Afghanistan’s Romeo & Juliet    

Her name was Zakia. Shortly before midnight on the freezing-cold night of March 20, 2014, she lay fully clothed on her thin mattress on a concrete floor and considered what she was about to do.

She had on all her layers—a long dress with leggings under it, a ragged pink sweater, and an orange-and-purple scarf—but no coat, because she didn’t own one. Her 4-inch open-toed high heels were beside her mattress next to the photograph of Ali, the boy she loved. It was not the best escape gear for what she was about to do—climb a wall and run off into the mountains in central Afghanistan—but it would soon be her wedding day, and she wanted to look good.

That night was not the first time Zakia had contemplated escaping from the Bamiyan Women’s Shelter. She had been in the shelter for the past six months, since the day she ran away from home, hoping to marry Ali.

Her name was Zakia. It was shortly before midnight on the freezing-cold night of March 20, 2014. She lay fully clothed on her thin mattress on a concrete floor and thought out what she was about to do.

She had on a long dress with leggings under it, a ragged pink sweater, and an orange-and-purple scarf. But she didn’t have on a coat, because she didn’t own one. Her 4-inch open-toed high heels were beside her mattress next to the photograph of Ali, the boy she loved. It was not the best escape gear for what she was about to do. Soon, she would climb a wall and run off into the mountains in central Afghanistan. But she wanted to look good for her wedding day.

That night was not the first time Zakia had thought about escaping from the Bamiyan Women’s Shelter. She had been in the shelter for the past six months, since the day she ran away from home, hoping to marry Ali. 

As an 18-year-old and an adult, she had the legal right to wed. But as happens with so many Afghan girls, her family had denied her the right to choose who to marry. She received death threats for daring to defy her father. When an Afghan girl does something culturally forbidden, it’s considered acceptable—expected even—for her male relatives to kill her to wipe clean the shame brought to the family. It’s called an honor killing.

Zakia knew that soon her family would succeed in its legal efforts to have her removed from the women’s shelter. She knew she would be killed if that happened. So she was determined to escape and elope with Ali.    

On the other side of the Bamiyan valley, Ali was waiting for Zakia’s call. Several weeks earlier, when he visited the women’s shelter, Ali had secretly left Zakia a cellphone with which to contact him. He had had to teach her how to use it: Zakia couldn’t read or even recognize the numbers zero to nine to dial on a phone.  

To escape the shelter that night, Zakia dragged several mattresses across the courtyard to the back wall. She doubled them over and piled them up to make a ledge high enough to climb over the 8-foot wall. Once over the wall, she ran in her high heels until she was far enough away to call Ali.

When Ali got the call, he sprang into action. A friend who owned a battered Toyota Corolla had agreed to help the couple elope by taking him to pick up Zakia, about 20 minutes away, and then driving them up into the mountains. When Zakia got into the car with Ali, she took his hand in hers. It was a shockingly intimate gesture in a society as conservative as Afghanistan.

On the other side of the Bamiyan valley, Ali was waiting for Zakia’s call. Several weeks earlier, he had visited the women’s shelter. Ali had secretly left Zakia a cellphone so she could contact him. He had had to teach her how to use it. Zakia couldn’t read or even recognize the numbers zero to nine to dial on a phone. 

To escape the shelter that night, Zakia dragged several mattresses across the courtyard to the back wall. She doubled them over and piled them up to make a ledge high enough to climb over the 8-foot wall. Once over the wall, she ran in her high heels until she was far enough away to call Ali.

When Ali got the call, he sprang into action. A friend who owned a battered Toyota Corolla had agreed to help the couple elope. He and Ali went to pick up Zakia, about 20 minutes away. From there, they planned to drive up into the mountains. When Zakia got into the car with Ali, she took his hand in hers. It was a shockingly intimate gesture in a society as conservative as Afghanistan.    

Their escape that night in March 2014 into the high mountains of central Afghanistan seemed hopeless. The barren terrain provided nowhere to hide. They also had fled without any warm clothes or other necessities. “If we had only had one day together, it would have been worth it,” Zakia said. “How can I be sad? We’re together. I’m with my love.”

