
‘My childhood just slipped away': Pakistan's ‘monsoon brides'
Khan Mohammad Mallah, Sindh, Pakistan – Asifa* was sitting on the cool earthen floor of her family's home when her parents entered the room. The sun had begun to set over the small village of 250 families nestled in the heart of Pakistan's southeastern Sindh province, casting a warm glow over the surrounding arid landscape. Asifa remembers distinctly the smell of dried grass carried by the wind.
Her mother's face was hard to read, but Asifa could tell something was different today. Her parents looked at each other briefly before turning to her. 'Your marriage has been arranged,' her father told her.
Asifa was just 13 years old.
At first, she didn't fully grasp the situation. Her mind went to thoughts of new clothes, shiny jewellery, and the celebrations she had heard about from older girls in the village. A wedding meant gifts, makeup and new outfits.
'I thought it would be a big celebration,' Asifa recalls, her voice heavy as she sits outside her husband's home on a colourful charpai, a woven daybed, and looks out over the cracked earth of the village where she grew up. She is wrapped in a faded pink dupatta, her young face framed by dark hair. Now 15, she is the mother of a baby, a few months old, whom she holds tenderly in her arms.
Her house of mud and straw stands behind her, its roof thatched and weathered by years of harsh winds, rains and scorching sun.
'I never truly understood what marriage would involve,' she says. 'I never realised that it would imply being with a man older than me, someone I didn't know or choose.'
Furthermore, she says, her husband is in debt having taken out a loan of 300,000 Pakistani rupees ($1,070) to give to her family when they agreed to the marriage. 'He cannot pay it back.'
The family's decision to marry their 13-year-old daughter off was not one made from tradition but out of sheer desperation.
Asifa's parents had been hard hit by the catastrophic floods that ravaged Pakistan in 2022. For generations, her family cultivated rice and vegetables such as okra, chilies, tomatoes and onions in the once-rich landscape of the Main Nara Valley, but the rising waters left their fields unrecognisable, swamped and sterile.
The money the family had hoped to make from their harvests and the small savings they had set aside for their daughter's future all vanished. For months, her parents tried to rebuild what they had lost, salvaging what little they could from the remnants of their land, borrowing from relatives in an attempt to make ends meet. But the devastating loss of their crops, along with rising prices of essentials and a lack of access to clean water, made it impossible to stay afloat.
With three other younger children at home, the couple concluded they could no longer afford to keep Asifa, let alone give her the education they had once hoped for her.
'They had no other choice,' Asifa says sadly.
A community scarred
In the village of Khan Mohammad Mallah, where farming, fishing and livestock rearing are the main sources of income, Asifa's experience is not unusual. The floods of 2022 have left deep scars on the community, plunging families, now living at the mercy of the vagaries of the weather, into extreme poverty.
With homes destroyed, crops washed away and livelihoods shattered, the practice of child marriage, where men pay an agreed sum to families in exchange for marriage to girls as young as nine, is on the rise.
Last year, there were 45 recorded cases of children – mostly girls, but some boys as well – under the age of 18 being married in this one village alone, according to Sujag Sansar, an NGO working to combat child marriage in the region.
This is not a simple matter of tradition, says Mashooque Birhmani, founder of Sujag Sansar. Pakistan's Child Marriage Restraint Act of 1929 set the legal age of marriage for boys at 18 and 16 for girls. In April 2014, the Sindh Assembly adopted the Sindh Child Marriage Restraint Act, which changed the minimum age to 18 for both girls and boys.
Birhmani believes the rise of child marriage is directly linked to the floods. Crucially, one-third of these underage marriages occurred in May and June – just before the monsoon rains begin – indicating that they took place in anticipation of the damage that was expected from the torrential downpours.
'Before the 2022 rains, girls would not get married so young in this area,' says Birhmani. 'Such cases remained rare. Young girls were helping their parents make rope for wooden beds or work on the land.'
For many families, the decision to marry off young girls has become a means of survival, but it is also at the cost of the girls' education, health and futures.
In recent years, the effects of climate change have become increasingly visible. Monsoon rains, once a lifeline for millions of Pakistan's farmers and crucial in the normal cycle of food production, have grown increasingly erratic and severe, wreaking havoc on agricultural lands and exacerbating food shortages. In addition, rising temperatures are accelerating glacier melt in the north of the country, contributing to river swelling and overwhelming flood defences.
