I'm
in Kathmandu as part of an eight-week trip volunteering at an
orphanage, wandering the tourist streets and absorbing the sights –
endless small shops selling everything from pig heads to pashminas –
when, to escape the dust, I dodge into a local shop called Women's
Local Handicrafts.
Its shelves are filled
with handmade purses, rucksacks and wallets, and in the corner a young
woman sits behind a sewing machine. In good English, she introduces
herself to me as Nasreen Sheikh, a 23-year-old Sunni Muslim.
After
admiring her work (I want one of everything) we start chatting. Nasreen
tells me how she runs the business herself – but is terrified that any
day now, she'll be forced into an arranged marriage. I'm shocked, but
don't know much about arranged marriage, so I return the next day to
find out a bit more.
We sit together at the
back of the shop, surrounded by scarves and bags, drinking spicy, sweet
Nepalese tea. Nasreen begins to tell me her story. She comes from a
small village in India, and left there aged 14. But soon, she says, she
will have to return.
Her mother has arranged
for her to marry a local boy – and there's panic in her voice: "There,
women are seen and not heard," she says. "They don't even know what the
internet is, and people don't view education as important. Girls are
like a commodity. I wish I'd been born a boy."
Nasreen's
clearest memories as a child are of collecting wood for the fire to
cook food on, day after day. To help make ends meet her elder brother
came to Kathmandu and set up a business making embroidered bags.
The
business grew, employing two men, but they were unskilled. He asked his
mother to come and help, but her eyes were failing – so, with
resistance from her parents and friends, Nasreen headed off to help. Her
brother taught her how to sew, and after a few years she started to run
and organize the shop. Nasreen decided only to employ women from broken
homes, in abusive situations or extreme poverty.
"They have to
work hard," she tells me. "If they improve I will keep them – if not,
they have to go. But most of them work hard and stay."
When I meet
some of the women she's helped, I feel uncomfortable – but she
reassures me that they love meeting western women, as it gives them hope
that there's an alternative to the way that they live.
With the
arranged marriage in the back of my mind I ask her what will become of
her business. Her calmness disappears as she tells me she'd have to
leave everything behind her – the shop she's built up, the women whose
lives she's helped to rebuild.
Looking scared, Nasreen goes on to
tell me about her elder sister, who had an arranged marriage. Her
sister's husband is abusive, they have three children, and she is
bitterly unhappy – but their mother says it's her lot, and she has to
live with it.
Although Nasreen is calm and determined, she's crying
But Nasreen is determined not follow in her
footsteps. "My mother never imagined I might say no to the marriage –
but I can't do it," she says. "I'm terrified of marrying a local,
uneducated boy from my village – someone who has no understanding of my
life."
Although Nasreen is calm and determined, she's crying.
She's
frightened that her father will attack her if she says she doesn't want
to get married, and although she's been to the Women's Human Rights
centre in Kathmandu, they couldn't help her. If she runs away, her
family would be outcasts, and their land or money taken away.
Nasreen
waves her hands round her head, tears in her eyes – she says feels like
she's alone in a room with a mosquito, the awful thoughts of the future
buzzing round her.
Reluctantly, I leave, but over the next three
weeks I think of Nasreen a lot – and eventually return to Kathmandu.
Nasreen jumps up to greet me and introduces me to her mother, who stands
in the doorway, grinning. I find it hard to believe this friendly
looking woman can want such a grim future for her daughter.
In
between customers, Nasreen confides that she's planning to run away –
she can't bear to go ahead with the marriage. I fear for her, but
Nasreen gives me a scarf to thank me for listening to her, and we swap
email addresses. As I walk down the dusty street she stands and waves. I
feel sick with guilt that I was doing nothing to help and wondering
what on earth might happen to her.
Back home in England, I think
of Nasreen a lot. Then, a few weeks ago I received an email. Despite
being labelled mad by her fellow villagers, suffering anger at the hands
of her father and losing her reputation, she has, she says, refused to
go through with the wedding. "Slowly, things are getting better," she
says.
I'm in awe at this brave woman fighting the system and
continuing with her business. With the help of friends, she's building a
new shop, and now employs 22 disadvantaged women.
She asked me to
write about her story. "I feel I have rebirth, and I want to share my
life story and this happiness with the world," she said. Straight away, I
put pen to paper to write this story. I hope by sharing it with
Cosmo, it will help other women enjoy a future as bright as Nasreen's.
