By: Arezo Rahimi
I close my eyes and think of the past, remembering the grapevine in our old courtyard. Maryam, my friend, would visit our neighbor’s house every day to learn the Quran. She didn’t have toys like I did. Thanks to my aunt who brought gifts from Iran, I had a Barbie, a panda, and a few other dolls. After Quran lessons, we would play beneath the same grapevine. One day, everything was cold and white, and Maryam and I secretly ate snow. My mom caught us and scolded, “Come inside, it’s too cold. Don’t eat the snow, you’ll get sick.”
We retreated to our mud house that my parents had built alone years before. I begged my mom to bake us some potatoes under the coals. She agreed and placed two potatoes on the stove for Maryam and me. The house had a strange smell, a mixture of smoke and dampness. Mom filled the teapot with water and set it on the stove. We always loved watching the water droplets dance on the hot surface, leaping and twirling.
Mom took the potatoes out of the stove. They were very hot. We cut the potatoes in half to cool them. The outside was charred, but the inside was still firm. We sprinkled a little salt and began eating, the heat still radiating from them.
“Maryam, be careful not to burn yourself,” I warned.
Maryam winced, her face pale as flour, her hair like golden wheat. She closed her small eyes as she swallowed, then gasped, “Ouch, my tongue is burned…”
Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes turned toward the ceiling. Pointing at the roof, she said with difficulty, “Water’s dripping from your ceiling.”
In winter, water always dripped from the roof of our mud house. Dad had tried to repair it with mud, but the waterway never quite sealed, and the drops would come back each time.
Mom sent Maryam home and made me take a bath with warm water. Our bathroom was always cold and dark, and I feared the cobwebs on the ceiling might fall into my hair. After the bath, Mom sat me next to the stove and threw a clean red dress at me. “Hurry up and put this on. It’s getting late. Because of you playing around, I haven’t gotten anything done today. Look at you! No matter how much oil I put on, your skin is still dry. You’re growing up. You need to learn to cook and help around the house. A few years from now, when you get married, people shouldn’t say that so-and-so’s daughter doesn’t know how to do anything.”
I open my eyes. Years have passed, and we no longer live in the mud house my parents built with their own hands. It’s morning, and I feel tired. I step outside. The streets are quiet, empty of cars and people. Today is one of those days when even nature seems gloomy and sad. I don’t know what has happened. My feet and stomach hurt, and walking feels harder than usual. On this rainy day, nothing seems beautiful or pleasant to me.
I arrive at school. My backpack feels heavier than usual on my shoulders. As soon as I reach my seat in the classroom, my backpack slips off my shoulder and falls. Ahmad, in his newly deepened voice, asks how I am.
“You look pale. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I reply, not wanting to talk. It’s math class, and Ahmad takes my pen without asking. He hasn’t done anything particularly annoying, but for some reason, I feel angry. “Ahmad, don’t you know how to ask for permission?”
He responds, “The other day, you took my stuff without asking!”
He throws the pen back at me, and I wonder, “What if he doesn’t want to play with me anymore? Should I ask him?”
Ahmad looks at me, his expression softening. “Sorry, I should have asked. You don’t look well today. Is everything okay?”
“I’m a little sick.”
“Should I tell the teacher?”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
Ahmad turns away and starts writing again. I can’t help but wonder, “Why is he writing on paper?”
“What are you writing, Ahmad?”
He glances at me and says, “My mom didn’t give me money for a biology book. The teacher said I have to copy it if I can’t buy it. I only have enough money to print the chemistry book, so I’m copying the biology book instead. Luckily, it’s not too big.”
I hesitate for a moment before offering, “Look, Ahmad, we have an extra chemistry book at home. I’ll bring it for you. Just print the biology book.”
“Really?”
“Yes, but don’t write in math class. The teacher will get angry if he sees.”
Ahmad’s eyes light up. He has a small mole under his long eyelashes—so beautiful. When he smiles at me, my heart flutters. The school day finally ends, and I rush home. As soon as I arrive, I remove my delicate school uniform. That’s when I notice a stain on my dress. I pause and think, “What’s this?” I quickly convince myself, “I must have sat somewhere dirty, or maybe the rain soaked my dress.” But when I look at my underwear, my gaze freezes. My hands are covered in blood. It’s the first time I’ve experienced something so shocking and unsettling. My body trembles with fear. “Do I have a serious illness? Why am I bleeding?”
In my small room, I search for a solution. Who should I tell? After a moment, I decide to talk to my cousin Farishta about what’s happening.
