This Translation Tuesday—three days before International Women’s Day—we bring you a tragic story self-translated by former Afghan refugee Lida Amiri—centering on the plight of a woman who is not free to pursue love. In her language, parwana refers to a creature that has wings but cannot fly. It is a fitting name for our despairing protagonist, who, up against forces larger than her, stages her escape.
The night is her sole protector, her only companion. It represents shelter from the stares and noiseless chatter of passersby on the streets. People who recognize her whisper, “That’s the general’s daughter that I saw with another young man! How dare she stain the impeccable reputation of a national hero?”
To Parwana[1], her father’s military background has become a curse. With a swift and vigorous hand motion, she desperately tries to delete each of these stinging judgments from her mind.
Suddenly, Parwana stops her agonizing train of thought and notices her immediate surroundings. She sighs and has a last look around her lovingly furnished room. She is just one step away from a pile of mattresses without a bedframe, which she sometimes fell off of when the nightmares reminded her of her wrongdoings. The only piece of furniture in her room is the wooden chest of drawers next to her bed, which is decorated with her perfume bottle and her Surmi—a Kohl used daily to protect her from evil looks because, according to her neighbors, she has all a young woman could wish for: a loving family, a room in her parents’ house, a job as a midwife. Is she actually willing to risk it all? While her heart races as she reminisces, she looks in the small mirror on the chest of drawers before taking a deep breath addressing herself. “The situation can’t continue like this, and you know it. He will be the right one,” she says softly while sighing heavily.
Parwana walks carefully through her room, grabbing the items she wants to take on her journey, which is suddenly interrupted by loud laughter. Just underneath her bedroom is the living room, where all the family members gather around the old sandali stove. These were the hours in which Parwana’s father shared fables and anecdotes. He especially enjoyed re-telling his stories about the time his father taught him how to ride a horse in the mountains. He was going to be Afghanistan’s most famous Buzkashi player since he was known for being the fastest in dragging the goat carcass to the center of the turf. He always liked to re-enact scenes from the matches he had won by picking up a child in the living room; every one of the girls wanted to float through the air.
To keep the affectionate memories from holding her back, she moves quickly. In a matter of seconds, she turns around and walks away from her bedroom door. In one swift motion, she grabs all her valuable belongings—the handbag, the chadri—off her mattresses and puts her silver-colored Tape 505 cassette player on the ground. She opens the tiny window and holds on to the frame. The cool evening breeze brushes her bangs off her face, which offers her the best view one last time, but she pulls herself outside of the room, peering straight ahead.
*
Doubts rise, but it is too late. Parwana climbed through the window and is outside, where she should have never been. Pressing her stuffed handbag tightly against her chest, she hunches forward. She cannot make a sound. In moments lasting hours, Parwana squeezes her eyes shut. She holds her breath as if her exhalation might attract the attention or curiosity of her neighbors. Dimly lit by the moon’s radiance and the shimmering stars, her despair is visible to the entire universe.
With a gasp of relief, Parwana gets up on her trembling legs before taking the first step on the wall, with which she connects beautiful childhood memories. She looks along the border formed by this wall; it reminds her of moments when she sat next to her father, who was swirling mud with water while she was swirling a stick in a bucket. It is precisely this loving home, with all its cherished memories, that she wants to abandon.
She pauses and returns to the reality of her steps. Slowly, she continues to put one foot in front of the other. She needs to focus. If she slips, she will fall apart. With trembling hands, she tries to balance herself on this wall, the path to her fortune on this calm summer night. She manages to get beyond the far right corner of the front yard with one cautious but big jump.
This is the last place where she should tumble. In this corner, many meals were prepared. Right next to the kitchen was the tandoor oven, which she had always feared as a child. Her sisters were always saying that all naughty children were thrown inside this hole in the ground. Whenever they wanted Parwana to do chores and make sure she fulfilled her duties as the youngest in the family, they would tease her and run around laughing about it.
Now, the tandoor oven rather reminds her of the fragrance of freshly prepared naan bread that swept through the house. In the evenings, her mother prepares the dough for the next morning’s bread. As soon as the small dough balls had risen, they were ready to be flattened out. Her mother sat on the ground next to the tandoor oven, picking up one piece of dough and, with a swift motion, rolling it out with exactly three upward and downward movements of the wooden stick. She admired this in her mother, the ability to accomplish any task quickly and precisely, a skill she had never acquired.
