daughter and grandchildren.
The third son, still very young, became rebellious after the deaths of his brothers. His anger and criticism towards the government grew to such an extent that the family became fed up and eventually asked him to leave. He was only 19 years old when he departed from home.
Following his departure, rumors circulated that he had joined the ranks of the Taliban. He contacted his friends and declared his intent to seek revenge for his brothers from America, the government, and the warlords. Unaware, he had inadvertently aligned himself with the very group he sought revenge against. Two years later, the city and province succumbed to Taliban control.
The young men who joined their ranks returned home chanting “Long live Islam.” They married, celebrated, acquired positions, and wealth, but he never returned. She reminisced about him with no sorrow. There were no tears when she spoke of him. She even breathed easier, leaning against the wall and the pillow behind her, and said, “He was dead. If not, everyone came back, why didn’t he? The germ was dead.”
Because the third son had not left a child orphaned or a woman widowed, perhaps his death was less painful for the mother who did not shed tears for him. Maybe she had wept so much for her other two sons that she no longer had the capacity to cry for this one. Towards the end of her speech, she grew angry and cursed the earth and time, yet her conclusion moved me to tears again.
She said, “There was a war. My children did not die a natural death; they were killed. But some didn’t even get a scratch. Why me? Why three boys? Why did I become a widow and lose my children? I did not have a horoscope. God has written this on my forehead since time immemorial. I will give birth to sons and give them to the ground and cry over their graves. I was miserable. War came for me. This is how it is settled. It has calmed down, but what is the use for me? What good is it to my brides?” She wiped her tears and calmed herself down.
She asked me why I hadn’t visited her home. She told me, “I have to give you a party.” I stared at the wrinkles around her neck and the furrows of tears on her black face.
I thought about her words regarding her first daughter-in-law, “I didn’t let their mother’s arms be empty.” Whatever she has done for another woman despite the war and suffering can’t be portrayed in words. She had raised two orphans alongside three others with little means or help, knowing that a grandmother’s embrace can never replace a mother’s.
She had made a profound sacrifice for that woman and those two children. My eyes and heart were heavy after hearing her story, realizing it was just one among many Afghan women’s tales, each fraught with similar destinies of suffering.
Frishta Kargar is an Immigration Specialist at GES DELOITTE Poland and former Director of Bilateral Economic Commission at the Ministry of Finance, Islamic Republic of Afghanistan. She is connected with Mahabahu as an honorary Correspondent, Poland.
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