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

always joked that we were wearing our hijabs to protect our hair and skin from the pollution in Peshawar.
    Sharifa and I enjoyed the journey to university each day, and would chat to the driver and talk amongst ourselves about our futures. However, there were days when Sharifa wouldn’t speak to anyone, not even me – her best friend. At first, I thought she was being rude and felt offended. Then if I asked her whether something was wrong, she would reassure me there wasn’t before turning away, lost in her thoughts.
    One morning I arrived at the bus stop to find Sharifa in one of her silent moods, and decided to try to get to the bottom of what was wrong with her. When I asked her she replied, ‘Before I get married I want to have a check-up with the doctor to find out if I’m able to have a son. If I’m not able to, then I won’t get married at all.’ Neither of us knew at the time how the sex of a baby is determined, so I advised Sharifa to get married first and then worry about whether she had baby boys or girls.
    But still she was upset. She would talk about wanting to make her future husband happy, and clearly believed that would only happen if she gave birth to ten sons. The other girls and I would make fun of Sharifa for being so desperate to get a husband, and she would grow angry with us but didn’t fight back. She would simply go quiet and retreat into her thoughts, yet we continued to poke fun at her. Then one day we realised we’d gone too far, and that Sharifa was very distressed. When we tried to tell her that we were only messing around, she said, ‘Yes, Iknow you’re only joking but it still upsets me. You don’t understand – my mother has given birth to seven girls, and if my father dies we won’t have anyone to look after us. My mother is not able to have a boy; she’s not strong enough.’
    I had met Sharifa’s parents and so I was shaken by what she had told me. ‘Sharifa,’ I said, ‘you have six sisters and that means you’re strong. You also have a lovely mother and father, so you really shouldn’t worry.’ But whenever I met Sharifa’s mother, she always seemed to have just one thing on her mind. First she would ask after my mother, but then she would always ask about my brother. Similarly, the first question she would ask of her daughters’ friends would be how many brothers and sisters they had.
    One day I found Sharifa in tears, and I knew she was crying about her situation at home and had finally worked out why she was always asking about my brother and mother; she was trying to find someone else in a position vaguely similar to hers. But of course she thought I was far more fortunate than her because I did at least have one brother, and he represented security. I told Sharifa not to think in such a negative way, saying, ‘You have a big family and when you and your sisters get married it means you will have brothers, and your mother a son.’
    But my words didn’t comfort her. ‘Zarghuna, you’ll never understand because you have a brother. I’m mostly upset for my parents. Because I’m the oldest daughter I’ve seen my mother weep every time she gives birth and discovers that it’s another girl. Each time it happens my dad won’t talk to her for months and life at home is wretched. Even my grandparents ignore my mother. It’s truly awful to see what happens to a woman when she’s incomplete.’
    I tried to calm her down. ‘Listen, Sharifa, of course your mother is complete. Who says she isn’t? I’ve met her. She’s a beautiful and kind young woman—’
    ‘What would you know?’ she countered angrily. ‘She’s not complete because she hasn’t given birth to a boy. It’s as simple as that.’ Sharifa lowered her voice and confessed, ‘Sometimes I even get cross withher. If she could give birth to a son then at last we could have a happy life.’
    ‘Sharifa,’ I replied, ‘happiness doesn’t come like that. It comes with what you already