“Are you daydreaming? How are you going to maintain a household like this? Pay attention! As a wife you must learn basic cooking skills.” Her mother liked to patronize Parwana anytime she helped out during daily chores.
*
Her thoughts are suddenly interrupted as her left foot abruptly slips off the wall. Parwana walks too quickly and has forgotten that her father is not a professional bricklayer, and the wall is uneven. She tries to keep her balance by stretching out her arms, holding her chadri and her handbag on opposite sides. This was the exact same veil she bought with her mother in the Kote Sangy market a few months back, where she met him.
As soon as they stepped through the door of the venerable draper’s shop that had been there for decades, they were approached by female sales assistants. The only male present was putting heavy merchandise on shelves and could not avert his gaze from the new customers.
I remember two older women helping me and my mother, to pick out the right fabric. Behind the counter was a rainbow of colors to choose from, and my modar urged and pressured me vehemently, “This is the store with the best items. Now, make up your mind and let us leave so I can buy vegetables at the market stalls.”
I did not pay attention to her and what she expected me to do, as I was shocked that there was a young man in stepping in our direction. Before I could properly fix my headscarf, he was already addressing us in his calming voice, “Salam, what are you looking—”
“Jawed, stop addressing female customers and bring them both some tea,” said a woman, stepping out of a small room that looked like an office.
“I would like a chadri that is a little shorter than usual so I can move quickly and be able to run whenever a pregnant woman needs me,” I tried to answer correctly while avoiding eye contact with Jawed as he handed me my cup of tea. He carefully whispered that he would be there whenever I returned to pick up my chadri.
I have always loved wearing this chadri, which seemed to me to be the prettiest; plain with three parallel lines along the hem in azure blue, like the vast ocean, whose end on the horizon was never visible to the eye when it blended with the blue of the sky. Each step I took in this robe of infinity created waves that ebbed and flowed.
Parwana jumps. The touch of her naked feet on the prosaic ground jolts her back to reality and seeps into each fiber of her body. A loud noise fills her ears as her stuffed handbag slips out of her hand. Along the pavement, her red lipstick rolls toward the street, and the little Qu’ran drops out of the handbag. She rapidly crams the book back into her bag, crumbling the family photograph that she instinctively grabbed before she escaped the cage.
*
In short but swift strides, she distances herself from her parent’s home. Covered from head to toe, she is captured by a sensation of gentle freedom without fearing for her security. Cars, buses, and donkey-driven rickshaws pass by her. At one-second intervals, her eyes move up and down. She turns her head to the streets, to the houses, across and sometimes back, seeing the roads of Shash Darak for the last time. Unexpectedly, she stands still and looks over her left shoulder. She lifts her left hand, stops a yellow taxi, and gets into the back seat.
The driver turns around and asks her in a confused tone, “Where do you want me to drop—”
“Kote Sangy!” she answers abruptly before there is time for a conversation. This is a mute journey; she swims in a sea of her own thoughts. Then, the taxi driver puts the cassette of the Indian classic box-office hit ‘Chori Chori’ into the cassette recorder.
As soon as the first piano notes dance inside the pink inner coating of the taxi, Parwana is transported to the past. With each chord, she painted with the colors of her soul old familiar scenes: his hand caressing hers hesitantly but gently. In the dark of the cinema hall, where she was sheltered, she met him to watch this film with the excuse of having to work night hours. Raj Kapoor’s and Nargis’s love was what she wished upon herself, allowing her to dream.
“This can also happen to me!” she softly whispers to herself. With Jawed, she finally found a flourished garden full of colorful flowers, where there only existed a meadow. Your eyes gazing at me felt like a warm embrace, which was meant to protect me from everyone else.
*
She is completely lost in a world in which lovers find a way to each other, and for a short moment, she senses blissful happiness, which is interrupted by a lightning bolt. Parwana hears the voice of her eldest sister, Zahira, urging her to simply refrain from all and forget her fling.