Our house has three floors. Our grandparents live on the first floor, my uncle’s family lives on the second, and we live on the third. I quickly put on a new dress and rush to Farishta’s room.
“Farishta? Where are you?”
Farishta finds me, her curious eyes widening. She’s fifteen and about to get married in a month. My mom had said, “Farishta isn’t ready yet, it’s not time for her wedding…” but I still didn’t understand what that meant. Before I can speak, a wave of fear and embarrassment chokes me. It feels like a heavy stone has settled on my chest.
“What happened? Tell me.”
I throw my hands forward, hugging Farishta tightly, and burst into tears. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m sick or dying. I’m bleeding.”
“From where?”
“Down there!”
Farishta holds me tightly and says, “It’s okay, we’ll take you to the doctor. You’ll be fine. Maybe it’s nothing serious. Don’t cry! Did you tell your mom?”
“No, she’ll worry. Farishta, my stomach hurts a lot.”
“Go tell your mom, and she’ll take you to the doctor.”
My mom is cooking. When she sees me, she asks, “What happened? Why is your face so pale?”
With a trembling voice, I say, “I’m bleeding, Mom. My stomach and legs hurt so much.”
Her forehead furrows in confusion, and she says, “What’s all this nonsense? You’re not even fourteen yet. Out of nowhere! You’ve come to age early. Quran-blessed, what should I do with you now?”
I’m shocked and don’t understand what she means. Fearfully, I ask, “What? What did I do wrong?”
“You’ve reached maturity, at this young age.”
“I’ve reached maturity?”
“Yes!”
She pulls out a cloth from the closet and hands it to me. “Go and place this between your legs!”
I’m speechless, just staring at her in astonishment. She continues, “You’ll be fine in a few days. You’ve got your period now. Now, leave me alone. I’m upset.”
My tears stop, but a heavy loneliness fills me. I don’t know what to do. What is a period? How does one get it, and why? I miss Maryam. I miss the old mud house and playing under the grapevine.
Grandmom says, “It’s normal. Every girl or woman goes through it. Getting your period means you’ve matured. It means you can get married now…”
Farishta hasn’t gotten her period yet. She doesn’t even know what it is. I should tell her. I find her washing dishes in the courtyard.
“It’s cold. Why don’t you wash the dishes inside?”
“There’s no water. The pipe might be frozen. Are you better now? Does your stomach still hurt?”
“I still have pain. They said I’ve got my period.”
“What’s a period?”
“It means I’ll bleed every month. It’s completely normal. Grandmom said I’ve matured. It’s time for me to get married. I don’t understand it. Haven’t you got it yet?”
“No!”
“I’m younger than you. If I get it, why don’t you?”
“I don’t know!”
“By the way, Farishta, do you still have your schoolbooks? I need a chemistry book.”
“No, when I stopped going to school, they sold my books to the shop at the corner.”
I forget my pain as a new thought crosses my mind. What do I tell Ahmad now? I don’t want him to copy the entire biology book. I go to my room, take the book out of my bag, and replace its old cover with a newspaper. I erase all the pencil marks, hoping Ahmad won’t realize that I’m giving him my own book tomorrow.
Days and months passed. My mom said, “You shouldn’t tell anyone you’ve matured. Don’t talk about your period to anyone, it’s shameful…”
I listened to her and never allowed myself to discuss this with anyone. Despite my fear of her, sometimes I wanted to talk to Mrs. Bigum, our Dari teacher. She was so kind, always smiling, and her smile made everyone around her happy. She wore colorful clothes and lipstick and encouraged us to read more books. One day, she called from the classroom door, “Ahmad, come and help.”
As soon as Ahmad heard her voice, he ran towards the door. When they entered the classroom, both of their hands were full of books.
The teacher said, “Look, we have new books. More will come next month.”
For a moment, I thought about asking her about periods. I needed to understand why girls and women have them.
The bell rang, and all the students rushed outside. The teacher calmly continued writing in her notebook. I said, “Teacher?”
She looked up and said, “Yes, Mina?”
“I have a question.”
“What is it, Mina?”
“Why do girls have periods?” “Have you had one?”
“Yes!”
“Mina, having a period is a natural experience for all women and girls. It’s the discharge of blood and uterine tissues, usually beginning at around eleven. Periods signal the start of a phase where women are ready for reproduction. I’m glad you asked. We should be more aware of our health and bodies.”
“But why should we hide it from others?”
“We shouldn’t hide it, but unfortunately, in our traditional society, it’s taboo. We live in a conservative and religious community, and topics like menstruation are generally considered private and taboo.”