The climate crisis has triggered the phenomenon which has come to be known as 'monsoon brides'. No formal studies of child marriage have been undertaken, but nongovernmental organisations such as Sujag Sansar say anecdotal evidence suggests the practice is becoming more widespread across the country as a whole. In the Sindh region, nearly a quarter of girls are believed to be married before the age of 18.
'There has been a notable uptick in forced marriages, particularly during the most catastrophic floods in the nation's history – those of 2007, 2010 and 2022,' says Gulsher Panhwer, project manager at Sujag Sansar.
'When they took her away, she clung to me'
For many, and in particular for women, these natural disasters are not distant nightmares.
The years have passed, but for Salwa, 40, the memory of her daughter's wedding day is still hard to bear. As she plays with her four-year-old granddaughter, her tone becomes solemn as she begins to tell the story of what led to one of the darkest days of her life.
'We once lived off our land, but when the monsoons destroyed everything in 2010, we were forced to leave our home and seek refuge in another province,' she recalls. The family, which moved from Balochistan in southwestern Pakistan, depends on the cultivation of cotton and lush rice, but struggled to make ends meet in Khan Mohammad Mallah and resorted to marrying off their youngest daughter.
In 2010, Salwa married her then-12-year-old daughter to a 20-year-old man in exchange for 150,000 rupees ($535).
'When they took her to her new home, she clung to me, and we both wept. I regret this decision deeply, but I saw no other option at the time,' says Salwa, her voice cracking. She, herself, had been married at 13 because her family did not have enough money to feed her.
Despite her daughter's marriage, she and her husband returned to live with Salwa in Khan Mohammad Mallah shortly afterwards. 'They didn't have enough money to survive on their own. They were just kids. We now live in poverty but at least we are reunited,' says Salwa, sighing, the wrinkles on her face betraying her exhaustion.
Today, Salwa is grandmother to her daughter's four children. The eldest is 15 and studying at school, as are her siblings. Salwa says she hopes that the education they are receiving will enable them to marry of their own free will, breaking the cycle that has trapped the girls in her family for generations.
It is a fragile hope as Pakistan is experiencing more frequent and severe weather events such as floods, droughts and heatwaves.
The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) warns that Pakistan, being one of the most vulnerable countries, will face worsening effects on agriculture, water availability, and food provision, further driving poverty and social instability.
The floods of 2022, the deadliest to date, inundated one-third of Pakistan, killing more than 1,700 people, displacing some 33 million – almost a third of its population – and submerging vast tracts of farmland that destroyed the country's farming backbone.
Agriculture, which contributes a quarter of the nation's gross domestic product and sustains one in three jobs, was hit particularly hard, with huge numbers of crops lost to the floods. Approximately 15 percent of the nation's rice crop and 40 percent of its cotton crop were affected. The total cost of damage to the agriculture sector was approximately $12.97bn, with crops accounting for 82 percent of this total.
In Sindh province, entire villages have been left in ruins.
'Significant progress' undone by the floods
Sindh is particularly prone to flooding due to its proximity to the Indus River, which often overflows during heavy monsoon rains. Poor drainage systems, deforestation and climate change all exacerbate the risk of floods.
In this region, nearly 4.8 million people were affected by the 2022 floods, half of them children.
'With livelihoods destroyed and no reliable income, farmers, desperate to make ends meet, often resort to marrying off their daughters for an amount as modest as the price of a cow – or even less,' says Panhwer.
A lot of work has been done since 2010 to protect young girls from early marriages and people are now aware that marrying off their children is a crime, Panhwer says. 'But when families are displaced in flood relief camps, they feel their daughters face higher risk of sexual assaults since they are no longer protected inside their homes. Their hope is also to protect them from the crushing poverty while raising enough funds to sustain the rest of the family.'
According to the United Nations Children's Fund (UNICEF), Pakistan is home to nearly 19 million child brides. While the organisation reported in 2023 that there has been 'significant progress' in reducing child marriages in the country, it warned that the 2022 monsoon floods could undo much of that progress.
'We anticipate an 18 percent rise in child marriages,' the organisation warned in its report last year.
