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A Dilemma of Wives

Marital bliss in Taliban ruled Afghanistan

By Michael DarvallPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
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A Dilemma of Wives
Photo by EJ Wolfson on Unsplash

It was eight years since Kabul fell to the Taliban. Back then his name was Alistair. He’d been in Afghanistan almost twenty years, working on construction projects. He’d thought about catching one of the evac planes back to Australia, but really, why bother? What was there back ‘home’ for him? Just a failed marriage and a daughter’s grave. Besides, Afghanistan had gotten under his skin; a hard country with hard people, but who found joy in small, transient pleasures.

Now his name was Asim. His beard grew well, and a rusty red colour, darker than the thinning strands left on his head. He had studied the Qur’an in Farsi until he could recite it with the Imams and he continued to grow his understanding of the teachings of The Prophet. The daily prayers and rituals, the seasonal ceremonies, and the annual observances, Asim practiced them all; more faithful to Islam than the Muslims, more Afghani than the Afghans.

Asim stood in the doorway, and looked out into the large, enclosed courtyard. His first wife – his first Islamic wife, Dalruba, worked on their small orchard, pruning the dozen apple and citrus and pear trees of dead wood. Her movements were fast and sure, young tender limbs stretching easily. Asim watched and admired her from the shade, while he considered which tree would be the best location; under the two pear trees by the back wall, he decided, they had the best spring growth on them. He then turned away and limped inside.

“Fahima!” he called his fourth and youngest wife, “Fahima, dress to go out. We will leave shortly.”

Today was an unusual day, a special day. Asim had consulted with his local Imam and sought permission to marry again. In line with Sharia law he could take up to four wives, with approval of the local Sharia Court. His third wife, Ilharmi, had died last year. According to the law he was free to replace her without seeking permission, but as a foreign-born man, it was wise to pay additional respect to the local elders. The answer was inevitably yes, wealth has a wonderful ability to brush over people’s aversions, and by almost any standards, Asim was a wealthy man.

A mutual acquaintance had introduced Asim to Ghazi, whose daughter had just turned twelve. Her name was Tela, and she looked young for her age. The ceremony would be a Nikah, Asim would marry her with just his three wives and Ghazi’s immediate family in attendance with the mullah; he’d paid a higher mahr to keep the marriage small. The mahr, or bride price, was supposedly a payment to the woman to ensure her future independence, but her father would ‘look after it’ for her.

Asim dressed slowly and carefully, he had plenty of time while Fahima arranged her burqa. While in theory the burqa was a simple concealing veil, each burqa could be individualized. The exact shade of colour, the cut, and each pleat was a statement of how the woman beneath chose to be seen. There were subtleties of dress he’d never comprehended as Alistair, that he was only beginning to glean as Asim.

They had to drive across town to find the materials for the evening: Malida for the wedding desert, Kheena to mark his and Tela’s palms, gifts for the guests, and a small wedding cake which Ghazi had insisted should be part of the ceremony. Asim felt the cake a folly as it was more a western tradition and he resented its intrusion in his life, but keeping his new in-laws happy was an important, strategic consideration.

Obtaining each item took an inordinate length of time, Asim felt, and the day seemed one long blur of shops, vendors, and detailed discussion about the best option for each. Asim wished Fahima could have gone alone to sort this out, but the law required she be accompanied by a man. Finally, with the boot full, they returned home where all three wives, Fahima, Dalruba, and Adiba, unloaded the car and took the goods inside. Asim took a nap; the wedding wouldn’t start until five, still two hours away. The women knew what needed doing.

In the cool of the evening, Asim and Tela met beneath the pear trees, the scant guests seated in a semicircle around them. The mullah ritualistically asked each of them three times if they agreed to this marriage. They both responded that they did, although Tela’s voice quavered noticeably on her third affirmation. She looked up at Asim as she spoke, large brown eyes, beautiful eyes, framed in a girlish face. Even in the concealing finery of the wedding attire, Asim could see she still had a girl’s frame, not a woman’s. Asim stared silently down at her, taking in her features.

Ghazi broke the silence with a sudden cheer, and turned to Dalruba, “You have Ahesta Boro ready?”

Dalruba smiled and inclined her head, then moved to the partially hidden sound system and pressed play. The strains of the traditional wedding song wound through the courtyard grove. Food was served by Fahima and Adiba and shared with the guests, mostly simple, traditional foods, but with some particular exotic items also, that Asim favoured. The portions though were more than generous, and the guests were treated to the best that could be found so they were very quickly sated.

Much earlier than was normal for a wedding, Asim and Tela were covered by the traditional shawl, beneath which they read a section of the Qur’an together. Once completed, their hands were marked with henna to symbolize the ancient practice of sharing blood through an incision on each palm. Finally Adiba and Dalruba carried a large mirror out so the couple could see themselves in their married state for the first time.

“It is time for me to retire with my new wife. Thank you for your company, and please, enjoy the hospitality of my house a while longer.”