Parwana could not bear her thoughts anymore and looked out the car window at the lights of the construction site where they met for the first time. There, where the huge Hotel Intercontinental is being built. The hotel looks out over the entire city and deserves the name it had earned: Bagh-e Bala. This garden far up would flourish after all the construction is finished, and it would welcome the building where she imagines herself entering with Jawed to cast a glance at Kabul’s streets and re-tell their love stories, revisiting the alleys they walked together in search of safety.
Parwana closes her eyes slowly and drifts away in her imagination to enjoy the rose bushes and the summer breeze from her memories. But now, she is on a carousel that is picking up speed with every passing moment. She sees alternating silhouettes of her mother, sister, father, and Jawed. None of the shadows are talking as she subconsciously grinds her teeth.
The last lamp that illuminates the far left corner of the hotel construction site catches her eye. This is where she wants to go to be close to the stars and find a quiet place to forget all the worries on her mind and all the risks that she was taking by sitting in this taxi.
“Bagh-e Bala,” she shouts, “this is where I want to go. Now!” She did not want to lose a minute or miss out on any chance to find a moment of calm.
*
The ride uphill is uncomfortable, and the rough gravel shakes her from side to side. However, this motion still allows her to escape reality with closed eyes. It feels like her mother is rocking her to sleep again. It was the evening ritual that her mother connected with her domestic work as she leaned against the wall peeling vegetables for the next day’s dish, and the baby laid on a cushion on her outstretched legs. Parwana’s mother would waggle her legs left and right, and in just minutes, the baby would be asleep.
Parwana does not open her eyes until the taxi arrives at the top of the hill. The taxi driver stops abruptly and looks back wordlessly. In the darkness, she hands him three banknotes and leaves without waiting for the change. The car turns around, and its taillights vanish behind the horizon, a blur in the sea of the city’s lights. She barely has the strength to walk and fills her lungs with one single deep breath of fresh air. Air ought to free her, but she sucks in a piece of cloth. Her chadri is obstructing her. She starts coughing as she removes it from her head in one hasty and adept motion. One golden-brown curl tumbles into her face. As she reaches out for it, a scene replays in front of her eyes.
Zahira stood in the living room and greeted me in the morning. She saw how I undid my ponytail, trying to stop the ache from the constricted hair tie. The throbbing pain was annoying, and once my hair was free, I started swinging my head from left to right to strengthen the sensation until an abrupt gesture interrupted my mantra-like movement. In the corner of my eye, I could see that Zahira held on to a thick curl, and like a snake, she wrapped her finger around it. With every twirl, she gained more and more power over my hair and finished up with one final jerky pull, which tilted my head to the left.
With a hiss, she started the familiar monologue, “You are the only one in this family that naturally has this magnificent head of hair. I don’t know who you got it from! What a pity, indeed; it would have suited me better.”
In a panic, I responded, ”Nasarem nakun!” I feared her evil eye and utter jealousy that would affect my healthy hair. A shiver ran down my spine as I saw Zahira staring at me, motionless.
Out of fear, I repeated in my head the well-known protective Zoroastrian chant in a desperate attempt to guard myself as women have always done for centuries. “Esfand balo band, tcheshme doost va dushman band, band, band. BAND. B-A-N-D!” Would these words be able to protect me from the evil eye if I merely imagined burning Esfand seeds?
I could see the emptiness in her eyes as Zahira responded. “He just fell in love with your Western looks.” I didn’t react and remained frozen like ice. “How could you allow everyone in our neighborhood to know about him? Our parents are old and need your support instead of you roaming around Kabul’s streets,” Zahira commented in a stern tone.
With one weary sigh, Parwana drops her head; her eyes meet the scars, and the world comes to a standstill. When the moonlight brushes her scabs, they shine in a shining tone. Her fingertips slowly stroke her right wrist as cautiously as if the area is still tender and susceptible to pain. Ever so carefully, she touches memories of dark moments as if she had the power to heal them. She does not want to return to those instants of mere madness, in which she tried to release all the pressure with a few swift strokes of the blade she had secretly taken from the hospital. With every drop that deserted her body, her pain depleted until she reached a state of delirium, levitating lightly. They were crimson tears of her soul that only reluctantly abandoned their home. While her soul fills itself with these thoughts, she continues to caress her scars. Slowly, her fingertips move up and down, and with every second, they become faster and turn into a rubber eraser trying to efface these memories. There should be no souvenir anymore that could immediately vault her into sheer despair. She rubs and rubs, and her wrist turned red.