According to the 2018 Pakistan Demographic and Health Survey (PDHS), 3.6 percent of girls under 15 and 18.3 percent of those under 18 are married. The same report found that 8 percent of girls aged 15 to 19 have either already given birth or are pregnant with their first child. One in six women in Pakistan were married as children.
'There is ongoing debate among lawmakers about child marriage in Pakistan,' says Syed Murad Ali Shah, a law researcher at the University of Azad Jammu and Kashmir. 'One side insists on adhering strictly to the legal marriage age, while the other argues that socioeconomic realities must be taken into account and that each case should be judged individually.'
A 2023 study by Ohio State University researchers, published in the academic journal International Social Work, also highlighted the link between climate disasters and increased rates of child marriage, particularly in countries where such marriages already take place. A 2020 Save the Children report also noted that nearly all of the 25 countries with the highest rates of early marriage are afflicted by conflicts, protracted crises and climate-related disasters.
In response to the increase in the numbers of 'monsoon brides' in recent years, Sujag Sansar has launched several community-based initiatives to tackle the root causes of child marriage. 'We engage with religious leaders, teachers, parents, and young girls to create networks of support and resistance,' explains founder Birhmani. 'Through artistic and cultural projects, we foster dialogue and raise awareness.
'Education is the key to breaking the cycle of child marriage. When girls are empowered with skills, they are no longer seen as burdens but as individuals capable of building their own futures.'
Sujag Sansar organises community theatre and music performances which serve as a platform for discussion in five districts within Sindh.
The use of theatre allows different members of a community to be brought together to share their stories through art. 'By inviting both men and women to participate, we create a space for reflection and conversation,' Birhmani explains. The organisation also offers professional training to women and girls to help them find financial independence, and mental health support.
'The hardest was not having my mum'
The Sujag Sansar office in Dadu district, located along the Indus River in southeastern Sindh, is buzzing with energy as a small group of women gathers outside. They form a circle on the ground, the soft sand beneath their feet dotted with scattered roses.
Each woman holds a candle, the flames flickering gently in the evening air, casting a warm glow on their faces. Voices echo as the women talk about their lives. Some laugh, others speak softly, but all are united in their purpose – to bring an end to the practice of child marriage.
Among them is Samina* who has a gentle smile on her face as she cradles her baby. Today is a special day as she is taking part in a tradition upheld by the organisation since 2005, where women and girls who have been forced into early marriages light candles to raise their voices against the oppressive practice. This ritual is their way of standing together, a defiant show of strength and solidarity.
During the ceremony, Samina, now 28 and a mother of five, tells her story. In 2011, when she was 13, Samina was told by her mother that she was to marry a distant cousin, who himself was only 15. She barely knew him.
'I was sitting outside sewing a bedsheet when my mum came to me and simply told me, 'You're getting married'. We both remained silent. In our family, women don't express their emotions,' she recalls. Her two older sisters had also been married at 13 and 14.
With her father unable to work because of psychiatric problems, the family's income depended on her mother, who worked long hours as a housemaid. But the deadly 2010 floods had destroyed the homes where she was employed and the family's income disappeared.
The 200,000 rupees ($714) that her marriage brought in was the family's last lifeline, a means to avoid total destitution and to potentially protect Samina's two younger sisters from the same fate.
'Today, families earn a maximum of 10,000 ($36) to 12,000 rupees ($43) a month,' says Birhmani. That is about one dollar a day to feed about 10 people. 'Every mouthful of food per child counts.'
On the day of her wedding, Samina recalls being overwhelmed with anxiety. 'During the ceremony, I didn't fully comprehend that my childhood was slipping away,' she says.
When the ceremony concluded, the reality of separation from her family became painfully clear.
While her mother and younger sister sobbed, the 13-year-old bride was taken to her new home with her husband in a different village.
'The tiny gloves I received as a wedding gift did nothing to ease the overwhelming sadness,' she recalls. Today, she consoles herself with the fact that her younger sisters have not been married and are pursuing their education instead.
'During the first year of my marriage, the hardest thing was not having my mum next to me any more,' she says. 'In the night, at bedtime she would stay with me until I would fall asleep. She would tell me stories and touch my hair. Overnight, I had to sleep in a bed with a man I didn't know. I was on my own, without my sisters and my parents in an unknown small house. It felt so cold all of a sudden.'
