First Gasp
1 April 1981
Location: Kandahar, Afghanistan
Sweat dripped down the woman’s face as pain wracked her body. The distant call to prayer echoed through the air, while men hurried to the mosque, eager to pray and make their wishes known to God.
If only she could run there too, she thought, desperate to beg her Lord to ease this unbearable pain. “You need to breathe,” urged her mother-in-law, hovering nearby.
“Breathe, then push. The baby’s coming a month early,” she added, shaking her head as though the poor woman had any control over the matter. If it were up to her, she wouldn’t be pregnant at all.
The mother-in-law shook her head again as she checked if the baby was crowning. “Ah, I see the head! Push—push now!” she ordered, reaching to guide the baby into the world.
The woman could do nothing but bear the pain. Her prayers were answered with relief as she heard her baby’s first cry. The imam’s voice filled the air, proclaiming, “God is the greatest” as the morning prayer began.
“It’s a girl. You’ve given birth to a girl,” the mother-in-law announced, her disapproval clear. The woman looked away from her mother-in-law’s displeased expression and instead focused on the small bundle in her arms. She didn’t care about the baby’s gender; she was a woman of principle and wisdom, knowing well that sons could often be more burdensome than daughters.
Now a mother of two girls, she waited for her mother-in-law to return the baby. Asking directly would be improper—such straightforwardness was frowned upon.
“I’ll go tell your husband it’s a girl,” her mother-in-law said, taking the baby with her. Left alone without her newborn, the woman felt an aching emptiness. All she could do was stare at the door, longing to hold her child just once.
Months turned into years, and exhaustion became the woman’s constant companion. Raising seven children with little help from her husband, she found herself worn down. She was grateful he provided for them, but he was a cold man—affection was not something he offered.
She often wondered why her father had given her hand in marriage to him. They were worlds apart—she, a city woman with a university degree, and he, a country boy with no real education.
Perhaps it was true what people said, that souls were matched in heaven. But all she could think was that this match was made in hell. The fashionable young woman she once was had long vanished, replaced by someone wearing ragged clothing and bearing eyes so full of pain and abuse that they could give nightmares to anyone who looked into them.
She had endured beatings and cruel punishments, like being buried in the snow without clothes at her husband’s command, all because his mother thought she hadn’t cleaned properly. He had insulted her in ways that would make anyone cry. He even encouraged one of their sons to slap her, just for fun.
The second youngest daughter, Noor, witnessed this cruelty with tears in her eyes. She had a soft heart, just like her mother. The little girl wished they could leave, but she knew the harsh reality—a divorced woman in this country was as good as dead.
Determined to help, Noor, with a heart of gold and a mind as sharp as a knife, learned to knit wash rags and sold them to buy her mother washing powder. She knew it would bring a smile to her mother’s face. Perhaps her mother recognized that wherever Noor went, she would bring light, which is why she named her Noor—meaning light.
Noor grew up to be a girl with a pure heart. She didn’t care about skin colour, class, or any of the other things society used to judge people. To her, everyone was equal. If you wanted to be her friend, she’d be your friend. If you needed her, she’d be there.
Other children made fun of Noor because her best friend was a girl who had no mother and whose head was shaved like a boy’s. The neighbourhood kids called her “bald head,” and Noor was often told to stop befriending her. But Noor pitied the girl—it wasn’t her fault society was so cruel.
As the years passed, Noor grew into a beautiful girl. At age six, her family packed up to leave Afghanistan for Pakistan as the war grew more violent. Her father had helped many injured soldiers, but in the end, the safety of his family was what mattered most.
The woman looked at her daughter Noor, hoping her life would be different from her own, just as she did for all her children. But if only she knew then what the future held—she would have spent every night in prayer for her poor Noor.
