I was just thirteen years old when my mother married me off to an elderly man. In fact, it wasn’t a normal marriage, but she sold me to the old, ill-humored man. I hate my mother for what she did to me. I wish bad things upon her and hope she never has a good day in her life. The trauma she caused me and the way she ruined my life can never be forgotten, and I will never forgive her. It’s a common belief that mothers are kind, but I know firsthand that not all mothers are good or kind. Some mothers are cruel, like mine.
My father passed away when I was five years old. He was a good man but poor. After his death, my mother wanted to remarry a wealthy man to secure a comfortable and financially stable future for herself. She was always interested in money and wealth. She even tried to relinquish the custody of my brother and me so she could get married, but since we had reached a certain level of growth, no one would accept adopting us. Furthermore, it seemed that my mother’s search for a wealthy partner for herself had been unsuccessful. So, she would send us to work on the streets and contribute to the household expenses.
My brother was three years older than me, and he worked much harder than I did. He loved me deeply and didn’t want me to suffer too much. Our childhood was tough, and despite my brother’s tireless efforts to maintain our household and contribute to our family’s well-being, my mother’s behavior towards him was often cruel and unwarranted. There were times when she would subject him to physical abuse and torture without any apparent reason or justification. It broke my heart to see him in pain, and I would pray for my mother’s death.
One day, when I was just thirteen, a 72-year-old man came to propose to me. The locals said he was rich, but he had already been married twice before, and both of his previous wives had divorced him due to his bad ill humor and misbehaviors. I was frightened and begged my mother not to marry me off to him. The women in the neighborhood warned me not to let my mother marry me off to him. Despite their advice, I felt powerless to intervene. The man had bestowed upon my mother a house along with a substantial sum of money, pledging to support her financially for the rest of her days. My mother’s unrelenting infatuation with wealth and money led to dire consequences for the family. Despite the fact that our living conditions had improved, my brother was sent to Iran while I was sold off to the man.
I will never forget the injustice that my mother inflicted upon me, selling me to an old man who was cruel and abusive. As a child, I was forced to endure his brutal and torturous coital relations, leaving me numb with pain throughout the night. I cried myself to sleep, but the cruelty never ceased, robbing me of my childhood.
At times, my husband would become displeased with the food I had prepared, and he would berate and physically abuse me for my cooking. These were difficult times for me. By the age of 24, I had given birth to five children — one girl and four boys. It was only at this point that I began to fully comprehend the realities and meanings of life and marriage. I endured my husband’s cruelty for nearly two decades, with the first two years of our marriage being especially difficult. During this time, he subjected me to torture and abuse because I was unable to conceive a child for him. However, it was impossible for me to give birth to a child while I experienced my first period 18 months after our marriage.
My life was filled with such bitterness and difficulty that it is hard to put into words. Now, my husband is aged and infirm — his hands and feet tremble as he walks, and he has been largely bedridden for the past six months. As for myself, I am 33 years old, sometimes, I find myself thinking that I have never truly understood how my life has unfolded as a result of my mother’s oppression. I lost my childhood to forced confinement and early childbirth. And now, as I work to care for my children and tend to my sick husband, I feel as though my youth is slipping away from me as well.
After marriage, my husband took me to Kabul City, and I never returned to Sar-e-pol to see my mother again. My husband did not keep his promise to provide for my mother, and I have not seen her in over two decades. I have no knowledge of her current condition. Sometimes, I wish for my mother’s demise and to suffer the way she has made me and my brother suffer. My brother remains in Iran, and over the course of twenty years, I have only been able to speak with him on the phone once. When I contemplate my brother’s displacement and my own misfortunes, I become overwhelmed with emotion, and the pain in my throat becomes almost unbearable. I cannot fathom why my mother destroyed our lives for the sake of money and land.
