He looked at the picture again. He had never quite believed that this woman was blind. Blind people don’t get their photos published on the front pages of American papers. He adjusted his reading glasses, read the story carefully and realised it wasn’t all bad. He was described as a ‘smiling dictator’, “a man with impeccable manners’, “a man who told jokes about himself’, “a man who talked openly and frankly in fluent English but refused to discuss the blind woman’s case”. The relief didn’t last long as he put the article aside and found another clipping from the New York Times” editorial page: a two-paragraph piece, again titled ‘Blind Justice”. He knew that the negative editorials in US papers meant the owners of these papers were out to get you and they were probably doing it at the behest of their government in Washington. He underlined the words barbaric, wily dictator, our government’s fundamentalist friend who is relentlessly marching his country back in time. With every word that he underlined, his blood pressure went up. His left eye twitched. He looked at the top of the editorial page and underlined the name Arthur Sulzberger. He picked up the phone and called his Information Minister, who had set up the interview and thus saved his job after the widows fiasco.
“What kind of name is Sulzberger?” he asked, dropping his customary greeting (How are you and how are the wife and kids?).
The Information Minister was a bit hazy. “Sir, forgive my ignorance but I haven’t heard the name.”
“Did I ask you whether you know this person? All I am asking is this: what kind of name is it? Is it Christian, Jewish, Hindu?”
“I am not sure, sir. It sounds German.”
“I know some newspapers call you Disinformation Minister, but you don’t have to take that title so seriously. Find out and let me know before the evening prayers.” He slammed down the phone.
The Information Minister’s first port of call was his own monitoring desk, which maintained files on all correspondents, editors and publishers. They had never heard the name. He called up a local reporter who had shown him his NYT card many times, but it turned out that this guy worked as a stringer for the NYT’s regional stringer and had never heard the name.
Reluctantly, very reluctantly, the Information Minister passed the request on to the information cell in the Inter Services Intelligence. He knew that it would be fed back to General Zia and he’d be asked why the country needed an Information Minister if the intelligence agencies had to do all his dirty work.
When the ISI told him politely in mid-afternoon that they had nothing on Arthur Sulzberger, his frustration resulted in the cancellation of publishing permits for two local film magazines. Then a flash of brilliance: the New York Times was in New York. He slapped his forehead and called up Pakistan’s press attache in New York, who didn’t have an answer but was confident that he’d find out in half an hour as he had excellent contacts in the NYT newsroom. The press attache called up a friendly Pakistani cab driver who he knew read every word in every paper and always alerted him to any stories about Pakistan.
“Sulzberger,” the cab driver shouted into his cab phone, jumping a Manhattan traffic light. “Sulzberger…that Jew.”
The information travelled from his cab to the Pakistani consulate in New York, reached the Information Ministry in Islamabad over a secure teleprinter and five minutes before his deadline the Information Minister received a note marked ‘Classified’.
The owner of the New York Times was a Jew.
General Zia heard it with a sense of relief. He knew in his guts when he was right. He shouted at the Information Minister: “What are you waiting for? Put out a press release and tell them all this fuss about that blind woman is Jewish propaganda. And next time we go to America invite Sulzberger for lunch. Take a large Persian carpet for him.”
At the end of such a hectic day at the office the Information Minister couldn’t bring himself to tell the General that he had issued the press release about Jewish propaganda first thing in the morning. His office had standard operating procedures when it came to rebutting negative stories about General Zia. These were divided into two categories: Jewish and Hindu propaganda. And since the story had appeared in the New York Times, you couldn’t really put it on the Hindu propaganda pile.
General Zia knew that Arnold Raphel wouldn’t help, but called him up anyway. The ambassador had, of course, seen the interview.
“Some nice quotes,” he said, trying to cheer General Zia up.
“The editorial,” General Zia said, then paused. “The editorial is very unfortunate. I don’t mind personal insults, but somebody is trying to malign our friendship. Somebody is trying to undermine all the good work we have done together.”
“It’s probably a bunch of liberal op-ed writers on a lean news day, Mr President. I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”
“It could jeopardise our chances for the Nobel, you see. I was hoping we would receive it together.” There was a moment’s silence at the other end. “For liberating Afghanistan,” he added, and thought this Arnie chap wasn’t very bright.
“We can discuss it at the party, Mr President, I hope you will be able to come.”
General Zia realised that a statement blaming the Jewish press and talking to the US ambassador would not solve the Blind Zainab problem when yet another group of women staged a protest in Islamabad the next day. “All rich begums,” the Information Minister told him. “More chauffeurs than protesters.”
When confronted with a legal dilemma like this, General Zia always picked up the phone and called ninety-year-old Qadi, his man in Mecca who had retired as a judge of the Saudi Sharia Court thirty years ago and since then had never missed a prayer in Khana Kaaba. The man practically lived in the House of God.
The phone call started, like it always did, with the General expressing his desire to die while on a pilgrimage to Mecca and to be buried at Qadi’s feet. Qadi assured him that Allah would grant him his wish and enquired about the purpose of this phone call.
