Monolog

Dear Ama

Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy

Dear Ama [Mother],

I sat there wearing this red and gold wedding scarf you

stitched for me. Sewing up your happiness, not mine. You told

me that he was tall and fair. That he was young and healthy. You

promised me I would be happy. Then he arrived with his family.

He wasn’t my age. He was older. Much older. His beady eyes

leered at my breasts. Did you not see the scars on his face? I

wanted to scream, but I couldn’t, for my father’s dignity and my

father’s pride.

Bright lights. The music. Everything made me dizzy. You

made me sit there and smile.

You clapped and laughed as the musicians played their

drums. You didn’t feel my anguish, did you? You offered food to

the guests. You smiled for the photographer, and you even embraced

your future son-in-law. I watched the clock as it slowly

ticked away. Ticked away my freedom. No longer a daughter,

just a bride.

Run! my heart said. Run. But my legs didn’t have the strength.

Where would I go? Village women don’t run away . . . we have

nowhere to hide. In any case, Bhai [brother] would find me. The

village would shame me.

I don’t want what happened to Naheed in the neighboring

village to happen to me. I don’t want the village council to decide

my punishment. I don’t want to be gang-raped by ten men in a

hut. I can still hear Naheed’s screams. “Save me!” “Please, anyone

. . . help me!”

I was playing with my doll, Gudi. She was red, like the clay in

our village. I loved dressing her in gold wedding outfits. That’s

when you signed my life away. How could anyone decide the

fate of a five-year-old? Seven men, seven village elders, decided

what I was to do for the rest of my life. My uncle committed the

murder, and I would pay by marrying the victim’s uncle. Seven

men decided the fate of a five-year-old girl . . . me.

You promised your only daughter in marriage to the enemy.

He is fifty-five years old, Mother.

I know how to read and write, yet I have no control...