I was only allowed nine years of childhood. Then it was time for me to become a bride. I am not sure this is how I want to start this college essay. Maybe I should start by explaining how my marriage was decided. ‘Tell your story!’ urged my adoptive mother Nabila, to whom I owe so much. But it’s not an easy task if you were raised to be a nice, obedient little girl. My name is Shazmina, which means ‘the one capable of too much love.’ Was I? A question that haunted me for years and remains unanswered.
I grew up in Khewa, a small, dusty Pushtun village in Eastern Afghanistan. I had seven or eight brothers and sisters. I do not remember the exact number. My father said that he had two boys when someone asked him how many children he had. Girls simply did not count. All of the children slept in the living room; the girls slept on the floor and the boys slept on the couch. My sisters and I had a thin sheet for cover but my brothers had two blankets.
One cold night, my older brother, who was sixteen years old, asked me if I wanted to sleep next to him. He gave me a bag of M&Ms. They were so colorful! That was a kind invite, I thought. My brother would run everyday with his friends looking for American soldiers. They gave M&Ms to Afghan children. He brought me his share. I loved the taste of peanut butter M&Ms and my kind brother. He was the only family member who smiled at me.
Every night we would hear our father beat our mother. That really scared me. I looked at my brother to feel safe. Our father would get tired eventually. We heard his loud breathing followed by his even louder snoring. That was when my brother called me to lay next to him. Next to my brother, I always felt safe and warm under his blanket. He talked to me about his day, and I listened to him. At dawn, I woke up as soon as I heard the call for prayers and left the couch. I had to be the first one to wake up. Sharing the couch with my brother was to be our secret, as he instructed me. One night, while I was lying next to him, his hands touched me in ways I did not understand. I felt guilty but I did not stop him. I closed my eyes. He started to do that every night until one fateful night.
On that night, my mother heard my brother talking to me. She came to the living room and saw me sleeping next to my brother. I got scared and hugged my brother tighter. She yelled ‘Mirat Maray! Mirat Maray!’ I did not know why my mother was cursing me and wishing me to die without children. I closed my eyes. My father, furious to be woken, pulled my hair, dragged me down to the floor, and kicked me so hard the bag of M&Ms fell from my hand. I closed my eyes. He called me Kusay which I did not understand. I later learned from my older sister, Sangina, that my father called me a whore. It was my brother’s idea. I was cold and I loved the M&Ms. They blamed me.
My mother was in tears. She ordered my brother to go for a walk. She did not want him around while father emptied his pail of hot anger on me. I do not remember going to sleep that night. I was in a lot of pain and I must have passed out. I just remember waking up cold on the kitchen floor. My brother was never blamed.
It was decided the Kusay had to go. In the morning, my mother took me to Jalalabad in Nangarhar Province to prepare me for my Wedha, or wedding. She marched me to the old matchmaker, who was responsible for almost all the marriages in the village, including my parents. She took my picture – my very first. She did not ask me to smile, why I do not know. Was I supposed to look serious? I remember the flash startled me. She complimented my mother on my large boobs. ‘When God was giving your daughters bosoms, Shazmina must have taken all of it,’ she said. For many years I considered that a curse. I did not learn to like my discount-generating boobs until I was in my mid-twenties.
My older sisters should have been married first, but the matchmaker was happy because her commission for younger brides was higher. I was to get married as soon as possible. Within one week there was a marriage proposal. My father would receive a large sum of money in US dollars for my dowry. He also had some drug debts that would be forgiven in exchange for my hand in marriage. My father decided that my brother would get married as well. He would get some of my dowry money for his marriage expenses.
I did not get a picture of the groom. I asked my mother for one and that request earned a slap across the face. The groom lived in New York. He sent his brother with a power of attorney to sign the marriage contract on his behalf. I did not know anything about marriage. When I attempted to ask my mother about it, she gave me a beating to remember.
One cold night, my older brother, who was sixteen years old, asked me if I wanted to sleep next to him. He gave me a bag of M&Ms. They were so colorful! That was a kind invite, I thought. My brother would run everyday with his friends looking for American soldiers. They gave M&Ms to Afghan children. He brought me his share. I loved the taste of peanut butter M&Ms and my kind brother. He was the only family member who smiled at me.
