Sleeping Brides

by fallensea

  I did not want to speak to the women about what had happened to me. I was scared. The taste of blood was strong in my mouth, and the shouts of people around me was deafening. Where was my mom? I desperately needed my mom and my friends. I wanted to go roller-skating with my new neon blades and eat sumolok, like all nineteen-year-olds in Kyrgyzstan did. I did not want to be here, in this place of fire and water.

  “Speak, and your wish may come true,” the man with the feather in his ear urged. He frightened me more than anything here. Nothing good smiled so widely and so wickedly.

  “What happened?” the oldest woman asked, the one with the scar. I was tucked beside her, taking comfort in her motherly curves.

  I swallowed, imagining the red in my long hair as blood spilling against the sand. The woman was nice, but she was no substitute for my own mom. If telling the women about the horrors of the last few days, of my wedding, was my only way to get out of the cove and to my mom, I would speak. I would speak, and I would scream.

  ***

  Resting high in the mountains, the waters of Lake Issyk-Kul were pure, like a maiden’s tears, cleansed by the salt of defiance. Swimming in the waters of the lake was like bathing with the angels, but its history was not so sacred. Legend told of a Khan who ruled the land long ago. He was merciless and depraved, but he was not incapable of love, or his cruel interpretation of it. To her torment, the Khan fell in love with a village girl, who was as beautiful as moonlight, but she refused him, her heart with another. The girl and her lover road far into the mountains by horseback to escape the Khan, but he pursued her and captured her, dragging her back and locking her in a high dungeon tower. Choosing the freedom of death over captivity, she leapt from the tower and perished. Her death was a mark on the land, and the mountains opened up, pouring water from their crowns to wash away the Khan, freeing the people and venerating the girl.

  ***

  I was running late for college, but I did not hurry.

  While Meerim, my favorite pop star, blasted throughout my room, I threw on skinny jeans and an orange sweater, rusted like the fields of the mountains, and I looked in my full-length mirror, which had koala stickers plastered over it. The sweater went well with my red hair, which I’d recently dyed. My mom had been furious. Good Kyrgyz girls did not color their hair. They did not draw attention to themselves. They kept their hair dark and natural. They were modest and quiet.

  That’s what my mom told me, but I could see through her. Her lectures were to protect me from the leering eyes of boys. If she cared about what I was supposed to be, she would not have named me Busana. My name was not Kyrgyz. It meant girl of the moon, but I did not know from where it originated. It was heretical, like my mom wanted me to be. She did not want me to follow tradition, to marry and slave for my husband like many Kyrgyz women did. She wanted me to finish my degree in law. She wanted her daughter to be a lawyer, not a wife, and so she did not really care if I was modest or quiet; she only cared that I was single.

  My name was heretical, but my face was not. I had flat features with wide, friendly eyes. It was very much Kyrgyz, a people of mountains and horsemen and falconry and walnut forests, of grasping all that was ancient and mistrusting all that was new. We were the bards of Manas, the hero who united the scattered clans of Kyrgyzstan. We were the sons and daughters of the Khans of Central Asia. Our heritage was glorious and powerful, and we were happy for it.

  I fastened a belt around my sweater to make it more fashionable, but I preferred the sweater loose so that it flowed over my lean hips, so I flung the belt into a pile of clothes on the floor, and I bopped around to Meerim while I continued getting ready, wishing I had a window in my room so that I could see my clothes in natural light. When I was finished, I wore a candy pink headband as an accessory and a nude shade of lip gloss that I would tell my mom was balm to keep my lips from going chap. She forbade make-up.

  Satisfied, I passed the thick tapestries in the hallway of our apartment and headed towards the kitchen where I could smell the sunrise through my mom’s cooking. We lived in Bishkek, the largest city in Kyrgyzstan, but the inside of our apartment looked very much like the homes of my father’s cousins, who lived in the mountains. Red tapestries hung on every wall, thick and bold, with jagged embroideries of swans and mares, depictions of our folklore. I ran my hand against the tapestries as I bounded into the kitchen, smiling, excited for my dance practice later in the afternoon and smoothies with my friends.

