Afghanistan Peace Campaign 
A Kabul street mural by the Afghan artist collective ArtLords reads: “A true Muslim is one whose words and actions do no harm to others (Hadith Sharif). Violence against women goes against the teachings of Islam.” Photo: ArtLords, 2017
When I was 17 years old, my cousin – my mother’s nephew – asked for my hand in marriage, but my family refused. My mother said, “She’s still young. She hasn’t reached the legal age yet.”
We are three sisters and I’m the youngest. At the time, my eldest sister was already married and my other sister, who is a couple of years older than me, hadn’t married yet. My mother wanted her to marry first, and according to our customs, that made sense. But my cousin wasn’t having it. He kept asking my mother to let him marry me, every chance he got.
One day, my eldest brother confronted him outside our house. What was supposed to be a quiet chat between two cousins grew into a heated argument when my cousin refused to stop asking for my hand. He told my brother he was determined to marry me, either with the family’s approval or by force. When my brother came inside, he was furious – visibly shaken and red in the face. He told my mother that we should no longer have any relations with her brother’s family. “We shouldn’t go to their house and they should never again come to ours,” he shouted.
The gunshots that changed everything
From that day on, resentment grew between the two families until one afternoon, my cousin came to our house with a gun. He stood on the street outside our front door and fired shots into the air. He called out my name and then called out to my brother, “Come and save your sister from me now, if you dare.”
That day, none of the men in our family were at home. My mother ran outside to try to calm him down. She begged him not to destroy both families with his actions, but he ignored her pleas. He kept shouting, telling her that she was ruining his life and then he fled.
When my brothers came home and heard about what my cousin had done, they were furious. One of my brothers grabbed the household gun and stormed out of the house. He said he was going to my uncle’s house, a half-hour’s walk from our village, to kill my cousin. But my cousin was nowhere to be found.
My uncle, devastated by what his son had done, rushed to our house. He begged my mother to stop my brother. “Control your son so that he doesn’t do anything that we will all regret,” he pleaded. He said that his son had run away from home and gave his word that he would punish him severely if he found him. He said that he could never forgive his son for doing such a shameful thing, especially to his niece, and then running away like a coward. He apologised over and over again. I think he was truly ashamed and heartbroken. But my brothers were incensed. They said terrible things to my uncle and pushed him out of our home.
Disgrace, repentance and a broken family
My father was a respected religious scholar, but he wasn’t at home. He was in Kabul, where he was the imam of a mosque. He came back home as soon as he found out – angry and determined to seek satisfaction. He talked it over with my brothers and together they filed a complaint at the district centre. At that time, during the mujahedin regime, there was no official government to speak of, but because everyone respected my father, they took the matter seriously and started an investigation.
The authorities summoned my uncle’s family and demanded that they hand over my cousin. But, knowing what was in store for him, he’d fled to Pakistan, cutting all ties with his family. My uncle, who was well-respected in the community, publicly apologised to my parents and even said, “I’ve disowned him. He’s no longer my son.” He and his sons were detained, but after a few days, when it became obvious they had no idea of my cousin’s whereabouts, they were released.
Afterwards, my uncle came to our house along with his family and several tribal elders to ask for forgiveness according to our custom of nanawatai (sanctuary), which obliges victims to forgive a transgressor who comes to repent. Although my father was still angry, he had no choice but to accept their apology. But he said there would be no contact between the two families ever again. From that day on, our families became strangers. My uncle and his family never visited us again and we never visited them. On rare occasions, my uncle would quietly visit my mother, without my father or brother’s knowledge. But when he passed away, my mother didn’t go to his funeral.
The woman that I never became
I often think about how a single moment – a single rash act, a single word spoken in anger or a single shot fired to the sky – can alter someone’s life forever. I sometimes look back at my 17-year-old self – a carefree, innocent girl, unaware of the gathering clouds and the storm that was about to destroy her future.
Every girl has dreams of getting married and having a family. And I was no different. I wanted a big wedding, as is our custom, lasting several days and turning the entire village into a festival. I imagined a kind husband who would take me on visits to Kabul and maybe even to Pakistan and Iran. But that life wasn’t meant to be.
I was too young then to understand what all this would mean for my future. I thought that in time, the storm would pass and the families would go back to how things had always been before the shots were fired. But my family knew that things could never be the same and that my life would be one of dependence, isolation and sorrow. Looking back, there were clues in the way people looked at me, in their hushed voices, and in the silence when I walked into a room. But at the time, I was too young and inexperienced to recognise them.
I still didn’t think much about it when my older sister got married. After all, according to our customs, it was her turn and I thought that I’d be next. But reality hit hard as I watched one girl after another in the family get married, but my turn never came and I realised that it never would. At wedding parties, girls would whisper hurtful things: “It’s your turn now, but you can’t marry. You will always stay in your father’s home.” Their words cut into my heart like a knife.
My mother tried to comfort me. She was the keeper of all my secrets and the source of my strength. But when I was alone with my thoughts, the sense of gloom and hopelessness overpowered me. I felt trapped, cursed by circumstances that I had no part in. However, with each passing day, my anxiety only grew. Eventually, my family took me to a doctor. When that didn’t help, they took me to one mullah after another. They all prayed for me. A couple of them said that I had been cursed by an evil eye and gave me amulets, and one even said I had been possessed by a jinn. But there was no cure for my suffering.
After my parents died, my brothers, who had families of their own, moved into their own homes. Our family became scattered. Now, everyone’s busy with their own lives and I’m left alone. I live in my father’s house with my eldest brother and his family. Although my brother and my nieces and nephews take care of me and I lack for nothing, I still feel like a burden.
Thirty years without hope
My cousin never came back to our area again. He never visited his family because his father had sworn to kill him and warned him to stay away, but I later learned that he had sent a letter warning people that no one had the right to marry me. People remained fearful that if anyone did marry me, he’d harm them. We heard that he’s living in Pakistan and has a family of his own.
He’s living his life, but his decision to fire a gun outside our house killed my future. In an instant, all my dreams, all my hopes and aspirations, turned to dust.
It’s been nearly 30 years since the day the shots rang outside our house and ruined my life forever. After the Islamic Emirate regained power, it criminalised this despicable act. I wonder if it will make any difference; I haven’t heard of anyone being jailed for it. Whatever happens, the new law came too late for me. I’ve spent my life living through other people’s happiness, watching in the mirror as my hair turned white and wrinkles appeared on my face. These days, I pass the time lost in my own thoughts, without a sense of direction, watching the girls I grew up with – now grandmothers – tend to their own families and grandchildren.
People live on hope. My hope died a long time ago and a life without hope is a slow kind of dying. There is more than one way to kill a person. You can take a gun to a girl’s house and fire shots in the air outside her door.
Edited by Roxanna Shapour
Revisions:
This article was last updated on 23 Nov 2025
