Tales of the Dark Age (No. 87)
Written by: Mumtaz Hosseini, Translated by: Shekib Jaghori
The story of Soghra is the story of countless Afghan women who live and die in silence. They experience death in childbirth, death in love, and the slow, festering wounds of domestic violence. Medina, a heavily pregnant and close to due date travelled from the remote province of Daikundi to a government hospital in Kabul to give birth. Daikundi is a geography outside the orbit of the world, a forgotten land of mountains and valleys carved by hardship, where healthcare is below zero.
Medina endured the agony of labour along the treacherous Daikundi to Kabul route, about 500 kilometres that took 30 hours to reach here. She made the journey because Daikundi is a desert of neglect, a place where even the most basic medical care does not exist. She carried not only her own suffering but also the story of another woman who had died giving birth. Her Name was Soghra.
Soghra is not just a name. She is the identity of Afghan women who break and die in silence, trapped in the most hellish circle on earth.
Medina underwent a curettage in the hospital where I work. The wound left on her body carried with it a story of childbirth and death from Sangtakht Bandar. She seemed to be searching desperately for someone to confide in, and I became that person. She looked into my eyes and whispered, “Will you listen? Soghra died young during childbirth.”
Who was Soghra? How did she die so young? Her words pulled me deep into questions. Tears fell onto the pillow, followed by a long, heavy silence.
I wanted to hear the story. “How did Soghra die so young?” I asked. Medina took a deep, trembling breath, like a bird finding refuge from predators. Soghra and the Soghras of Afghanistan are open wounds in the country’s history, wounds that pierce the soul. Medina wanted to tell the story of one woman that is the story of thousands.
This is her story
Soghra was born into a poor farming family in Sangtakht Bandar. In her blossoming youth, she fell in love with her cousin. Their love ended in a simple village wedding. She was fortunate to marry for love, which is rare in Afghanistan, where love often ends in bloodshed. But happiness for Afghan women is fleeting. Soon, her life changed. Soon, her life changed. Her mother-in-law began to mistreat her and make her days miserable.
This is the fate of countless Afghan brides, treated as property and abused by their in laws. No law protects them, and every so-called legal mechanism stands against them. Under Taliban rule, women have been plunged into the worst conditions imaginable. Traditions and tribal customs, fused with Taliban ideology, grind women down and erase them from every layer of personal and social life.
Every day, as soon as her husband left home, the insults began. Cruel words, false accusations, and humiliation became her daily life, yet Soghra endured silently. She never told her husband. At night, when he returned, she greeted him with a smile, hiding everything. Her mother-in-law hurled words like stones: “Barren, useless, cursed,” and worse. Then came the beatings. Still, Soghra stayed silent.
For four years, she lived between dreams and nightmares, enduring constant abuse. Her mother-in-law taunted her relentlessly, “You are barre My son needs a child.” Soghra bore the wounds of words without complaint.
Eventually, her husband decided to take her to Kabul for medical treatment. Money was scarce, he had spent everything on their wedding. A small amount sent by Soghra’s mother opened a window of hope. They travelled to Kabul, saw doctors, and after taking the medication, Soghra became pregnant. Joy returned to their home, briefly.
But poverty pressed hard. Her husband needed to earn money. He decided to leave for Iran, crossing the border illegally. One day, he left Soghra and the unborn child behind. He never came back.
Bad news swept through the village like a storm. One afternoon, a group of elders came to Mohammad’s home carrying words sharp enough to destroy a life. When they spoke, Soghra collapsed to the floor like a heap of torn fabric. The world flipped upside down. It felt as if the sky and earth had crashed down upon her.
“The news has come. Mohammad was killed at the border.”
Just a few words, short and devastating. They explained that after two weeks on the road, Mohammad reached the Iranian border. He was captured and sent back. He returned to Ghazni, then tried again to cross illegally. This time, Iranian border guards opened fire. A bullet tore through his brain.
From all the words they uttered, Soghra heard only one sentence, “A bullet pierced Mohammad’s brain.”
That single phrase struck her like a hammer to the skull. Sounds twisted into arrows, stabbing her heart. She fainted.
When she woke, the elders were gone. Silence filled the house, silence and the unborn child waiting for a father who would never return. Mohammad’s body lay in a morgue. His brother travelled to bring him home. Nine days later, the coffin arrived. To Soghra, the coffin rose like mountains, its weight crushing her shoulders.
After Mohammad’s burial, life turned to poison for Soghra. A widow, pregnant, and without support, she faced even greater cruelty. Her in law’s insults and beatings increased. Hunger and grief hollowed her out. Her body weakened. She fell ill, anaemic, feverish, and wracked by headaches. She had no refuge, no medicine, and no justice. Many Afghan women like Soghra watch the corpses of their husbands and sons return from wars or from distant borders: Iran, Turkey, Belarus, Greece, Indonesia, if their bodies return at all. Who writes such a tragic script for Afghan women?
When labour pains struck, the bleeding began. For two days she writhed in agony, without care, without medicine, and without a hand to hold. Her cries never escaped the walls. She twisted like a wounded snake in her own blood, her body flapping like a half-slaughtered bird. She fainted repeatedly.
Her mother arrived too late. She delivered the baby herself. Soghra never opened her eyes. She died without seeing her child.
Her life ended in silence, like the lives of so many Afghan women whose stories remain unwritten. In the deep valleys of Sangtakht Bandar, she fell in love, got married, endured abuse, lost her husband to a bullet, and died in childbirth.
So brief. So brutal.
Medina came to the hospital to tell this story, a mirror of the lives of Afghan women. She entrusted it to me so I could pass it on, so you could hear it, perhaps Soghra’s soul may find peace. These stories must be written, the stories of voiceless women who die unseen, beaten, silenced, and erased.
Medina was a messenger, urging us to carry these stories into the world so that the souls of women like Soghra may finally rest. May Soghra, and all the women like her, find eternal peace.
Note: The photo from the Internet