“With your blessings I have introduced the new laws in Pakistan and by the grace of Allah hundreds of sinners have already been convicted: we have two hundred thieves waiting for their hands to be amputated, thousands of drunkards have been lashed in public.”
“Allah may help you, Allah may help you,” Qadi kept muttering.
“We have just had a death-by-stoning sentence passed and I was calling about that.” General Zia didn’t want to mention Zainab’s name.
“Real test, my birather. A real test.” Ninety-year-old Qadi’s voice was suddenly booming over the phone. “Our rulers of this Saudi kingdom, may their rule last till the Judgement Day, they don’t have courage for this. They like to make easy on everyone’s eyes; chop, chop after Friday prayers and everyone goes home happy. They not only chop the head off the criminal, they kill the spirit of law. People just become spectators. Adultery is a crime against society and people must carry out the punishment themselves. You cannot pass the responsibility onto some hired executioner and think you have done Allah’s work.”
“Yes, Qadi, I wanted your guidance on this matter: what happens if the accused says that she was forced to fornicate? How do we establish whether she is telling the truth? I mean, sometimes you can look at a woman’s face and tell that she is a fornicator, but we need legal procedures to establish it.”
Qadi spoke as if he had thought about this for a long time. “Women always make this excuse after they are caught fornicating, but we all know that rape is not easy to commit. The perpetrator will need at least four accomplices. There will have to be two men holding her by her arms, two pinning down her legs and then the fifth one between her legs, committing the act. So the answer is yes, a woman can be raped and it’s a serious crime.”
“So the woman will be required to recognise all five culprits in the court?” Zia asked.
“Our law, you know, is not set in stone, it encourages us to use our common sense. So the two men who are holding her down by her arms, maybe the woman would not be able
to recognise those two and the judge can make an exception.”
“And what if she didn’t see any of the culprits? What if they were wearing masks?”
General Zia could tell the old man was suddenly angry.
“Why would a rapist wear a mask? Is he a bank robber? Bank robbers wear masks. Kidnappers wear masks. I have never heard of a rapist wearing a mask in my forty years as a judge.”
General Zia felt stupid as Qadi continued, this time in a cold, admonishing, teacher-like voice. “Rapists like to see their own reflection in the woman’s eyes. That is one reason they’d never wear masks,” said Qadi.
“And what if the woman in question was blind?” General Zia asked.
Qadi clearly didn’t get General Zia’s drift.
“Do you mean morally blind or someone who Allah has not given the physical powers to see?”
“Blind. A woman who can’t see.”
“The law doesn’t differentiate between those who can see and those who can’t. Let’s assume for the sake of legal argument that the rapist was blind in this case, would he be entitled to any special privilege? So the victim, blind or not, is entitled to the same scrutiny, same rights.”
“How will she recognise her rapists and the other people who held her down?”
“It can be done in two ways: if she is married, her husband will have to establish in the court that she is of good character and then we’ll need four male Muslims of sound character who have witnessed the crime. And since rape is a very serious crime, circumstantial evidence wouldn’t do. ‘We heard screams and we saw blood and we heard the man hitting her’ is not enough evidence; witnesses will be required to have witnessed the actual penetration. And if the woman is not married she’ll have to prove that she was a virgin before this horrible crime was committed.”
General Zia felt much better by dinner time. He had already passed Qadi’s legal advice to his Chief Justice and was now composing a speech in his head that he would ask the First Lady to deliver at the annual charity bazaar of the All Pakistan Professional Women’s Association. He tried to test some of the arguments on the First Lady after reminding her of her promise to carry out her state duties. She listened silently at first, but when he reached the part about the victim having to establish her virginity the First Lady interrupted him.
“Are you talking about Blind Zainab’s case?”
“Well, yes, but basically we are trying to establish a legal precedent that will safeguard women’s honour. All women’s honour.”
“I don’t know anything about the law and I’ll make this speech if that’s what the law says.” The First Lady pushed her plate away. “But how is this woman supposed to prove that she is a virgin if a bunch of men banged her for three days and three nights?”
FIFTEEN
I follow the chicken korma smell and crawl my way towards the door. I pick up the plate and put it back. It’s hot. I suddenly feel very hungry. I sit down with my back against the door and start to eat. My world is reduced to the tender chicken flesh dripping with creamy curry. Even the bitter whole spices that get stuck in my teeth seem like portents of a prosperous, free future. I have only finished half my plate when the brick is pushed out. I take my plate to the hole and remove the brick.
“I wanted to check they have given you food because sometimes they like to starve the newcomers. You can share mine. Lentil soup garnished with gravel and fifty-fifty bread that is half flour and half sand. Your military chefs are very consistent. I have received the same food for nine years.”
I feel the guilt that the privileged prisoners must feel. I put my plate aside. “No. They have given me food.”
We sit in silence for a while. The absence of any prospects of freedom in the near future hangs heavy in the air. Suddenly this plate of rich, hot food seems like the promise of a long sentence. I feel the walls of this dungeon closing in on me.