Every night we would hear our father beat our mother. That really scared me. I looked at my brother to feel safe. Our father would get tired eventually. We heard his loud breathing followed by his even louder snoring. That was when my brother called me to lay next to him. Next to my brother, I always felt safe and warm under his blanket. He talked to me about his day, and I listened to him. At dawn, I woke up as soon as I heard the call for prayers and left the couch. I had to be the first one to wake up. Sharing the couch with my brother was to be our secret, as he instructed me. One night, while I was lying next to him, his hands touched me in ways I did not understand. I felt guilty but I did not stop him. I closed my eyes. He started to do that every night until one fateful night.
On that night, my mother heard my brother talking to me. She came to the living room and saw me sleeping next to my brother. I got scared and hugged my brother tighter. She yelled ‘Mirat Maray! Mirat Maray!’ I did not know why my mother was cursing me and wishing me to die without children. I closed my eyes. My father, furious to be woken, pulled my hair, dragged me down to the floor, and kicked me so hard the bag of M&Ms fell from my hand. I closed my eyes. He called me Kusay which I did not understand. I later learned from my older sister, Sangina, that my father called me a whore. It was my brother’s idea. I was cold and I loved the M&Ms. They blamed me.
My mother was in tears. She ordered my brother to go for a walk. She did not want him around while father emptied his pail of hot anger on me. I do not remember going to sleep that night. I was in a lot of pain and I must have passed out. I just remember waking up cold on the kitchen floor. My brother was never blamed.
It was decided the Kusay had to go. In the morning, my mother took me to Jalalabad in Nangarhar Province to prepare me for my Wedha, or wedding. She marched me to the old matchmaker, who was responsible for almost all the marriages in the village, including my parents. She took my picture – my very first. She did not ask me to smile, why I do not know. Was I supposed to look serious? I remember the flash startled me. She complimented my mother on my large boobs. ‘When God was giving your daughters bosoms, Shazmina must have taken all of it,’ she said. For many years I considered that a curse. I did not learn to like my discount-generating boobs until I was in my mid-twenties.
My older sisters should have been married first, but the matchmaker was happy because her commission for younger brides was higher. I was to get married as soon as possible. Within one week there was a marriage proposal. My father would receive a large sum of money in US dollars for my dowry. He also had some drug debts that would be forgiven in exchange for my hand in marriage. My father decided that my brother would get married as well. He would get some of my dowry money for his marriage expenses.
I did not get a picture of the groom. I asked my mother for one and that request earned a slap across the face. The groom lived in New York. He sent his brother with a power of attorney to sign the marriage contract on his behalf. I did not know anything about marriage. When I attempted to ask my mother about it, she gave me a beating to remember.
New York
I had to travel to New York. No one seemed concerned that I did not speak English. However, my brother had learned some English from the soldiers. I tried to ask him to teach me but my mother gave me another beating and ordered me to stay away from him. My father received the ticket from my future husband’s brother along with instructions of where to drop me. My sisters were jealous that I got to leave. I overheard my older sister Sangina tell my other sisters that I had Kusay luck. I wondered what that really meant. Do whores have better luck? I wondered why my older sister was mean to me. Was it because our brother gave me the M&Ms? Sangina’s name means ‘the one who is polite to everyone’. I guess if Sangina was not polite, then I was not capable of too much love. Maybe she resented that she was fourteen and unmarried. Maybe she knew that people in the village would think of her as an old maid with her younger sister getting married. Maybe she resented that I was going to the United States. Maybe it seemed to her that I got an underserved reward. I do not know. I have not seen any of my family members since I left my childhood in that dusty place.
My father took me to the drop off location. He did not say a word to me. I often wondered why he did not say goodbye. I think he would have said goodbye if I were a son, but I was Kusay.
My husband’s brother, Karwan, greeted us at the airport. My father shook hands with Karwan and received the rest of my dowry. Apparently, it was cash on delivery. I saw a smile on my father’s face. Was he happy to get rid of me? Or was it seeing the dollars? These are the questions that will remain unanswered.
I knew nothing about my husband, only that his name was Najibuallah and he was Karwan’s older brother. I did not know Karwan would be my travel companion. He ordered me to stay close to him at all times and be silent – he would do all the talking. I was relieved. What could I say in this place of busy strangers?
He gave me a bag. He ordered me to go to the washroom and change my clothing. I opened the bag and found western clothing. I looked at him in disbelief with tears in my eyes. Women were not supposed to wear such things, let alone a child. ‘You are a dumb kid, indeed. Just like I suspected! I am taking you to the US – it will be much easier if you are not wearing a blue tent,’ he whispered angrily. He again ordered me to go change.