Two years after her wedding, Samina became pregnant with her first child. 'I didn't understand what I was supposed to do. I was scared and the pain was hard to bear but I got used to it.'
While her family had hoped she would have a better life if she got married, Samina's husband, a labourer, struggles to find work in the building industry. 'A lot of houses are damaged because of the floods but people don't have enough money to repair them,' she says.
The lack of employment took a toll on her husband's mental health and Samina was compelled to work at sewing bedsheets to feed and educate her five children.
'My daughters will escape the hell I endured'
In 2024, as news of the 45 cases of underage marriage in the village of Khan Mohammad Mallah spread, Sindh's minister, Murad Ali Shah, ordered an investigation to determine whether those marriages were directly linked to the floods.
Agha Fakharuddin, the director of the Human Rights Department for the province of Sindh, later concluded that no such cases of child marriage had been reported and that the news had been fabricated. Mukhtiar Ali Abro, the deputy commissioner of Dadu, however, stated that while marriages had been arranged in the village, they were simply part of the local tradition rather than a consequence of the floods.
Following the visit by government officials in October 2024, alongside representatives from civil society organisations, Sujag Sansar says it has observed a decline in the incidence of child marriage, attributing it to a fear of legal repercussions. However, it cautions that this reduction may only be temporary, as the underlying drivers of child marriage – in particular, poverty and the lack of educational opportunities for vulnerable girls – remain largely unaddressed.
Years after being married off against her will, Samina now smiles with a renewed sense of hope. Although she still sews bedlinen, just as she did the day she was told of her impending marriage, her life has changed beyond recognition. She is taking crafting courses and hopes to start her own business. Wearing a red dupatta with tiny white dots, her expression is resolute.
Surrounded by other young women who, like her, were married too early, Samina smiles as she talks about her future. She hopes to continue her sewing and earn her own income.
Samina has resolved that her daughters will never face the same fate. 'I will make sure they are educated, so they can escape the hell I endured,' she says.

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‘My childhood just slipped away': Pakistan's ‘monsoon brides'
Khan Mohammad Mallah, Sindh, Pakistan – Asifa* was sitting on the cool earthen floor of her family's home when her parents entered the room. The sun had begun to set over the small village of 250 families nestled in the heart of Pakistan's southeastern Sindh province, casting a warm glow over the surrounding arid landscape. Asifa remembers distinctly the smell of dried grass carried by the wind. Her mother's face was hard to read, but Asifa could tell something was different today. Her parents looked at each other briefly before turning to her. 'Your marriage has been arranged,' her father told her. Asifa was just 13 years old. At first, she didn't fully grasp the situation. Her mind went to thoughts of new clothes, shiny jewellery, and the celebrations she had heard about from older girls in the village. A wedding meant gifts, makeup and new outfits. 'I thought it would be a big celebration,' Asifa recalls, her voice heavy as she sits outside her husband's home on a colourful charpai, a woven daybed, and looks out over the cracked earth of the village where she grew up. She is wrapped in a faded pink dupatta, her young face framed by dark hair. Now 15, she is the mother of a baby, a few months old, whom she holds tenderly in her arms. Her house of mud and straw stands behind her, its roof thatched and weathered by years of harsh winds, rains and scorching sun. 'I never truly understood what marriage would involve,' she says. 'I never realised that it would imply being with a man older than me, someone I didn't know or choose.' Furthermore, she says, her husband is in debt having taken out a loan of 300,000 Pakistani rupees ($1,070) to give to her family when they agreed to the marriage. 'He cannot pay it back.' The family's decision to marry their 13-year-old daughter off was not one made from tradition but out of sheer desperation. Asifa's parents had been hard hit by the catastrophic floods that ravaged Pakistan in 2022. For generations, her family cultivated rice and vegetables such as okra, chilies, tomatoes and onions in the once-rich landscape of the Main Nara Valley, but the rising waters left their fields unrecognisable, swamped and sterile. The money the family had hoped to make from their harvests and the small savings they had set aside for their daughter's future all vanished. For months, her parents tried to rebuild what they had lost, salvaging what little they could from the remnants of their land, borrowing from relatives in an attempt to make ends meet. But the devastating loss of their crops, along with rising prices of essentials and a lack of access to clean water, made it impossible to stay afloat. With three other younger children at home, the couple concluded they could no longer afford to keep Asifa, let alone give her the education they had once hoped for her. 