The Girls’ Story: A Life Hidden Beneath the Burqa

The sunlight falls on half of the wall. It is late Wednesday afternoon.

The house is quiet without Maryam, my twelve-year-old niece, who finished sixth grade last year and now goes to a madrasa (religious school). My sister steps outside with her hand-sewing machine. She holds a piece of black fabric toward our mother.

“I want to sew a new hijab for Maryam. Is this fabric good?” she asks.

Mother wipes her glasses, rubs the corner of the fabric between her fingers, and says, “Yes, it feels like silk and doesn’t seem dusty.”

I stand up, brush off my dress, and bend down to look at the fabric.

“Let me see too.”

Suddenly, someone bursts into the yard. My words are lost in the shouts. My ears ring as the cries get closer.

My sister runs toward the sound, tripping on the sewing machine. The machine falls and grazes her foot.

“Maryam, what happened?!” she shouts.

I stay still, looking at Maryam. She is crying and moaning quietly. My own tears fall; I don’t know what happened. I think, It must be about Maryam’s madrasa.

My sister leans against the bare mulberry tree.

“Maryam, tell us.”

Maryam sobs, her voice stuck in her throat. She lifts the edge of her black hijab off her shoes and shouts,

“What is this I’m wearing? Isn’t this a hijab?”

My sister hugs her. “It is. Who said it isn’t?”

Maryam pushes her away, crying, and calls for her mother.

“Mother! Mother…”

I go closer and hold her face in my hands.

“My dear, what happened?”

Tears run down her cheeks. Her lips are swollen.

“Taliban said we must wear the burqa. We can’t go to madrasa without it.”

My sister wipes her face. “Then don’t go to madrasa anymore.”

Maryam’s eyes widen. “What will happen to me, Mother? Tell me—what will I become?”

She turns and walks into the house. 

I sit by the small stream. I stare into the water. I press my lips together; the dimple on my cheek dances in the water while my heart sinks in sadness.

My mother comes out of the house and sits beside me. I ask, “Is Maryam calm now?”

She drops a mint leaf into the water. “Her mother is trying to put her to sleep.”

I look into her sunken eyes and say, “How could she sleep?” I turn back to the water. “Why must we wear the burqa?”

My mother doesn’t hesitate. Her face tightens, deepening its wrinkles. “I don’t know why. But now that they’ve said it—you must wear it.”

Her words hurt. “What are you saying?”

“You look more respectable in a burqa than in a manteau or shawl,” she responds.

I stay silent, throw a fistful of dirt into the water, and see my reflection under the burqa. Even moving the water doesn’t change it.

Mother dips her feet into the cold stream.

“How cold it is,” she says.

She steps on the stones under the water.

“Wear it and go out. Don’t let them trap you inside the house. Don’t be like me. I never saw the world—don’t let that happen to you.”

I lower my voice and ask,

“See the world from under a burqa?”

She lifts her feet from the water, stands, and as she walks away, says,

“Yes—even if it’s through those tiny holes.”

She leaves. Her reflection fades from the water. I stare at the surface and see myself in a burqa.

I move the water with my hand, but the image doesn’t disappear.