In Afghan society, a girl is considered her father’s property until she becomes her husband’s property. By eloping, Zakia was not just defying her father’s wishes but also stealing what he saw as rightfully his. So the police, as well as Zakia’s enraged family members, began looking for the couple. I was searching too. As a reporter for The New York Times, I had already written about the star-crossed couple once, calling them an Afghan Romeo and Juliet. Now, I had managed to find them before the police and her family. They were in a mud house in a remote village in the high mountains. It was pretty nearly the end of the road for them. Their hosts, hearing the police were on the way, were about to turn Zakia and Ali out so they wouldn’t be arrested too. 

The couple had no car, no money and no prospects. What they had was me. I didn’t want their story to end like this. I felt responsible. My arrival had possibly made it even easier for the police to trace them, since foreigners were so rarely seen in that area. I decided to help them escape. I gave Ali $1,000 and put the couple in my car. The police were just hours behind us, but we got away (see “A Journalist’s Dilemma,” above).

In the following months, they bounced around the country. They were always on the move. Finally, they took refuge in the capital, Kabul. They hoped the anonymity of a city of 5 million would protect them. Ironically, that’s where Zakia’s family finally found Ali, and things took a turn for the worse. Ali was put in jail, charged with kidnapping his own wife. Zakia still feared for her life at the hands of her father and brothers. She returned to a women’s shelter for her own safety. 

But Zakia’s face was all over Afghan TV. She had become a hero to every young Afghan woman who dreams of marrying someone she loves rather than someone chosen by her family. When the couple was taken into custody, young Afghans were so outraged that the authorities let them go. 

By this point, Zakia was pregnant and she and Ali had realized that their only hope for survival was to flee the country. The stories I’d written about them in The Times had generated enormous public sympathy, and people worldwide donated to a fund set up to help them. In October 2014, they used some of that money to buy plane tickets to neighboring Tajikistan. Their plan was to apply for refugee status and from there apply for asylum in a Western country. But things went wrong almost immediately. They were picked up by corrupt secret police, who stole everything they had, beat them, then deported them back to Afghanistan.

Deeply humiliated by the fiasco, they went back to Bamiyan, to Ali’s father’s house. In December 2014, their daughter, Ruqia, was born. 

In the following year, hundreds of thousands of Afghans joined a growing exodus of migrants heading to Europe, often risking their lives to escape the violence in their homeland. After careful consideration, Zakia and Ali decided not to join them, moved by pictures of a Syrian toddler whose body washed up on a Turkish beach after the raft his family was on overturned in the Mediterranean. Neither Ali nor Zakia could swim, and they had their baby to worry about. 

By this point, Zakia was pregnant. She and Ali had realized that their only hope for survival was to flee the country. The stories I’d written about them in The Times had generated a lot of public sympathy. People worldwide donated to a fund set up to help them. In October 2014, they used some of that money to buy plane tickets to neighboring Tajikistan. Their plan was to apply for refugee status and from there apply for asylum in a Western country. But things went wrong almost immediately. They were picked up by corrupt secret police. The officers stole everything they had and beat them. Ali and Zakia were then sent back to Afghanistan.

Deeply humiliated by the fiasco, they went back to Bamiyan, to Ali’s father’s house. In December 2014, their daughter, Ruqia, was born.

In the following year, hundreds of thousands of Afghans joined a growing number of migrants heading to Europe. In many cases, those who left risked their lives to escape the violence in their homeland. After careful consideration, Zakia and Ali decided not to join them. They saw the pictures of a Syrian toddler whose body washed up on a Turkish beach after the raft his family was on overturned in the Mediterranean. These pictures moved them. Neither Ali nor Zakia could swim, and they had their baby to worry about. 

By early 2016, Zakia and Ali remained in what seemed to be house arrest in Ali’s father’s mud house. They lived with 18 other relatives. She dared not leave home, fearing attack by still-furious family members.

It became clear that they needed to flee Afghanistan. But no nation stepped forward to offer them asylum. Zakia and Ali took these setbacks in stride. After all, they said, they had only ever hoped for a few days together. They had already had a couple of years.

But their situation changed last year. An anonymous U.S. government official read my book about them and was moved by their situation. He or she then intervened behind the scenes. Suddenly, they were told they could get permission to come to the United States. They arrived in May 2016.

Today they live in Connecticut. They’re learning English and waiting for their asylum request to be approved. They hope one day to return to an Afghanistan that’s safe for women, and for young people in love. For now, they have a new set of goals.

“I want our daughter to grow up and choose her own husband,” Zakia said. “Above all, I want her to be educated.”