At the airport washroom, I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time. An older but beautiful Persian woman saw me. She spoke in Farsi, which is essentially Dari by a different name. Although I spoke Pashto, I learned Dari from my distant cousins, so I was able to mostly understand her. I told her that I was travelling to join my husband in New York. She told me that I was lucky. She generously offered to put make-up on me. She said that I needed to look good for my husband. I accepted her help. I did not want my husband to be disappointed.
For a moment, I thought, what if I did not please him? Would he send me back? I thought that would be a disaster. How naïve I was! She put blue over my eyelids and red over my lips. Now I really looked like a Kusay, I thought.
She walked out with me to meet Karwan. She leaned close to him and she touched his shoulder. She said to him, ‘I put make-up on her; you need her to look older, Sahib. Next time you need a child bride, feel free to reach out.’ I wondered why she called him Sahib, and if he were indeed her friend? She gave Karwan her business card and he hid it inside his wallet.
We got on the big plane and we had comfortable seats. But no seat is comfortable for such a long flight. I sat next to Karwan and followed all his orders. He instructed me to call my husband Traa which means uncle. He explained that my husband was old and I needed to show respect. I fell asleep thinking of meeting my uncle husband.
My father took me to the drop off location. He did not say a word to me. I often wondered why he did not say goodbye. I think he would have said goodbye if I were a son, but I was Kusay.
My husband’s brother, Karwan, greeted us at the airport. My father shook hands with Karwan and received the rest of my dowry. Apparently, it was cash on delivery. I saw a smile on my father’s face. Was he happy to get rid of me? Or was it seeing the dollars? These are the questions that will remain unanswered.
I knew nothing about my husband, only that his name was Najibuallah and he was Karwan’s older brother. I did not know Karwan would be my travel companion. He ordered me to stay close to him at all times and be silent – he would do all the talking. I was relieved. What could I say in this place of busy strangers?
He gave me a bag. He ordered me to go to the washroom and change my clothing. I opened the bag and found western clothing. I looked at him in disbelief with tears in my eyes. Women were not supposed to wear such things, let alone a child. ‘You are a dumb kid, indeed. Just like I suspected! I am taking you to the US – it will be much easier if you are not wearing a blue tent,’ he whispered angrily. He again ordered me to go change.
At the airport washroom, I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time. An older but beautiful Persian woman saw me. She spoke in Farsi, which is essentially Dari by a different name. Although I spoke Pashto, I learned Dari from my distant cousins, so I was able to mostly understand her. I told her that I was travelling to join my husband in New York. She told me that I was lucky. She generously offered to put make-up on me. She said that I needed to look good for my husband. I accepted her help. I did not want my husband to be disappointed.
For a moment, I thought, what if I did not please him? Would he send me back? I thought that would be a disaster. How naïve I was! She put blue over my eyelids and red over my lips. Now I really looked like a Kusay, I thought.
She walked out with me to meet Karwan. She leaned close to him and she touched his shoulder. She said to him, ‘I put make-up on her; you need her to look older, Sahib. Next time you need a child bride, feel free to reach out.’ I wondered why she called him Sahib, and if he were indeed her friend? She gave Karwan her business card and he hid it inside his wallet.
We got on the big plane and we had comfortable seats. But no seat is comfortable for such a long flight. I sat next to Karwan and followed all his orders. He instructed me to call my husband Traa which means uncle. He explained that my husband was old and I needed to show respect. I fell asleep thinking of meeting my uncle husband.
My Uncle Husband
My Uncle Husband, Najibuallah, went by Ned. I thought it was strange. Years later, I realized it was only fair for people with four-syllable names to adopt a Starbucks alias in their everyday interactions. He dyed his hair and beard reddish using henna. The prophet Mohammed (peace be upon him) used henna, Ned often reminded his friends.
Ned’s head was disproportionally small to his body. I often mused about the possibility of strangulation. I pictured my small hands around his small neck and that made me smile. Years later, the first time I saw a red-headed woodpecker cartoon, I felt hatred rise within my soul. I did not know why, but then I realized it reminded me of Ned.
Ned owned a pizza parlor, grocery and deli. I was tasked with cleaning his grocery store and stocking the shelves. Every Tuesday during the shipment of the store supplies, some goods got damaged and that became my food for the week. I lived on a steady diet of damaged goods. One week my food would be cans of sardines, another week cans of corn or olives. The one thing I knew I could not touch was peanut butter M&Ms.