I decided to ask more questions, hoping she could help me understand this better.
“Teacher, when I have my period, I have severe pain. What can I…”
Before I could finish, my tears began to flow, and I started crying. The teacher, noticing my distress, asked, “What’s wrong, Mina?”
With sadness and shame, I said, “I have a lot of pain, but I can’t tell anyone. My mom says no one should know. If my dad finds out, he might marry me off. I’m scared…”
The teacher spoke gently about hygiene and care during menstruation. She suggested I bring my mom to school. Worry filled my mind—what if my mom gets angry? What if they don’t let me go to school anymore? These thoughts kept swirling in my head as I walked home.
When I arrived, hesitant and fearful, I told my mom that the teacher wanted to talk to her. My mom, speaking softly, said, “What did you do that the teacher wants to see me? You must have done something… Anyway, once the year is over, you won’t be allowed to go to school anymore. You’ve grown up! You need to learn cooking and cleaning. It’s time for you to get married…”
My body trembled. I said nothing.
The next day, we both went to school. With my mom at school, I felt even more lonely and worried. What if they don’t let me go to school anymore? What if they find me a husband?
My kind teacher, Mrs. Bigum, greeted us with a warm smile. She welcomed my mom into the classroom and said, “Mina, go study with your friends. I’ll talk with your mom and check your homework. Have it ready on the table.”
I quickly went to the classroom, and in a loud voice, I said, “The teacher said to have your homework ready on the table.”
As I reflected on my mom’s words, I locked eyes with Ahmad. She had told me I had to get married. Without thinking, I blurted out, “Will you marry me?”
I don’t know where the words came from. As soon as I said them, I felt ashamed and turned red. We stared at each other for a few seconds, and then I quickly looked away and started writing. Honestly, I didn’t write anything—I just scribbled. Ahmad laughed and said, “I’m still very young. Wait until I grow up.”
I felt a spark of hope. I liked his response. I thought, “Does this mean he will really marry me when he’s older?” I smiled to myself, but when I turned, I saw my mom’s heavy, wistful gaze. My chest tightened. My shoulders ached. It felt like she wished I weren’t a girl. The teacher signaled me.
I walked slowly to stand between my mom and the teacher. The teacher caressed me and smiled, perhaps understanding my worry. She looked at my mom and gently took her hand.
The teacher said, “I understand why this worries you, but it’s a natural process. Your daughter is still a child. She needs care.”
My mom replied angrily, “It’s shameful. We shouldn’t talk about it at school or in front of men. No one needs to know. When she’s fifteen or sixteen, we’ll marry her off…”
The teacher calmly responded, “Fifteen or sixteen isn’t the right age for girls to marry. At that age, they are still very young. Having a period doesn’t mean they are ready for marriage or maturity. Mina will get married when she grows up, when she is ready, God willing.”
My mom said, “In our community, that’s how it is. When a girl gets her period, she matures. She must get married. This isn’t my decision—it’s her grandma’s and dad’s wish. That’s why I say if no one knows, she’ll have a few more years…”
The teacher said, “I hope you’ll think about what we discussed. You are Mina’s mom!”
My mom said goodbye to the teacher and asked me to show her the school. As we walked through the dimly lit hallway, I thought, “What will happen now?” Students laughed and ran around us. When we reached one of the classrooms, my mom looked at the floor in surprise, then asked, “Why don’t you have desks? Do you sit on the floor?”
“Yes, Mom. Usually, from sixth grade onward, there are no desks. Next year, when we’re in seventh grade, there won’t be desks or chairs. Girls and boys are in separate classes…”
My mom whispered, “You’ll get sick this way…” Then her eyes fell on the classroom board, and she asked, “What’s written here?”
I read aloud, “The roots of education are bitter, but the fruits are sweet.”
My mom asked, “If you study, what will you become in the future?”
“Mom, I’ve always wanted to study. I haven’t decided what I want to be yet, but I’d like to be a teacher, like Mrs. Bigum.”
“If you had studied, what would you have wanted to become?”
Mom ran her hand over the board and gazed out the window. Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t cry. She said, “Let’s go home, my child, it’s getting late.”
When we got home, my mom replaced her prayer shawl with a lighter one and took fifty Afghanis from the top of the Quran. She handed it to me.
“Tomorrow, Farishta is getting married. Buy her earrings or something. Let it be a keepsake from you.”
I was overjoyed. I had never bought a gift for anyone with my own money. I put the money in my pocket and thanked her. I asked, “Mom, what should we cook for tonight?”
Mom replied, “You go and stay with Farishta! She must be bored. I’ll cook.”
