“Women are wearing eye patches everywhere,” she said to Faisah. She could not disguise her excitement. “They say they want to share the badge of honor that you wear. You should hear them—in Multan, in Hyderabad, even in Swat. Women say they want to be in solidarity with the ‘She-Lions of Punjab.’”
“She-lions?”
“Yes. You, and Meena, and Baji,” said Lia.
“Which Baji?” asked Amir, but he knew the answer.
“Baji Ujala, of course,” Faisah said as if the answer was self-evident.
“Look, you started the lion thing, you know,” Lia said, elbowing Faisah, “with that line about being a tattered old cat.” Amir stopped grinding spices long enough to growl and claw the air.
“Will Baji Reshma be staying?” he asked.
“If I can talk her into it,” said Faisah, “she will be our secret weapon at Baji’s trial, our expert witness on Shariah.”
“But she’s an Islamist, a fundamentalist,” Lia said.
“Which will give her testimony even more weight.”
“And she’s a woman,” Lia said. “They will discredit whatever she has to say.”
“Just the opposite,” said Faisah. “We will propose Reshma as the jurisconsult, the sole expert for the case—for both sides. Reshma thinks that the recent publicity will cause the judges to select her. They will want to appear sympathetic.”
“I don’t know,” Lia said. She sounded skeptical.
“I agree with Lia,” said Amir. “The court will discount her testimony because she’s Baji’s sister. Actually she is Baji’s baji, so of course she is biased.”
“Look, we talked about this at length in the legal team, and everyone agrees that it’s a risky strategy, but our best hope. Once the court accepts her as jurisconsult, they have to also accept that she is objective and unbiased. That is part of the oath she takes.”
“My promise of paradise would be on the line,” said Reshma from the doorway. The three turned to see that Reshma had been listening in. “Testifying for Ujala will be the test of my scholarship, my integrity, and my faith.”
The toughness of her voice reassured them.
“You are so like your mother,” Kulraj Singh told Reshma during their walk to the Gurdwala. “Such a fine mind and so wise.”
“I don’t know, Abbu. Was it wisdom that kept me away from the family for so many years, or pigheadedness?”
“You had your reasons, Buttercup,” he said, using the pet name he and Nafeesa had called her as a baby. He took her hands into his own, as he had when she was a child, before she had judged him, before she went her own way. “You were our first love in the years when life was fresh and we lived inside a globe of happiness.” He cupped her hands and she squeezed his.
Allah returned me to my family when he took Meena away, Reshma thought. I see now that I am as connected to them as the wisteria is to the neem tree.
“You are part of this family, you know,” Kulraj Singh said. “God brought you back to us when he took Meena.”
“You knew what I was thinking!” Reshma said, dropping her father’s hands, stopping on the path. “Were you reading my mind again, Mr. Singh?”
“No. I can’t read minds. We both were sharing God’s mind for a moment,” he said. “Both of us are listening to the same voice.”
They crossed the sunflower field. Reshma dug deep inside herself for the worn resentments she had carried for so many years, but they were gone. Now she had a father to lean on again. She didn’t know how she would explain it to Mohammad. Would he encourage the twins to respect their grandfather? Would the twins be cold and harsh, as she knew they could be? Her eyes followed the light that danced on her father’s beard. She relaxed to a depth she had not felt for many years.
“I’m sorry I called you an infidel,” she said. “You are a better Muslim than I.”
“Let’s not talk theology,” he said.
“But it was an awful thing to say. It is so evident that God is in you.”
“Let’s not talk politics, either . . . but, Reshma, you do need to have that conversation with this family’s mother.”
“You have to be a feminist, not a fundamentalist,” Ujala told Reshma as they began hammering out trial strategy.
“Shariah is not incompatible with democracy or human rights,” Reshma said. “What Islamists reject is the idea of separation of church and state. Government should be run according to God’s laws.”
“So there are fundamentalists and there are fundamentalists? Is that what you are saying?” Faisah asked. “I have to understand exactly what your testimony will be because I will be the one to question you in court.”
“Then above all you must understand that there is a rich discourse among those who believe in the sanctity of the Q’ran. Frankly, as Muslim women, you should know better.” Reshma sucked her tongue against her front teeth to keep from showing her disgust at her sisters’ ignorance. “Some feminists blame Islamic law, when they are not familiar with its early history. Do not assume that Shariah is oppressive. It may be the quickest road to the freedom of women.”
“Now you sound like our mother’s daughter,” Ujala said.
But she was not sure exactly what Reshma meant.
At precisely nine o’clock the three associate judges took their seats. The prosecutor entered the courtroom with a short woman in a blue burqa who walked directly to her brother, Sadiq. You could no longer see the light in her eye or the sequins on her nose.
“So now we know where Chanda has been,” Faisah whispered.
“A Pathan woman answers to her brothers and her father. They are the great Khans, no?” Faisah could hear resignation settle into Ujala’s voice. “She will testify against me. She has to do it. To save her life.”
“No. She will not have to testify. They will present her affidavit only. They have brought her here only to demoralize us, to let us know she is under their control.”
The president judge began the session in a formal tone.
“The district court of Lahore has sent a reference to the Federal Shariah Court. This matter is being considered under a special statute that permits this court, in extraordinary circumstances, to give interpretative guidance to the trial court in matters of Islamic law. We accept jurisdiction.