Asim steered Tela from the courtyard, inside; he could feel Ghazi’s gaze – and the other guests’, as they left. Through his hand on Tela’s shoulder he could feel her trembling. Her breathing was quickened and he heard the faintest sob as they walked the dim hallway to his room. He paused at the door.

“In here. Undress and get in the bed. I am tired and wish to bathe – I shall be in later.”

Lying in bed, Tela stared into the gloom. The faint glow from a nightlight did little to show her the room, instead she kept imagining her husband’s face as they answered the mullah’s avowal question. He’d looked old; lined with care and spotted and wrinkled from the sun. In those rare day-dreams she’d allowed her younger – very slightly younger – self, she’d imagined a youthful, handsome husband. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks onto the pillow and she clung to the blanket, pulling it to herself for comfort. The door opened and Asim stepped into the room.

She was awakened by Dalruba. Morning light peeped around the edges of the curtains. Tela rolled over and pulled the covers up, but Dalruba just laughed, lifted the blanket aside and swotted Tela on the bare bottom.

“Come on, time to get up. There’s work needs doing and it won’t happen with you in bed.”

Tela squealed, but only briefly at the sight of Dalruba’s frown. She rose self-conscious under the gaze of the elder wife, and quickly dressed.

“What should I do now?”

“Well, come have a bite to eat. We’ll have a chat.”

The other two wives were already in the kitchen when Tela and Dalruba entered. Wordlessly Adiba pointed to a chair, then passed over plate of flat bread and omelet as Tela sat meekly at the table. Dalruba sat opposite and took a plate from Adiba as well. They ate in silence, Tela keeping her eyes down. As Tela finished her food, Asim stepped into the kitchen. He addressed Dalruba, “Have her ready by ten and bring her to the room.” He left abruptly and didn’t wait for a reply.

Dalruba turned to Tela, “You must have some questions. Ask.”

Tela looked down at her lap shyly and wouldn’t speak. Dalruba sighed, “Hurry up girl.”

“I…” Tela twisted her hands together, “does he… does he always do that in the bedroom?”

The three other women nodded and Dalruba answered, “Yes, that’s what he likes. Get used to it.”

“He said that if I didn’t do what he said there’d be trouble. He said that I could be taken away.”

“Well he’s right. We could wish otherwise, but that’s how it is. That will have to do for now, we’ve got to get you ready. Come with me.”

Adiba and Fahima got to work cleaning up. Dalruba led Tela to a small room in the centre of the house. From its position, Tela guessed there would be no external windows. Dalruba knocked at the small wooden door.

“Come.”

They entered a small, square room, well-lit and inviting. Adorning the walls were cheerful, coloured posters showing numbers and letters, pictures with captions below them, and lists of words. Tela was startled and stared around the room; Asim and Dalruba chuckled at her astonishment.

“So… so this is what you told me about last night?”

Asim nodded, “Yes Tela, this is the classroom. As I said, you must tell no one about it. If the Taliban ever learnt that I teach women, teach them reading and science and art and mathematics… I would be taken and executed. And you, well, you would not be so lucky.”

“But it’s wrong for girls to study.”

Suddenly stern, Asim replied, “As a woman you will do what I command. I command you learn all you can.”

Dalruba giggled, “It’s so funny when you try and be mean. It’s like watching a cranky teddy bear.”

“Stop that! She needs to understand it’s ok to learn. Bah. Women. I should have all of you thrown out so I can have some peace to do my painting.” Asim sighed and turned back to Tela, “Don’t worry about it for now. You’ll come to it when you’re ready. Just, for goodness sake, keep it to yourself. I’m too old to get beheaded and you’re too young for pretty much anything.”

Tela clasped her fingers together and stared at the floor, confused, “But why do you do this?”

“I do all of this because one day, hopefully, one day the women of Afghanistan will be in a position where they need education. It might be years off, or it might never happen. But I have to hope; and so should you.”

From her slightly blank look Asim could see she didn’t understand, “Because if the Taliban change, even just a little bit, then maybe women can start to do things like have a job and be part of the government. To do that they need education.”

“Oh. Actually I meant, why did you sleep on the floor last night?”

“Ah. That’s because you’re twelve. I needed your family to believe we were, um… fully wed…”

“Just say, ‘had sex’ Asim,” said Dalruba, “she knows what it means. Do you think her mother sent her off completely unprepared?”

“Either way, you’re only twelve, and that’s too young. So I slept on the floor.”

Dalruba snorted, “I’m twenty-two and you still sleep on the floor when my parents visit and we have to share a room. Twenty-two’s not too young.”

“Perhaps not Dal,” Asim smiled at her, “but I’m too old.” He turned back to Tela, “Go and learn… house stuff with Dal and the others. When you’re ready, the classroom will be here. And Tela; welcome to the family.”

Short Story
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About the Creator

Michael Darvall

Quietly getting on with life and hopefully writing something worth reading occasionally.

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