  My mom stood where the sunlight hit the counter, wetting a bowl of wheat while rice boiled on the stove. It was only the two of us. My father was in Russia working as a taxi driver. He earned more money in Russia than he ever could in Kyrgyzstan. He pined for Kyrgyzstan in the many letters he wrote home, for the music and Buzkashi tournaments and drinking vodka with his cousins in the mountains. He hated Russia, but it was because of his sacrifice that we could afford the apartment in Bishkek, and the rice that boiled, and the clothes I wore to college. We weren’t wealthy, but what luxuries we did have were my father’s greatest pride, and so he stayed in Russia, returning home only a few times each year. He was absent, but my mom cooked as if he were there, attached to the stove like a saddle.

  She used to work. The stove wasn’t always her friend. Well-educated, she used to be a translator for the U.S. Airforce at the Transit Center at Manas, but she had lost her job when the Americans left, surrendering the base back to our military. I could not speak Western languages like my mom could, but I had followed in her footsteps by attending the same university she had graduated from, the daughter of an alumnus.

  “Stop smiling!” she demanded when she saw me. “It’ll attract the boys. Do you want to end up like those poor girls who kill themselves to escape their husbands?”

  “I’m not interested in any boys,” I told her, a ritual as common as breakfast. “I want to finish my studies first.”

  She wasn’t convinced. She never was. “Why don’t you wear a scarf to school? People will think you are married if you wear a scarf over your head.”

  We were Muslim, but women didn’t have to wear scarves in Kyrgyzstan, not unless they were old or getting married. We were non-denominational, and a lot less conservative than other places I’d read about in the news. I doubted it would ever get that conservative here. To the Kyrgyz, tradition was more powerful than religion. And tradition was certainly more powerful than law, as I was learning from my professors at the university.

  “I’m not wearing a scarf,” I said respectfully. “The only person worried about whether or not I’m married is you.”

  “You should do as your mom tells you,” she scolded, but she dropped the issue, temporarily, and turned away from the counter to stir the rice.

  The rice smelled delicious, full of spices that made my stomach rumble. The rice we would eat that evening, but the wheat my mom wetted was for Nooruz, a festival of light and renewal. It fell on the equinox that divided winter from spring, which was less than a week away. During Nooruz, people gathered in the squares to sing, dance, and celebrate new beginnings. Already, colorful banners were being raised and the stage prepared in the main square, where there would be public concerts. After the sun set, and after the concerts and fireworks finished, bonfires were lit around the city for us to play games and socialize.

  And there was food. Vendors rolled their candies and fried their dough, which they served alongside rice and a spiced stew made of meat from the bull. And sumolok—a porridge of wheat grains. Sumolok was only made for Nooruz. The wheat had to be wetted the entire week before, as my mom did now. I did not know if the wetting of the wheat was out of necessity or superstition, but it was done, and it was tasty.

  I’d be on the stage during Nooruz, in a traditional dance choreographed by a group of girls from college. I’d recently joined the group. I had a lot of catching up to do before the week was over, but I was excited for the performance.

  “Don’t forget I’ll be late coming home today,” I reminded my mo
m as I grabbed a yogurt from the fridge for breakfast. “I have dance practice.”

  “Busana, I don’t mind you dancing, as long as you’re taking your lessons seriously. College is to study, to become someone, not to play with your friends.”

  “I am taking my lessons seriously,” I promised, and I glanced at the clock, hoping she didn’t use the fact that I was running late against me. I had been up all night studying, and my first class was a lecture with a professor who posted all of his notes online. An easy morning would do me no harm, but there was no way my mom would agree if she knew how late I was.

  “Tell me what you’re learning in your classes,” she drilled.

  I was ready. “We learned not to be intimidated when forming a case. People will talk, and they will push, but you have to talk louder and push harder.”

  She was pleased. “And what class did you learn that in?”

  “All of them.”