“Did your strike work then?” I am desperate for conversation about anything that is not the quality of food or the texture of darkness in this part of the Fort.
“The idea was that people faced with so much uncollected garbage would rise up in solidarity with us. But nobody even noticed. Our people get used to everything. Even the stench of their own garbage.”
“I am sure someone must have noticed. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
“Oh yes, you people noticed. After some intelligence analyst realised that mullahs couldn’t infiltrate our ranks, they started cultivating our own Maoist faction.” His whisper suddenly gets animated. “I wouldn’t say it in public but Maoists really are worse than mullahs.”
I don’t know why he is going on about Maoists, but I know he wants a reaction to his confession. But the only Mao I know is that Chinese guy with the cap and I have no clue what his people are doing in Pakistan, let alone in the sweepers’ union.
“That is probably true,” I say thoughtfully. “China has produced nothing worthwhile since Sun Tzu. Even the fighter jets they give us are flying coffins.”
Secretary General is clearly not interested in the quality of his motherland’s air defences.
“I proved to them, with an empirical analysis of our so-called peasants’ movement, that our modes of production are determined by the petty bourgeoisie and not what they call feudal landlords, but these Maoists are very dogmatic. In Pakistan, you cannot have a peasants’ revolution. Don’t you agree?” He is begging me to agree.
“Yes,” I say. “Of course. Pakistani peasants are happy, no one goes hungry here.”
“Is that what they teach you in the army? That our peasants are well fed and every night before going to sleep they dance their joyous dance around their bountiful crops. You people live on another planet. This is even worse than the Maoist propaganda.”
“They don’t teach us anything like that,” I say, and it’s true. “Just because I wear a uniform, you think that I don’t know anything about our people. I am from this country, I am also a son of the soil. I come from a peasant family.” That may not be accurate, but we did have an orchard in our backyard on Shigri Hill.
“Don’t use your pseudo-feudal jargon with me. That is precisely the problem with our peasants. Maoists think that we live in an agrarian society. But look at our modes of production, look at the land ownership patterns. We live in a pre-agrarian, pre-feudal era. And these Maoists talk of a peasant revolution. It’s the worst kind of bourgeois romanticism.”
I think about the interrogators who have had to deal with him. He probably taught them a thing or two. Secretary General is not finished with me yet. “Have you seen a single peasant in this prison?”
“You are the only person I have met,” I say.
He is silent for a moment, probably suddenly realising that I am very new to this place, and that he doesn’t know all that much about me. But his urge to conclude his argument overcomes the awkwardness of our exchange and he continues.
“There aren’t any. Not real peasants. Not revolutionary peasants. The ones I have met are fighting for their feudal lords, not against them. They are fighting to preserve the status quo. They are fighting so that their feudal lords can keep them in their shackles. They are subverting the genuine class struggle of workers like me and you.”
I am relieved. I am finally in the fold. I am a worker and my struggle is genuine.
“According to our party manifesto, there is no difference between a sweeper and a soldier,” he says, I think just to underline the rules of our engagement. “These are both forms of exploitative labour that the military-industrial complex thrives on.”
I have no problems being called a worker in a generic sense but I don’t think I would make a very good sweeper.
“Were you a sweeper?” I ask him. “I mean before becoming the Secretary General.”
“No,” he says, in an irritated voice. “I was a mango farmer before I started organising the sweepers.”
“Secretary General, can I raise a point of dissent here? I suspect you oppose
a peasants’ revolution because you fear that first of all they’ll take over your mango orchards,” I say in a triumphant tone, as if we were not in an underground prison but at a meeting of his central executive committee. I sigh deeply and imagine smoke-filled rooms, littered with overflowing ashtrays.
Secretary General is silent for a moment, then he clears his throat and speaks in an apologetic voice. “I was a Maoist myself. I organised the mango orchard owners all over the country. I was the founding chairman. Within a year we had formed strategic alliances with mango farmers in India and Mexico. But our members were bourgeois at heart, every single one of them a class enemy. They would attend our study circles during the day and then go and throw mango parties for your generals at night. If only they had understood, we would have become the largest farmers’ collective in the entire capitalist world. Imagine the blow to the capitalist economy.”
“Secretary General,” I address him formally, “can I put another point of dissent on record? Do you really think you can bring the capitalist economy down by fixing mango prices?”
There is silence at the other end. I close my eyes and when I open them again the darkness seems tinged with fluorescent circles dancing in the dead air.
“I realised that. That’s why I declassed myself and started organising the sweepers. But your army people are scared of even the poorest of the poor who clean your gutters.” At this he replaces the brick in the wall.
On the floor, face down, my left cheek on the cool sand, arms stretched out, palms upward, I am trying to clear my head of sweepers and Maoists and peasants and fluorescent circles. Secretary General seems too well read to have plotted anything, let alone a plan involving a bomb in a gutter. Will he believe me if I tell him about my plan? We can probably compare notes. We can probably learn from each other’s failure, share tips about our interrogators. There is complete silence from his side. I guess it’s my turn to make a peace move.
2008 - A Case of Exploding Mangoes Page 15