'They had no other choice,' Asifa says sadly. A community scarred In the village of Khan Mohammad Mallah, where farming, fishing and livestock rearing are the main sources of income, Asifa's experience is not unusual. The floods of 2022 have left deep scars on the community, plunging families, now living at the mercy of the vagaries of the weather, into extreme poverty. With homes destroyed, crops washed away and livelihoods shattered, the practice of child marriage, where men pay an agreed sum to families in exchange for marriage to girls as young as nine, is on the rise. Last year, there were 45 recorded cases of children – mostly girls, but some boys as well – under the age of 18 being married in this one village alone, according to Sujag Sansar, an NGO working to combat child marriage in the region. This is not a simple matter of tradition, says Mashooque Birhmani, founder of Sujag Sansar. Pakistan's Child Marriage Restraint Act of 1929 set the legal age of marriage for boys at 18 and 16 for girls. In April 2014, the Sindh Assembly adopted the Sindh Child Marriage Restraint Act, which changed the minimum age to 18 for both girls and boys. Birhmani believes the rise of child marriage is directly linked to the floods. Crucially, one-third of these underage marriages occurred in May and June – just before the monsoon rains begin – indicating that they took place in anticipation of the damage that was expected from the torrential downpours. 'Before the 2022 rains, girls would not get married so young in this area,' says Birhmani. 'Such cases remained rare. Young girls were helping their parents make rope for wooden beds or work on the land.' For many families, the decision to marry off young girls has become a means of survival, but it is also at the cost of the girls' education, health and futures. In recent years, the effects of climate change have become increasingly visible. Monsoon rains, once a lifeline for millions of Pakistan's farmers and crucial in the normal cycle of food production, have grown increasingly erratic and severe, wreaking havoc on agricultural lands and exacerbating food shortages. In addition, rising temperatures are accelerating glacier melt in the north of the country, contributing to river swelling and overwhelming flood defences. The climate crisis has triggered the phenomenon which has come to be known as 'monsoon brides'. No formal studies of child marriage have been undertaken, but nongovernmental organisations such as Sujag Sansar say anecdotal evidence suggests the practice is becoming more widespread across the country as a whole. In the Sindh region, nearly a quarter of girls are believed to be married before the age of 18. 'There has been a notable uptick in forced marriages, particularly during the most catastrophic floods in the nation's history – those of 2007, 2010 and 2022,' says Gulsher Panhwer, project manager at Sujag Sansar. 'When they took her away, she clung to me' For many, and in particular for women, these natural disasters are not distant nightmares. The years have passed, but for Salwa, 40, the memory of her daughter's wedding day is still hard to bear. As she plays with her four-year-old granddaughter, her tone becomes solemn as she begins to tell the story of what led to one of the darkest days of her life. 'We once lived off our land, but when the monsoons destroyed everything in 2010, we were forced to leave our home and seek refuge in another province,' she recalls. The family, which moved from Balochistan in southwestern Pakistan, depends on the cultivation of cotton and lush rice, but struggled to make ends meet in Khan Mohammad Mallah and resorted to marrying off their youngest daughter. In 2010, Salwa married her then-12-year-old daughter to a 20-year-old man in exchange for 150,000 rupees ($535). 'When they took her to her new home, she clung to me, and we both wept. I regret this decision deeply, but I saw no other option at the time,' says Salwa, her voice cracking. She, herself, had been married at 13 because her family did not have enough money to feed her. Despite her daughter's marriage, she and her husband returned to live with Salwa in Khan Mohammad Mallah shortly afterwards. 