I was happy to spend more time with Farishta, but my mom’s kindness that day felt unfamiliar. My chest felt lighter, and I enjoyed the warmth of her generosity.
I reached Farishta’s room. It had no door—just a thin black curtain. I pushed it aside and saw her plucking her eyebrows. I was horrified. I wanted to say, “Farishta, what have you done? Only two strands are left of those thick, black eyebrows!” But I swallowed my words and stayed silent.
Farishta asked, “Am I beautiful?”
“Aren’t they a bit too thin? We aren’t allowed to pluck our eyebrows.”
Farishta looked at me with excitement and said, “When you get married, you can pluck your eyebrows. People say the bride should glow.”
Poor Farishta! I felt sorry for her. I didn’t understand why she was so happy. She didn’t even know who she was marrying. They hadn’t held the engagement or henna night yet.
The neighbour’s daughter came to apply henna on Farishta’s hands. “Do you know, Farishta? If the henna turns red by tomorrow morning, it means you’ll be lucky!”
“God willing, dear!”
I brought tea and some small sweets for the neighbor’s daughter. Both of their eyes sparkled with joy.
The neighbour’s daughter asked me, “Shall I put henna on you too, little one?”
I said, “Yes!”
I extended my hand, but as soon as she took my fingertips, she said, “If you apply henna after the bride, your luck will open too…” Hearing that, I quickly withdrew my hand and said, “No, thank you!”
It was getting dark, and there was no electricity. As soon as I got home, I fell asleep without dinner.
I was deep in sleep when my mom called, “Mina, wake up, you’ll be late for school!”
“School? Is it morning already?”
As soon as I opened my eyes, I remembered Farishta’s wedding. The soft sunlight streamed gently through the window. My mom had placed my clothes on the bed and said, “Breakfast is ready. You didn’t eat last night… You’ll be late for school if you don’t hurry!”
“But today is Farishta’s wedding.”
“The wedding is at night. Go to school now, get ready when you come back. There’s plenty of time.”
She’d never really cared whether I went to school, but today—of all days, even with the wedding—she wanted me to go. A few moments later, she called again, “Come on, get up!”
I got up and dressed. She smiled at me, but I noticed a bruise around her eye.
“What happened to your eye, mom?”
She replied, “Lack of sleep. I couldn’t sleep last night; I sat up making you a small mattress…”
“Thank you, Mom.”
She spoke firmly, “Study hard! Next year, you won’t have desks or chairs. You’ll need this small mattress!”
“Does that mean I’ll still go to school next year?”
“Of course, and the years after that. Then, you’ll go to university…”
“What if Dad doesn’t allow it?”
“I’ll talk to him.”
I felt light, like a feather soaring in the sky.
Mom added, “Mina, after Farishta’s wedding, we need to go to the village health center. We’ll talk to the doctors about proper menstrual hygiene. There’s something called sanitary pads. I’ll get you some from there.”
I didn’t know what to say, but I was happy—really happy.
I set off for school. The sunlight filtered through the branches, and the breeze brushed my face. For the first time in a while, I felt at peace about school and my period.
On my way back, I stopped by a flower shop. The vibrant flowers caught my eye. Using the fifty Afghanis my mom had given me to buy a gift for Farishta, I bought a pot of pink flowers. When I got home, I placed it quickly by the kitchen window and watered it. It was already late, and I hadn’t changed my clothes—guests would be arriving soon. I thought, “What can I give Farishta?” Suddenly, I remembered the green bangles I had bought with my savings from Pakistan. I’d been saving them for a special day.
As I ran towards Farishta’s room, my mom asked, “Who brought this flower?”
“I did, Mom, for you.”
“Where did you get the money? Don’t you remember? I gave you fifty Afghanis. I said to buy earrings, not flowers. What will you give Farishta now?”
I said, “The bangles I bought from Pakistan, I’ll give them to Farishta.”
Mom replied, “You love those bangles so much. Don’t you want to wear them yourself?”
I said, “That’s exactly why I’m giving them to Farishta—so she can keep them as a memory.”
My mom didn’t respond.
I pointed to the flower and asked, “How is it, Mom?”
“It’s a beautiful flower!” she said.
“Thank you, mom.”
She laughed and said, “Thank you for buying me a flower with my own money?”
I laughed too and ran towards Farishta’s room.
Note: This piece of writing is not based on a true story.
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Arezo Rahimi is a journalist and storyteller from Kabul, Afghanistan. With a passion for human rights, she is now dedicated to freelance journalism, focusing on amplifying marginalized voices.