  “Good. Law was a good choice. You’re a smart girl. You make smart choices. This was one of them.”

  I smiled at her approval, but she quickly reprimanded me.

  “Don’t smile. It attracts the boys.”

  ***

  In Bishkek, there was squalor and there was industrialization, but there was also green—park after park lined the boulevards, keeping pace with the canals built by the Soviets when they occupied Kyrgyzstan. The trees provided shade during the hot summers, but such weather was well beyond reach. We were experiencing a bitter winter that would likely carry into Nooruz.

  Amid the trees, there was liveliness. I could not imagine a city better than Bishkek. There were no strangers here. People were friendly, much more so than our Russian friends, and even more so than our Chinese neighbors, who I considered a pleasant people. My father talked of moving to the mountains after I finished my studies, but I wished to remain in Bishkek. It was my happy place.

  Surrounding the city like an army building its forces were the mountains. The grand, snow-capped peaks watched over Bishkek and its liveliness with a superiority that frightened me. The mountains stood for everything the Kyrgyz people cherished—our traditions, our history, and our legacy. They had complete power over me, and so I was intimidated by them.

  Dance practice had ended. I walked home briskly, eager to drop off my books and change my jacket before meeting my friends. I turned down a street that was bare compared to the park-lined streets near the university. On the street, apartment buildings were compacted together, creating a community of middle-class families and young professionals who couldn’t afford a house in the city but lived above the squalor. My own apartment wasn’t far.

  Standing below the bedroom window of my friend Farida was a young man. He called out her name. “Farida, come down! I want to talk to you!” I approached the man with caution, aware of a white car parked nearby full of more men. It looked like a kidnapping.

  It was not uncommon in Kyrgyzstan for men to kidnap their brides. Many married women had been kidnapped, some by will to defy their families, but most completely against their consent, dragged scared and crying into an unfamiliar car, sometimes beat. Strangers kidnapped girls on the street, under pressure from their families to find a wife, especially the men from the mountains where multiple generations lived together within the same house, and the work within the house was assigned to the young. Once a girl was in a man’s house, her purity was called into question, and she was deemed unworthy of any other suitors. It led to rape and murder and suicide. There had been many suicides.

  Bride kidnappings had nothing to do with religion or law. Islam forbade it. The law forbade it. On paper, a man could be prosecuted for kidnapping a girl and manipulating her into marriage, but the law was rarely enforced. There was more penalty for stealing a goat than stealing a woman. Kidnapping was a Kyrgyz tradition. Some claimed it dated back to Manas, to the warriors who stole their brides by horseback. They claimed it was in the blood. They claimed it was a man’s right.

  My closest friend, Munara, thought it was romantic, but that was because she wanted her boyfriend to kidnap her so that they could wed. Her family did not approve of her boyfriend. They wanted to arrange her marriage to someone of wealth and prestige. The only way they’d likely agree to Munara marrying her boyfriend was if he kidnapped her.

  “Hey, this is where Farida lives, yeah?” the man asked as I passed him.

  He was handsome, with broad shoulders, tidy hair, and good teeth. His eyes were kind but held the stubbornness of the mountains. He was probably a villager, but from a decent family, judging on his expensive soccer jersey. He was tall but had a juvenile face, making it difficult to place his age, but he was definitely older than me.

  “Farida isn’t home,” I said timidly, thankful it was the truth. “She’s in Osh to celebrate Nooruz with her relatives.”

  He was encouraged by my response. “So you know her?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know where she lives. I’ve never been inside her house.” It was a lie. I knew Farida well. We’d grown up together, often walking to school together throughout the years.

  I wanted to leave. The situation made me uncomfortable. My mom was waiting for me at home. My friends were waiting for me at the café. I wanted a peach smoothie, not to be caught in the middle of a kidnapping, but I could not force myself to leave. I was afraid he and his friends would follow me, and then they would know where I lived.

  “My name is Suiun,” he introduced. “Do not be worried. I know Farida through friends. We have talked before. I want to talk to her again. She will be happy I am here.”