'They didn't have enough money to survive on their own. They were just kids. We now live in poverty but at least we are reunited,' says Salwa, sighing, the wrinkles on her face betraying her exhaustion. Today, Salwa is grandmother to her daughter's four children. The eldest is 15 and studying at school, as are her siblings. Salwa says she hopes that the education they are receiving will enable them to marry of their own free will, breaking the cycle that has trapped the girls in her family for generations. It is a fragile hope as Pakistan is experiencing more frequent and severe weather events such as floods, droughts and heatwaves. The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) warns that Pakistan, being one of the most vulnerable countries, will face worsening effects on agriculture, water availability, and food provision, further driving poverty and social instability. The floods of 2022, the deadliest to date, inundated one-third of Pakistan, killing more than 1,700 people, displacing some 33 million – almost a third of its population – and submerging vast tracts of farmland that destroyed the country's farming backbone. Agriculture, which contributes a quarter of the nation's gross domestic product and sustains one in three jobs, was hit particularly hard, with huge numbers of crops lost to the floods. Approximately 15 percent of the nation's rice crop and 40 percent of its cotton crop were affected. The total cost of damage to the agriculture sector was approximately $12.97bn, with crops accounting for 82 percent of this total. In Sindh province, entire villages have been left in ruins. 'Significant progress' undone by the floods Sindh is particularly prone to flooding due to its proximity to the Indus River, which often overflows during heavy monsoon rains. Poor drainage systems, deforestation and climate change all exacerbate the risk of floods. In this region, nearly 4.8 million people were affected by the 2022 floods, half of them children. 'With livelihoods destroyed and no reliable income, farmers, desperate to make ends meet, often resort to marrying off their daughters for an amount as modest as the price of a cow – or even less,' says Panhwer. A lot of work has been done since 2010 to protect young girls from early marriages and people are now aware that marrying off their children is a crime, Panhwer says. 'But when families are displaced in flood relief camps, they feel their daughters face higher risk of sexual assaults since they are no longer protected inside their homes. Their hope is also to protect them from the crushing poverty while raising enough funds to sustain the rest of the family.' According to the United Nations Children's Fund (UNICEF), Pakistan is home to nearly 19 million child brides. While the organisation reported in 2023 that there has been 'significant progress' in reducing child marriages in the country, it warned that the 2022 monsoon floods could undo much of that progress. 'We anticipate an 18 percent rise in child marriages,' the organisation warned in its report last year. According to the 2018 Pakistan Demographic and Health Survey (PDHS), 3.6 percent of girls under 15 and 18.3 percent of those under 18 are married. The same report found that 8 percent of girls aged 15 to 19 have either already given birth or are pregnant with their first child. One in six women in Pakistan were married as children. 'There is ongoing debate among lawmakers about child marriage in Pakistan,' says Syed Murad Ali Shah, a law researcher at the University of Azad Jammu and Kashmir. 'One side insists on adhering strictly to the legal marriage age, while the other argues that socioeconomic realities must be taken into account and that each case should be judged individually.' A 2023 study by Ohio State University researchers, published in the academic journal International Social Work, also highlighted the link between climate disasters and increased rates of child marriage, particularly in countries where such marriages already take place. A 2020 Save the Children report also noted that nearly all of the 25 countries with the highest rates of early marriage are afflicted by conflicts, protracted crises and climate-related disasters. In response to the increase in the numbers of 'monsoon brides' in recent years, Sujag Sansar has launched several community-based initiatives to tackle the root causes of child marriage. 'We engage with religious leaders, teachers, parents, and young girls to create networks of support and resistance,' explains founder Birhmani. 'Through artistic and cultural projects, we foster dialogue and raise awareness. 'Education is the key to breaking the cycle of child marriage. When girls are empowered with skills, they are no longer seen as burdens but as individuals capable of building their own futures.' Sujag Sansar organises community theatre and music performances which serve as a platform for discussion in five districts within Sindh. The use of theatre allows different members of a community to be brought together to share their stories through art. 'By inviting both men and women to participate, we create a space for reflection and conversation,' Birhmani explains. The organisation also offers professional training to women and girls to help them find financial independence, and mental health support. 