that matter—have seen little diversion from the original version of patriarchy?
In reality, almost every truth about Afghanistan can be easily contradicted, and almost every rule can be bent—when it is practical. There have always been fathers with more liberal minds who had daughters and urged them to take on the world outside. Dr. Fareiba is one of those daughters, having been born into a well-off Pashtun family, which allowed her to complete most of her education during the Communist period. Her father, also a doctor, her four brothers, and her seven sisters all graduated from university. Their family could afford it and saw no reason to differentiate between the education of sons and daughters. Dr. Fareiba’s husband is also a physician, carefully chosen by her parents because he would allow their daughter to work.
Still, she must respect the rules of life here, even those she findsfrustrating, and she cuts me off when I question the system of male inheritance and forced marriages. “This is our society. Our culture.”
It’s typical. Even though an Afghan may privately declare that something is illogical, illegal, silly, or just plain wrong, he or she can at the same time make an argument for why it must be adhered to: Society demands it; society is not ready to accept any diversion. This is the meaning of the frustrated shrug, the “I wish it would be different, but …” explanation.
The punishment for going “against society” is “gossip” and with it the threat of losing one’s good reputation and family honor. Too much gossip makes life complicated and dangerous. The disapproval of neighbors, friends, and even one’s own family can make accomplishing basic things for a man—getting a job, marrying a daughter into a good family, or borrowing money to build a bigger house—almost impossible. In a place where the state hardly exists and few institutions function, reputation is one of few valid currencies, and preserving it must always take priority. With the consequence that sons must be had at all costs.
“T HEY CALL ME the maker of sons,” says Dr. Fareiba as we sit down for tea at a later time, unwrapping dusty caramels from a glass tray. She will put one behind her front teeth and suck her tea through it to make it sweet, the way many Afghans do.
Making sons is a specialty, and one she says she shares with some other Afghan doctors, who are known to offer it as a service on the side. It costs a little extra. Dr. Fareiba is well aware that the male sperm decides the sex of the fetus, but she still believes that “changing conditions” inside a woman’s body can make the environment more or less favorable for the “right” sperm—those carrying the male chromosome combination. The man needs no special treatment, however. His body is already complete and ready to produce sons.
Dr. Fareiba makes a reference to her own sister, who has a university degree and a husband who is an engineer. But they were pitiedas they didn’t have a son, only four daughters. So she came to Dr. Fareiba.
“She asked me: ‘Why don’t you get any girls—you get boys? What is the problem with me?’ And I treated them one year ago, and now thanks God she has a son.”
Dr. Fareiba beams. Her nephew, now seven months old, was conceived after his mother was put on Dr. Fareiba’s special regimen of certain foods, homemade potions, and sexual positions. “I made him for you,” she is fond of telling her sister.
Those tried-and-tested methods for creating sons have been passed down to her from female relatives through generations and finessed through experimentation and by trading tips with fellow Afghan doctors.
“Hot foods make boys,” Dr. Fareiba explains, citing the various dishes, black tea, and dried fruits she prescribes for the woman who needs a son. Eating yogurt, melon, and green tea, on the other hand, count as “cold” foods, and are more likely to result in girls. Creams and powders can
In reality, almost every truth about Afghanistan can be easily contradicted, and almost every rule can be bent—when it is practical. There have always been fathers with more liberal minds who had daughters and urged them to take on the world outside. Dr. Fareiba is one of those daughters, having been born into a well-off Pashtun family, which allowed her to complete most of her education during the Communist period. Her father, also a doctor, her four brothers, and her seven sisters all graduated from university. Their family could afford it and saw no reason to differentiate between the education of sons and daughters. Dr. Fareiba’s husband is also a physician, carefully chosen by her parents because he would allow their daughter to work.
Still, she must respect the rules of life here, even those she findsfrustrating, and she cuts me off when I question the system of male inheritance and forced marriages. “This is our society. Our culture.”
It’s typical. Even though an Afghan may privately declare that something is illogical, illegal, silly, or just plain wrong, he or she can at the same time make an argument for why it must be adhered to: Society demands it; society is not ready to accept any diversion. This is the meaning of the frustrated shrug, the “I wish it would be different, but …” explanation.
The punishment for going “against society” is “gossip” and with it the threat of losing one’s good reputation and family honor. Too much gossip makes life complicated and dangerous. The disapproval of neighbors, friends, and even one’s own family can make accomplishing basic things for a man—getting a job, marrying a daughter into a good family, or borrowing money to build a bigger house—almost impossible. In a place where the state hardly exists and few institutions function, reputation is one of few valid currencies, and preserving it must always take priority. With the consequence that sons must be had at all costs.
“T HEY CALL ME the maker of sons,” says Dr. Fareiba as we sit down for tea at a later time, unwrapping dusty caramels from a glass tray. She will put one behind her front teeth and suck her tea through it to make it sweet, the way many Afghans do.
Making sons is a specialty, and one she says she shares with some other Afghan doctors, who are known to offer it as a service on the side. It costs a little extra. Dr. Fareiba is well aware that the male sperm decides the sex of the fetus, but she still believes that “changing conditions” inside a woman’s body can make the environment more or less favorable for the “right” sperm—those carrying the male chromosome combination. The man needs no special treatment, however. His body is already complete and ready to produce sons.
Dr. Fareiba makes a reference to her own sister, who has a university degree and a husband who is an engineer. But they were pitiedas they didn’t have a son, only four daughters. So she came to Dr. Fareiba.
“She asked me: ‘Why don’t you get any girls—you get boys? What is the problem with me?’ And I treated them one year ago, and now thanks God she has a son.”
Dr. Fareiba beams. Her nephew, now seven months old, was conceived after his mother was put on Dr. Fareiba’s special regimen of certain foods, homemade potions, and sexual positions. “I made him for you,” she is fond of telling her sister.
Those tried-and-tested methods for creating sons have been passed down to her from female relatives through generations and finessed through experimentation and by trading tips with fellow Afghan doctors.
“Hot foods make boys,” Dr. Fareiba explains, citing the various dishes, black tea, and dried fruits she prescribes for the woman who needs a son. Eating yogurt, melon, and green tea, on the other hand, count as “cold” foods, and are more likely to result in girls. Creams and powders can
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