  “I don’t know where she lives,” I maintained. “All I know is that she is in Osh. That is the truth.”

  “Do you live around here?” he asked.

  I tensed and hugged my books closer, realizing how vulnerable I was on the abandoned street. “No. My boyfriend does. I was just walking to his house.”

  Suiun saw through my lie. “You don’t have a boyfriend. Good girls like you don’t have boyfriends.”

  I tried again. “He’s not really my boyfriend, but he is my fiancé. My parents have arranged our marriage.”

  This time, he bought it. “Okay,” he said, stepping aside so I could pass. “Please don’t tell Farida I’m looking for her. I want to surprise her.”

  I nodded slightly then hurried on my way, shaking from the confrontation. When I got home, I let my books drop to my bedroom floor, and I sat on my bed, quietly singing my favorite Meerim song to replace the frightened thoughts in my mind. As I sang, I vowed to never again sulk over a lack of window in my bedroom. If there was no window, there was nothing for boys to gaze into or wait under.

  I didn’t tell Farida, only because she was away and had no cell phone, but I did share all the details with my friends when I met them for smoothies. Under the flashing disco lights of the urban café, we were surrounded by tech junkies on their devices, peppy chatter, and arcade games—the music of people who were happy and boisterous—but at our table there was only outrage.

  “Who does he think he is?”

  “It’s against the law!”

  “We have to tell Farida!”

  “We should go to the police!”

  “I tried to tell the police,” I said. “There are tons of police around in preparation for Nooruz. On my way here, I told an officer everything that had happened, but he didn’t care. He said no crime had been committed, that boys will be boys, and that I should forget about it.”

  “Maybe we should forget about it,” Munara mumbled.

  Munara and I were like sisters and frequently wore our hair the same to show it, like tonight. We had high side tails, half-loose, half-braided. But there were ways we differed completely. I sat quietly next to her, aghast that she could say such a thing, less outspoken than she was.

  She continued. “There’s nothing else we can really do. It’s been reported. We’ll tell Farida, she should know, but it doesn’t have to ruin our night. She’s safe.”

  Farida
was safe. We had to accept it. There was nothing more we could do. Munara texted Farida’s older brother, with whom she took Economics with, and we moved on to better conversation. We planned to go roller-skating at the weekend. A new rink had opened up with a retro vibe. It would give me a chance to test out my new neon blades, and Munara a chance to secretly meet up with her boyfriend, away from the disapproval of her parents.

  Across the table, a classmate with chubby cheeks and cute freckles suddenly squealed into her phone. “They just announced Meerim is going to play at the concert for Nooruz!”

  I was exhilarated to hear it, so much so that there was a real danger I would faint into what remained of my peach smoothie. “Dreams do come true!” I cried as I hugged Munara, euphoric. “We’re going to be dancing on the same stage as Meerim!”

  ***

  I didn’t want to leave the café, but I had to if I was going to make my curfew, so I stood and said my goodbyes. Munara stood with me, pulling affectionately on my side tails, giggling, still drunk on the news that we’d get to see Meerim live and for free.

  “Happy Nooruz!” our friends called after us as we left, equally giddy. “May you have a warm and peaceful spring!”

  “I think they forget that it’s not spring yet,” Munara chirped as we walked out the door and were hit with an icy chill. It was dark, but the streets were well lit, a reassurance in the cold.

  “I feel like it is spring,” I said cheerfully. “Today has been good.”

  “The best,” Munara agreed.

  As she tried to hail a taxi to take us home, I studied a Help Wanted flyer on the window of the café. I was tempted to apply, to have money to pay for my own clothes, but I knew my father would not allow it. It would hurt his pride to even suggest it.

  I couldn’t wait to tell him about Meerim. He was a secret fan. Underneath his strict pride, my father loved pop music as much as I did. We both stuck out our tongues whenever Mom changed the radio to her classical stations. Maybe he’d even fly back for the concert. To see my father would make Nooruz even better.