From the Fall to Today: "Four Years and a Pen"

It had been four years, and this was the first time I left the house alone. I wanted to buy some hair ties for my nephews. The hair ties were just an excuse—Arezou had been calling me for days. She was reading The Neighbors by Ahmad Mahmood and telling me about each part as she finished it. A dark-eyed girl who always chased books; we’d been friends for six years. She said she bought The Neighbors from a certain bookstore. It was like someone was constantly shouting in my ear to go there and bring The Neighbors home.

I wore a dress like an abaya, its only decoration a simple cord holding the sides together. A blue mask covered my mouth and nose. My heart was pounding loudly; I was gulping the air quickly. A trembling shadow, born for me on August 15, 2021, squeezed my hand. I stood in front of the mirror, putting on my chador, pulling one side forward so my eyebrows were hidden beneath its edge.

One of my nephews grabbed my hand and said, “Auntie, take me with you—don’t you know the Taliban say women must go out with a male guardian?”

In the silence that screamed, Why have they clipped my wings? How can a man be my crutch? I stared at his face. I said nothing. My lashes couldn’t hold back the heavy rain of tears, and hot drops slid down behind my mask, running across my cheeks… My sister came, took his hand, and led him away.

My mother stroked my head and said, “Come sit here.”

I saw my own face in her eyes—lines at their corners, the edge of her velvet scarf slipping aside, her hair streaked with white. With a tired voice, she asked, “Shall we travel back to my childhood?”

I couldn’t speak. Something stuck in my throat; my voice wouldn’t come out. I placed my hand inside hers and nodded. She held me close and began:

“I loved going to weddings, but since my mother died young, no one took us. One day, I was sitting on the rooftop. My sister had placed a leather bag filled with yogurt in front of me and gently told me to shake it. I was doing that when suddenly I heard the sound of drums and clapping from the alley. I went to the edge of the roof. The wall was low—shorter than me. I could see the alley perfectly. The bride was passing by. Behind her, women in burqas walked, and little girls held their hands in front of their mouths, making trilling sounds. Two women in front were playing drums and singing:

Wheat flower, oh wheat flower, oh God

A girl belongs to a man, oh God

I sang with them, shaking my dress and dancing. The alley had quieted, but I kept waving my hands.

‘Shameless girl, what are you doing at the edge of the roof?’

It was my sister—I don’t know when she came. Her face was flushed, scarf tied over her head, veins bulging on her neck. I swallowed hard, clenching my hands, and stepped back from the wall. Without a word, she grabbed my braid and slammed my head against the wall. She had a black whip and began to lash me.”

At her words, tears streamed harder. I looked at her face—three lines creased her forehead.

My mother laughed and said, “Do you know what happened? The yogurt had leaked from the bag.” She laughed louder and added, “That day I was scared, but I never stopped singing with the wedding women—because I loved it. And now, I have no regrets; no regret for not standing by that mud-brick wall to send the bride off…”

She paused, her face more weary, eyes fixed on the flowers of her dress. She brought her face close to mine and asked, “Don’t you want to go out? If it bothers you, don’t—but you’ve locked yourself in the house for four years. Don’t let regret settle in your heart.”

I said nothing, but her words moved me. I kissed her hand and left the house.

I sat in a rickshaw, wanting to get to the market quickly and return home. I kept thinking about my mother’s words: You’ve locked yourself in the house for four years.

My lips behind the mask whispered, How have four years passed? Days where every second felt like a century of pain—how?

I wanted to ask the driver, but my tongue wouldn’t obey.

His voice pulled me back: “Sister, we’re here.”

I got out. The city had changed; the old worn stalls were gone, no pushcarts in sight. All stalls were wooden, the same color. The streets felt almost empty; most shopkeepers were eating. I first went to the bookstores on Godam Alley, but they lacked the old energy. No girls were eagerly flipping through booklets to choose one.

I entered the shop Arezou had told me about. It was small. Inside was a young man with a neat beard, dressed in black. I greeted him and asked for The Neighbors by Ahmad Mahmood.

A strange light flashed in his eyes. He handed me the book and, as I was leaving, gave me a little booklet as a gift for the young readers of this land. I put both in my bag and headed toward the stalls.

A few women stood scattered among them. The silence stirred me more; I felt my blood rushing. My palms burned. The sun watched over the whole road. A few Taliban passed by silently, their eyes screaming, What business have you walking and living here…

Among the stalls, one was bigger than the rest: several planks on thick, tall legs, covered by a red cloth canopy to keep the sun from staining the goods.

I stood beside two young women in black abayas—likely sisters. One had wheat-colored skin, both had large, dark eyes shining. They had bought lipsticks—mulberry and pomegranate red. They looked at each other, laughter shining in their eyes. One held out the pomegranate lipstick to me and asked, “How’s this color?”

I looked at her face—mask pulled down, delicate lips, fair skin flushed with pomegranate red. I said, “It’s beautiful; it makes your face brighter.” She smiled and put it in her bag.

I started browsing the goods. I was about to pick some hair ties when my eyes caught pens—white bodies with caps in green, red, purple, orange, and yellow. I picked them all.

A mocking voice came from behind: “What do you need pens for?”

I turned. A man with wheat-colored skin and black beard stood there, chewing on his mustache. I asked, “Why shouldn’t I buy pens?”

He laughed and said, “Don’t you know why women like you shouldn’t buy pens, notebooks, or books?”

Only then did I realize he was a Talib—an Amr bil Ma’ruf wa Nahi ‘an al-Munkar enforcer. His white chapan was draped over his arm like a doctor’s coat. The sun hid behind a cloud. I had nowhere to hide and turned my face away from the black-clad officer. My left eyelid twitched; my hand slipped from my chador’s edge—I was lost.

The Talib said, “Cover your chador. You’re so careless over a pen you don’t even know where you are or who’s watching you.”

I could hear my pounding heart. Without thinking, I said, “Don’t stare at me. Let me walk as freely as you do.”

He snapped, “Don’t move your tongue.”

One woman at the stall took my hand and whispered, “Don’t speak—he’ll trample you and you’ll end up in prison.”

Her words spun in my head; everything darkened. I lowered my head, blinking at my toes hidden in socks, wishing they could tear through my shoes and find a way out.

I didn’t want to leave the pens there with the Talib. I bought them all and put them in my bag, along with some hair ties decorated with little dolls in wool hats.

The Talib was still talking, his voice filling the air, repeating, “Foolish girl, you bought the pens in vain.”

I couldn’t hold back and said, “I bought them to become wise.” I passed by him. It felt as if smoke rose from my nose and fire blazed in my chest.

On the road, I stopped at an ice cream cart and bought a cone. Sitting in the rickshaw, I took out the book and ate as I read… I had a book to read, and a pen to write with.