'The hardest was not having my mum' The Sujag Sansar office in Dadu district, located along the Indus River in southeastern Sindh, is buzzing with energy as a small group of women gathers outside. They form a circle on the ground, the soft sand beneath their feet dotted with scattered roses. Each woman holds a candle, the flames flickering gently in the evening air, casting a warm glow on their faces. Voices echo as the women talk about their lives. Some laugh, others speak softly, but all are united in their purpose – to bring an end to the practice of child marriage. Among them is Samina* who has a gentle smile on her face as she cradles her baby. Today is a special day as she is taking part in a tradition upheld by the organisation since 2005, where women and girls who have been forced into early marriages light candles to raise their voices against the oppressive practice. This ritual is their way of standing together, a defiant show of strength and solidarity. During the ceremony, Samina, now 28 and a mother of five, tells her story. In 2011, when she was 13, Samina was told by her mother that she was to marry a distant cousin, who himself was only 15. She barely knew him. 'I was sitting outside sewing a bedsheet when my mum came to me and simply told me, 'You're getting married'. We both remained silent. In our family, women don't express their emotions,' she recalls. Her two older sisters had also been married at 13 and 14. With her father unable to work because of psychiatric problems, the family's income depended on her mother, who worked long hours as a housemaid. But the deadly 2010 floods had destroyed the homes where she was employed and the family's income disappeared. The 200,000 rupees ($714) that her marriage brought in was the family's last lifeline, a means to avoid total destitution and to potentially protect Samina's two younger sisters from the same fate. 'Today, families earn a maximum of 10,000 ($36) to 12,000 rupees ($43) a month,' says Birhmani. That is about one dollar a day to feed about 10 people. 'Every mouthful of food per child counts.' On the day of her wedding, Samina recalls being overwhelmed with anxiety. 'During the ceremony, I didn't fully comprehend that my childhood was slipping away,' she says. When the ceremony concluded, the reality of separation from her family became painfully clear. While her mother and younger sister sobbed, the 13-year-old bride was taken to her new home with her husband in a different village. 'The tiny gloves I received as a wedding gift did nothing to ease the overwhelming sadness,' she recalls. Today, she consoles herself with the fact that her younger sisters have not been married and are pursuing their education instead. 'During the first year of my marriage, the hardest thing was not having my mum next to me any more,' she says. 'In the night, at bedtime she would stay with me until I would fall asleep. She would tell me stories and touch my hair. Overnight, I had to sleep in a bed with a man I didn't know. I was on my own, without my sisters and my parents in an unknown small house. It felt so cold all of a sudden.' Two years after her wedding, Samina became pregnant with her first child. 'I didn't understand what I was supposed to do. I was scared and the pain was hard to bear but I got used to it.' While her family had hoped she would have a better life if she got married, Samina's husband, a labourer, struggles to find work in the building industry. 'A lot of houses are damaged because of the floods but people don't have enough money to repair them,' she says. The lack of employment took a toll on her husband's mental health and Samina was compelled to work at sewing bedsheets to feed and educate her five children. 'My daughters will escape the hell I endured' In 2024, as news of the 45 cases of underage marriage in the village of Khan Mohammad Mallah spread, Sindh's minister, Murad Ali Shah, ordered an investigation to determine whether those marriages were directly linked to the floods. Agha Fakharuddin, the director of the Human Rights Department for the province of Sindh, later concluded that no such cases of child marriage had been reported and that the news had been fabricated. Mukhtiar Ali Abro, the deputy commissioner of Dadu, however, stated that while marriages had been arranged in the village, they were simply part of the local tradition rather than a consequence of the floods. Following the visit by government officials in October 2024, alongside representatives from civil society organisations, Sujag Sansar says it has observed a decline in the incidence of child marriage, attributing it to a fear of legal repercussions. However, it cautions that this reduction may only be temporary, as the underlying drivers of child marriage – in particular, poverty and the lack of educational opportunities for vulnerable girls – remain largely unaddressed. Years after being married off against her will, Samina now smiles with a renewed sense of hope. Although she still sews bedlinen, just as she did the day she was told of her impending marriage, her life has changed beyond recognition. She is taking crafting courses and hopes to start her own business. Wearing a red dupatta with tiny white dots, her expression is resolute. Surrounded by other young women who, like her, were married too early, Samina smiles as she talks about her future. She hopes to continue her sewing and earn her own income. Samina has resolved that her daughters will never face the same fate. 'I will make sure they are educated, so they can escape the hell I endured,' she says.