To emulate the prophet Mohammad (peace be upon him), Ned lived on a steady diet of bread, honey and dates for breakfast and lunch, but for dinner he had bread, honey and dried figs. I often wondered what would have happened if I cooked for him. Would I have poisoned him? Maybe not. But I thought about it often.
I faithfully assumed my duties as a wife. In the mornings I had to bake the bread. In the afternoons I had to sweep the floor, carry heavy boxes, and lift bulky objects to stock the groceries on the shelves. When customers came to the store, they all thought Ned was my uncle. Of course, that is why I called my husband Traa.
In the evenings, no matter how cold it got, I had to wear only nightshirts in bed to allow my Uncle Husband easy access in case he decided to use me. Ned rarely used my body, maybe once every couple of months. It felt like he was just quickly checking on his goods.
Come to think of it, he has never threatened me with harm, yet I lived in fear. The possible threat of punishment was a monstrous feeling that loomed heavily in me. I often looked at his sweaty, heavy hands and pictured how they could crush me like an unwanted bug at any given moment. His terseness and the gravity of the tone he used when he ordered me meant I was in unspoken danger. In the back of my mind, that menace was very real.
Ned’s head was disproportionally small to his body. I often mused about the possibility of strangulation. I pictured my small hands around his small neck and that made me smile. Years later, the first time I saw a red-headed woodpecker cartoon, I felt hatred rise within my soul. I did not know why, but then I realized it reminded me of Ned.
Ned owned a pizza parlor, grocery and deli. I was tasked with cleaning his grocery store and stocking the shelves. Every Tuesday during the shipment of the store supplies, some goods got damaged and that became my food for the week. I lived on a steady diet of damaged goods. One week my food would be cans of sardines, another week cans of corn or olives. The one thing I knew I could not touch was peanut butter M&Ms.
To emulate the prophet Mohammad (peace be upon him), Ned lived on a steady diet of bread, honey and dates for breakfast and lunch, but for dinner he had bread, honey and dried figs. I often wondered what would have happened if I cooked for him. Would I have poisoned him? Maybe not. But I thought about it often.
I faithfully assumed my duties as a wife. In the mornings I had to bake the bread. In the afternoons I had to sweep the floor, carry heavy boxes, and lift bulky objects to stock the groceries on the shelves. When customers came to the store, they all thought Ned was my uncle. Of course, that is why I called my husband Traa.
In the evenings, no matter how cold it got, I had to wear only nightshirts in bed to allow my Uncle Husband easy access in case he decided to use me. Ned rarely used my body, maybe once every couple of months. It felt like he was just quickly checking on his goods.
Come to think of it, he has never threatened me with harm, yet I lived in fear. The possible threat of punishment was a monstrous feeling that loomed heavily in me. I often looked at his sweaty, heavy hands and pictured how they could crush me like an unwanted bug at any given moment. His terseness and the gravity of the tone he used when he ordered me meant I was in unspoken danger. In the back of my mind, that menace was very real.
Siraj
Ned’s best friend was Siraj, who owned the Islamic bookstore around the corner. Siraj was older than Ned. I learned that Ned was 67; Siraj was probably in his seventies. Together, they planned some failed suicide bombings on the New York City subway. I learned a lot by eavesdropping while he talked with his friends. Ned always thought I knew less than I knew and understood less than I understood. He had no reason to suspect otherwise. I stared at him blankly and nodded my head when ordered.
Siraj had never spoken to me but he smiled when Ned wasn’t looking. His smiles were my only indications that he was a good man. One day Siraj came to the store while Ned was away for few hours. Ned had asked Siraj to come check on the store in his absence. Siraj asked me to bring down some tuna cans from a high shelf. I felt his eyes wander over my backside as I used the ladder. Then he asked me to fetch him an olive jar from the storage room. He followed me and pushed me against the wall. He smiled, but his eyes gave me a warning. I knew I could not scream. His hands touched my body. It reminded me of that feeling I had when my brother invited me to sleep next to him. All of a sudden, I craved peanut butter M&Ms.
I knew I could not tell anyone about what happened in that storage room. Siraj stopped smiling at me. I started to dread his visits, but thankfully Ned rarely left me alone. He only came on Fridays to walk with Ned to the nearby mosque. Friday was the weekly prayer. They never missed a prayer and closed the stores to go pray. I loved Fridays.