I repeated several times that I couldn’t leave my family behind and begged for his understanding.
“But why can’t you just come with me?” Jawed casually asked.
“Where would we go? What would we do?” I anxiously interrupted him.
“I will take care of you, of us. I promise. We can just walk away and stay with my aunt in Mazar-e-Sharif, far away from all our worries.” Jawed tried to talk courage into me in a smooth tone but to no avail.
With her bare hands, Parwana sweeps over the gravel. Her gaze roamed the distance, admiring her home city. She is surrounded by unique tranquility, but she feels the storm approaching. The burden of disappointment is almost too heavy for her shoulders, carrying more than her soul could bear. She is flooded by a wave of guilt that overwhelms her like the sudden nightfall. Tears roll down her cheeks as she remembered her mother standing in front of her last night.
“Get out of my sight!” my modar shouted when she lifted her hand. Like a razorsharp whip, her open hand hit several slaps across my face, but I tried to accept my punishment attempting without excessive wailing.
I could hear my modar’s thoughts, asking and wondering what she did to deserve this. She screamed and whispered curses before she shouted one more time, “You cannot slander our family’s name and ridicule your family’s honor! From tomorrow onwards, you must stay at home! If you have a call from the hospital, I will accompany to wherever you will meet a pregnant woman until we will arrange your marriage! If you don’t obey these rules, I will tell your father. And, he will kill you!” This was not even a discussion. My mother had made up her mind. I did not recognize her in her anger. I felt shame and sensed that her hands were tied.
Parwana is out of breath. Were these her only two options: staying or leaving? Tension fills every atom inside of her. One short breath chases the next. Her chest moves up and down. It is like a tabla player who reaches the peak of his classical piece by hitting his instrument faster and harder. She could hear steps from afar, and she senses her uncles are coming for her.
*
Every moment passes much quicker because the globe is turning faster. Her soul cannot keep up with the avalanche of feelings; she cannot stop her sentiments that keeps unrolling as if there is no tomorrow. She has neither time nor space to reflect on her problems.
Her gasps become shorter and shorter, and her throat is feeling tighter. She is stepping away from reason with every pant. Her vision is blurred, although the night is clear, and the moon is shining like a torch. She loses her balance, although she is sitting on the ground. She is drowning, even though she is on Kabul’s highest hill. How could she escape this? Parwana opens her mouth violently, almost tearing its corners. But there is no sound. She screams as hard as possible but remains mute.
With every second, she tries to stop her thoughts—make them leave her mind, her heart, her soul. With the force of her own hands, she wants to send all the madness away. The distress and exasperation have relentlessly continued to rise, not allowing her peace of mind. She shakes her head and shuts her eyes tightly so that no single tear would drop. Parwana raises her hand far above her head and clenches it furiously so that all four nails bore into her palm. She holds up her head proudly, faces the sky, and squeezes her eyes shut a little bit more, just moments before the impact, pretending that she would not feel the pain. Just like the rhythm of a sequence of heartbeats, her fist strikes her head second by second. Every time she winds her arm back, more tears escape her stinging eyes, which have already turned red. This is not intense enough, not strong enough, not hard enough. Her eyes wander around and spot a stone not far away. Impulsively, she grabs it. She gasps for air, desperately trying to calm down. This is a lonely battle that is accompanied by nothing except for her swift and anxious breaths.
One glance at the sky finally connects her with infinity, where she belongs. Out there, where she is protected. Out there, where rivers flow wine instead of water. Out there, where she is far away from all these worries she carries and the anguish of solitude she feels. She is not her own master anymore; she is part of the universe that calls for her when the stone hits her head for the first and last time.
[1] Parwana [paɾ.wɑː.ˈna]: A creature that has wings but cannot fly.
Translated from the German by Lida Amiri
Lida Amiri is a former refugee from Afghanistan and a multilingual artist fluent in English, French, Persian and German. She writes multilingual poetry and translates Persian poetry into English. As Assistant Professor at Utrecht University, Lida teaches prose and poetry while contributing with her research to Persianate and Refugee Studies.
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