What Happened in the Depths of My Kohl-Lined Eyes?

By Raihana Sultani

I lined my almond-shaped eyes with black kohl, then brought the large mirror closer to my face. With great care, I began to glide red lipstick over my thin lips. I thought of him, his laughter, his eyes, and all the dreams he had woven around our future. A smile, darker than the lipstick on my lips, slowly spread across my face.

Then my mother’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts. She was calling me. I panicked, quickly pulled a few strands of hair from beneath my headscarf, and let them fall around my face. Then I hurried outside.

The moment my mother saw me, her eyes widened. She bit her lower lip, then burst into a fit of scolding.

“You shameless girl! Have you forgotten yourself? Are you going to the mosque or to a wedding? Hurry up and wipe that makeup off. We’re already late!”

Her words hurt me. Mumbling under my breath, I took a colorful handkerchief from my bag and wiped it across my lips. My mother gave me a sideways glance and seemed satisfied when the color had faded a little.

We headed toward the village mosque, where the women would gather for Eid prayers. It was Qurban Eid, and the people of our village celebrated the day with great joy and devotion.

When we reached the entrance, I secretly looked around, searching for him. But he was nowhere to be seen. I lowered my head and followed my mother inside.

We went to the prayer hall first. Throughout the prayer, as Arabic words slipped from my tongue, he wandered through my mind. No matter how hard I tried to focus, my thoughts kept returning to him. Who was I really praying to?

Then I prayed for his long life and good health.

Afterward, I joined the other girls from the village, who were sitting together in little groups, exchanging Eid greetings. Everyone wished one another a blessed Eid, but Eid had always meant something different to me.

For me, Eid was him. My blessing, my birthday, my happiness, my reason to celebrate — he was all of it.

After a while, the boys entered carrying trays of tea and sweets. I lifted my head, and suddenly, my heart seemed to leap out of my chest. A smile appeared at the corners of my lips. Everyone was smiling, but could their smiles really compare to mine?

There he was, tall, with sun-kissed skin and chestnut curls. His smoky eyes wandered across the mosque, searching through the crowd. Then they found me.

Holding a tray of tea and sweets, he began walking toward me. My heart pounded. A mixture of excitement and nervousness washed over me, and I quickly lowered my head. I could no longer bear the thought of looking directly at him.

I did not watch him approach, but I felt every second of the distance between us. The few steps he took toward me seemed to stretch into years. My head was still bowed when a hand appeared before me, gently placing a tray on the floor.

“Eid Mubarak,” he whispered.

I lowered my head even further, hiding my face in the collar of my dress. It felt as though my heart had left its place inside my chest. Deep within me, where no one could hear, I whispered, “Eid Mubarak to you!”

His name was Ali.

We came from two neighboring villages. He sometimes visited ours, and every time I saw him, I experienced a marvelous, indescribable feeling. I did not know what to do with these feelings. Should I bury them, or let them surge and flow like a cold spring bursting from between rocks and gravel?

But how could I let them flow freely in our village? What if my mother and father found out? What if the villagers did?

I tried so hard to pile a thousand stones over that spring to keep it from flowing, but I could not contain the destructive riot inside my heart.

So I took a white handkerchief, threaded my needle, and began to sew. I had made an irreversible decision: I would pour all my feelings into the handkerchief and give it to him. Every thread and pattern carried the clamor of emotions I could not express with my tongue.

He accepted my love, and a few months later, his family came to ask for my hand in marriage. But my father refused.

His family came again and again, but my father’s answer never changed. His reason was brief and clear:

“I will not give my daughter to the Ebrahimi dynasty.”

At the final meeting about the marriage proposal, my father said, “My daughter does not want to marry your son.”

I entered the room and said, “I do. I want to marry Ali.”

The room fell silent. Everyone was stunned. My father stared at me, his eyes wide with disbelief. My mother rushed toward me, dragged me into the tandoor room — the room with our traditional clay oven — and slapped me across the face.

I sat beside the tandoor, lost in my thoughts, when the door suddenly slammed against the wall. My father stormed in with a large stick in his hand. Before I could stand, he reached me and began beating me. My mother cried and tried to stop him, but he did not hesitate to strike her as well.

Pain spread throughout my body. My hand was broken.

After that day, I was not allowed to leave the house.

One day, one of my father’s relatives passed away, and my parents went to the memorial gathering. I took advantage of their absence and went to my sanctuary: the almond tree where I met Ali whenever we could see each other.

He was there.

When I returned home, my parents were waiting for me at the gate. I froze, as though the news of my visit had reached them before I did.

The moment my father saw me, he lunged at me and began beating me with his fists and feet. Suddenly, he stormed toward the guest room. A few moments later, he returned with a gun and pointed it at my head.

My uncle rushed toward my father and said, “Don’t do this. She deserves worse than this.”

I looked at the faces of the people around me. I saw nothing but arrogance, ego, and fear — the fear that if women ever made decisions about their own lives, men would no longer be able to rule as they pleased or take pride in their power.

Lost in these thoughts, I was dragged by my father toward the tandoor room once again. In moments, we were beside the oven, still hot and full of embers.

I screamed, cried, and grabbed his arms and clothes, but my attempts were useless. In one swift motion, he lifted me, pushed me inside the tandoor, and covered it.

My feet touched the burning embers, and pain engulfed my entire body. I screamed, but no one came. The lid did not move.

My vision began to fade. Then the lid was lifted, and my mother’s hands touched my face. After that, I felt nothing more.

I could not move for two weeks, and my feet were covered in blisters.

A month later, one of my childhood friends came to visit me. She brought a letter from Ali. I read it through tears and sorrow. He wrote about how much he missed me and how devastated he was by what had happened. Finally, he suggested the only way left to us: escape.

I made my irreversible decision.

A few nights later, while my parents slept, believing they had burned the love and rebellion out of me that day, I slipped out of the house and went to the place Ali had mentioned. He was waiting for me. We escaped together to Ghazni.

It has been about two years since I last saw my parents.

I have heard that my father says, “I have no daughter named MahGul.”

People see me as a bad, dishonorable, rebellious girl. But I see myself as a woman who defied the expectations of a traditional marriage, like thousands of other women. It was a kind of marriage in which others would choose for you, leaving your soul mute.

I chose to respect myself, my body, and my feelings. I chose this small castle, with its wooden ceiling and the little girl inside it whose laughter eases my pain and softens the memories of those terrible days.

Ali encourages me to write. Whenever he travels to Kabul, he brings me beautiful gifts. Among my favorites are books by Siamak Herawi and Khaled Hosseini, along with collections of poems by Forugh Farrokhzad.

I feel powerful because I have made my own choices, and I am happy.

Rooted in reality.

Image Credit: Adobe Stock

Author’s bio: I am Raihana Sultani from Ghazni province. After graduating from high school, I dreamed of becoming a writer and a painter one day. But on the night the Taliban took over, my dreams began to burn, and their smoke turned everything black and dark. Although hope became rare and seemed out of reach, I remained hopeful and continued to strive for my dreams. Now, I wish to take a step toward the light through my writing.