Siraj had never spoken to me but he smiled when Ned wasn’t looking. His smiles were my only indications that he was a good man. One day Siraj came to the store while Ned was away for few hours. Ned had asked Siraj to come check on the store in his absence. Siraj asked me to bring down some tuna cans from a high shelf. I felt his eyes wander over my backside as I used the ladder. Then he asked me to fetch him an olive jar from the storage room. He followed me and pushed me against the wall. He smiled, but his eyes gave me a warning. I knew I could not scream. His hands touched my body. It reminded me of that feeling I had when my brother invited me to sleep next to him. All of a sudden, I craved peanut butter M&Ms.
I knew I could not tell anyone about what happened in that storage room. Siraj stopped smiling at me. I started to dread his visits, but thankfully Ned rarely left me alone. He only came on Fridays to walk with Ned to the nearby mosque. Friday was the weekly prayer. They never missed a prayer and closed the stores to go pray. I loved Fridays.
Nabila
I had dreams and no plans. Did I dream about escaping? Sure, I did, but I did not try. I was imprisoned but the door was open. I was afraid to become as we say in Pashto, ‘the goat that flees from the wolf and goes to the butcher’. My mother spoke in proverbs and I believed every proverb she repeated. My education as a child was limited to the pre-packaged wisdom repeated by my mother.
One day Nabila, an older Afghan-American customer, asked Ned if I could help her with household chores. Ned knew her for years and she was a widow – that earned her some respect in his eyes. To my surprise, he agreed on letting me help her, provided she gave him the money. I was not allowed to handle money. He also stipulated that she should not teach me English.
She came and picked me up right before the prayer. I dutifully cleaned her house, which was the only other place I had seen in America. I was cleaning her bathroom and realized that I was bleeding. I was horrified. I thought I was dying. I went to tell her tearfully that I was bleeding and asked her to take me to a hospital. In my distress, I told her to call my husband, Ned. She was shocked to learn that Ned was my husband. She sat me down. She made me chamomile tea. She said everything would be okay. She explained to me why I was bleeding. I was relieved, but not happy to learn that this would happen again every month.
It all happened so fast. Nabila called the police and reported Ned. When I was interviewed, I told the officer that I was thirteen. It turned out that Ned had a fake birth certificate for me. The officer asked me many questions about Ned and his connections. I told my story. Later, Nabila told me that Ned and Siraj went to prison.
I was a child bride. I just did not know it was illegal. Nabila saved me, yet I did not know I could be saved. Nabila took me in and became my adoptive mother. Nabila means ‘an honorable woman’ and she is the only one I know that lived up to her name. She taught me English and enrolled me in school. She stood by me as I struggled through my studies. She drove me to therapy sessions where I learned to unpack my sorrow that I had locked in old suitcases.
I became Shaz. I found my voice and reclaimed my life. I was a child bride once, but that is not who I am now.
One day Nabila, an older Afghan-American customer, asked Ned if I could help her with household chores. Ned knew her for years and she was a widow – that earned her some respect in his eyes. To my surprise, he agreed on letting me help her, provided she gave him the money. I was not allowed to handle money. He also stipulated that she should not teach me English.
She came and picked me up right before the prayer. I dutifully cleaned her house, which was the only other place I had seen in America. I was cleaning her bathroom and realized that I was bleeding. I was horrified. I thought I was dying. I went to tell her tearfully that I was bleeding and asked her to take me to a hospital. In my distress, I told her to call my husband, Ned. She was shocked to learn that Ned was my husband. She sat me down. She made me chamomile tea. She said everything would be okay. She explained to me why I was bleeding. I was relieved, but not happy to learn that this would happen again every month.
It all happened so fast. Nabila called the police and reported Ned. When I was interviewed, I told the officer that I was thirteen. It turned out that Ned had a fake birth certificate for me. The officer asked me many questions about Ned and his connections. I told my story. Later, Nabila told me that Ned and Siraj went to prison.
I was a child bride. I just did not know it was illegal. Nabila saved me, yet I did not know I could be saved. Nabila took me in and became my adoptive mother. Nabila means ‘an honorable woman’ and she is the only one I know that lived up to her name. She taught me English and enrolled me in school. She stood by me as I struggled through my studies. She drove me to therapy sessions where I learned to unpack my sorrow that I had locked in old suitcases.
I became Shaz. I found my voice and reclaimed my life. I was a child bride once, but that is not who I am now.
Dr Rasha Roshdy was born in Cairo and immigrated to the United States in 1996. She founded Amna Sanctuary in 2020 to help immigrants and refugees thrive in America. She’s published dozens of fiction and non-fiction stories, and is known to many as ‘Cosmic Mother’. Roshdy now lives in California.
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