Al Jazeera
08-02-2025
- Al Jazeera
On idle talk and genocide in Gaza
Today, writing feels like planting the proverbial tree in the face of the apocalypse. Decades ago, I started writing to make words mean again. When I fled as a refugee from Bosnia to Sweden in the 1990s, there was a time when words stopped working in every way possible. I could not even say 'tree' and connect it to the big beautiful things outside the camp. I was crazy like Hamlet, crying 'Words, words, words!' Sound and fury. Signifying nothing. We Bosnians were reluctant to use the word 'genocide' until the mighty court told us we could, and even then, or especially then, the industry of denial wanted to prevent us from calling a spade a spade. The deniers taught us words do have weight. The right words can lead to action. Not like these empty phrases we have been hearing about the genocide of Palestinians. I learned English late in life, mainly because I was ashamed that Swedes spoke it well and I could not string two words together to save my life. With time, I learned that the stories of our forced exile, although unique, mirrored the experience of displacement of millions of other people. Somehow, they created magical intimacies with people who were so vastly different from us, who sometimes hailed from places I had never even heard of, but they had heard of me. They had read my stories. I imagined that this miraculous human connection was akin to me falling in love with this long-dead foreigner called Shakespeare at Stockholm University. His words came from the mouth of a tiny Pakistani professor with the biggest voice I had ever heard. Ishrat Lindblad, may she rest in peace, had grey hair, a colourful sari, and a British accent. 'To be, or not to be, that is the question,' she would recite in class. She would become my teacher, my fiercest critic, and then my biggest fan. Always a friend. She was the reason I became a teacher, too. She was the reason I understood why Muslims pray for their teachers five times a day, right after they pray for their parents. She was a good listener and did not speak a lot, but when she spoke, it mattered. Never an empty phrase. Never a wasted word. Always from the heart. For the longest time I wondered why God keeps repeating in the Quran that there will be no idle talk in Paradise. It was one of the most puzzling things to read. I mean, everyone can understand that the allure of the afterlife is expressed through things like gardens, rivers of milk and honey, riches, and unimaginable pleasures. But to state over and over that Paradise will be free from 'trivial' or 'wasteful' chatter was curious at best. I could not imagine anyone saying: 'Hey, I'll work hard and be good and sacrifice everything to skip all this empty talk.' Now I can. Remembering and reliving my past as we watch the rawest forms of power exercised on the Palestinian people, I am once again brought to that moment when 'tree' was not a tree and I could not string two words together even if you had me at gunpoint. I am sometimes disgusted in the halls of my university where people are supposed to say meaningful things but what I mostly hear is empty talk. I do not recognise my Sweden, the country that took in thousands of us Bosnians at a time of its greatest economic crisis and it did well after that. A former head of a Swedish church told me how he once flew to Sarajevo with aid, landed on a dangerous tarmac, unloaded, and flew back. Everyone contributed. During World War II, Raoul Wallenberg saved thousands of Jews in Hungary by issuing protective passports and sheltering them in buildings declared as Swedish territory. I am a beneficiary of the Wallenberg Foundation which helped me finance my PhD 20 years ago. Now Sweden is cutting aid. Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency's budget for 'sustainable peace' has been significantly reduced in just a few years, especially for the MENA region. We condemn and cut ties according to convenience. We aid according to self-interest. The insolence of office. Sweden abstained on a United Nations resolution demanding a humanitarian ceasefire in Gaza. Up there, in that big colosseum of nations, resolutions sound like New Year's resolutions of us mere mortals, and the question is if one decisive thumbs-down can be moved to thumbs-up by the crowds. And so 'enterprises of great pith and moment … turn awry and lose the name of action', as Hamlet said. It has been almost a year since I wrote ' Schrödinger's Genocide ', and I wish the world had proved me wrong on anything. I've been writing, for words are my tools. I've written to the Swedish government about the future of education in Gaza, once there is peace. Written to friends and foes. So much is being said and written right now. We are drowning in words. It is as if every word has become a meme on endless loops and writing anything still feels like planting the proverbial tree in the face of the apocalypse. Even now as the bombing has stopped and the long-awaited exchange of captives has started, I know from our own history of genocide that crimes continue under the pretense of a ceasefire, under the silence of the media and the meddling of foreign powers. If the war really does come to an end, there are other kinds of fires that will have to be put out by those surviving men, women, and children, whom we will eventually displace from our attention just as others before us have, allowing the cycle of their physical displacement to continue. Their images might slowly disappear from our feeds but we must not allow condemnations and calls for action to remain mere words. We must not stop demanding justice and respect for Palestinian rights.' 'Words, words, words,' I hear the ghost of Shakespeare on the breath of my late teacher, and wonder, is it nobler 'to suffer those slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them?'