“Pursuant to the Constitution of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, this court has invited a person well versed in Islamic law to assist in its decision. Mrs. Reshma Mohammad is a person of the highest scholarship and unquestioned integrity.”
Reshma’s twins sat in the audience with their father. They smiled with pride at the judge’s respect for their mother and watched their father’s reaction. He sat calmly, fixated by the courtroom scene.
“Pay attention!” he whispered to them. They listened to the judge’s remarks.
“It is unusual to have a jurisconsult who is related to a defendant—here she is the defendant’s elder sister. This is very unusual indeed. Has the prosecution no objection?”
The prosecutor had been examining the edge of the scar on Faisah’s face. Distracted by his curiosity, he fumbled, jumping to his feet.
“Uh, no objection, your Honor.”
“Well, then,” continued the judge, “in the absence of objection and in light of Mrs. Mohammad’s well-known piety and fairness, as well as her professional stature, this court nevertheless finds she is the best-qualified jurisconsult to testify on the issue presented. We ask her to come forward to take her oath.”
Dressed in a dark blue shalwar kameez and a white cotton dupatta, Reshma approached the bailiff who held the Q’ran in his hand.
“I, Reshma Mohammad, do solemnly swear that, as jurisconsult to the Federal Shariah Court, I will discharge my duties and perform my functions honestly, to the best of my ability, and faithfully in accordance with law; and . . .” she paused dramatically to look at the judges, as if promising each one personally, “I will not allow my personal interests to influence my official conduct or opinions
.”
She took her seat in the witness chair, and Faisah walked up to the podium.
“Madam, please explain to the court the historical basis of your interpretation of the concept of, ta’ah, a wife’s duty of obedience.”
Reshma cleared her throat.
“For many centuries, a wide range of judicial interpretations of ta’ah has existed, varying according to two things—first, the society in which the interpretations were made, and second, according to the judge’s intention to permit certain freedom of conscience to individuals. However, modern Islamic nations have codified family law, and in doing so, have selected particular schools of thought and discarded others, thus eliminating the richness of our organic jurisprudence. This limited selection of law has weakened the fundamental freedom of conscience that the Prophet—Peace be unto him—encouraged and which was well known to jurists of the past.”
“Exactly which jurists do you mean?” barked the Chief Justice.
“Imam Al-Shafi’i, for example, revised his early jurisprudence to account for the social customs of Egypt when he moved there from Baghdad,” Reshma answered and returned to her point. “Many customs today, including ta’ah, are not in the original personal law. Rather, those customs were superimposed on the holy verses, distorting them with a patriarchal view of the relationship between husbands and wives.”
Reshma was trying to be understood by the audience and the press, as well as by the judges. Reshma was addressing Pakistan itself.
“Another example comes from Morocco, a Maliki jurisdiction. Today its personal code states that taking care of the house is part of the duties of the wife. Imam Malik, also in the eighth century, rejected the view that marriage was a service contract and concluded that the woman was not obligated to perform housework.”
“Women in Pakistan do the housekeeping,” said an associate judge. “What does this have to do with this case?”
Reshma was unflappable.
“My point, Sir, is that the history of Islamic jurisprudence, until 1947, supported the sanctity of individual conscience and valued diverse interpretations according to particular societies. In my expert opinion, in 1947, in the rush to create an Islamic state, Shariah was codified in Pakistan without due consideration to these historical realities.
“But here today,” Reshma said, turning to the judges, “with the Islamic world watching, the court has the benefit of experience to look broadly at the law as it applies to women—in order to correct these errors of the past.”
Faisah was a little disoriented. Was Reshma’s argument too remote and theoretical for these judges? Or was it too close and threatening? She tried to move the testimony forward.
“What did the Prophet—Peace be unto him—have to say about ta’ah?”
“Nothing,” Reshma said.
“Nothing?” Faisah asked again, to emphasize the point.
“The Prophet—Peace be unto him—was silent on the subject. After all, we know that two of the Prophet’s wives, Khadija and A’isha, surely moved freely in their work. We also know that the Prophet—Peace be unto him—did household chores, and did not demand obedience at home. The egalitarian model that he created was one based on cooperation and consultation, an unusual model in his day, and rare today . . . but it is reported in the texts.”
“So exactly what is ta’ah?”
“There is Ta’ah with a capital T, and ta’ah with a lowercase t. Strictly speaking, ta’ah is the obedience due only to God, not to a husband or a ruler. God’s law is the highest, which is the reason for the existence of this court—to balance the duty owed to God against the duty owed to the political authority. Household ta’ah, on the other hand, is a small concept—not obedience at all, but merely the idea of consultation and—most important to this case before the court—consent in the private sphere, such as the consent of the wife to the wishes of the husband.”
“So there is no support in the Q’ran for the hierarchy of males over females?”
“There is not. That hierarchy is merely a residue of patriarchy, a part of human history.”
“And is there any specific verse of the Holy Q’ran to which the concept of ta’ah is repugnant?” Faisah asked, honing the question to match the exact language of the court’s legal authority.
“Yes. The Holy Q’ran at 4:1 states that men and women are created from the same soul. How then, can one have authority over the other?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Mohammad. I have no further questions.”
“I have some questions for Mrs. Mohammad,” said the prosecutor, standing firm.
“As do I.” The chief justice spoke with irritation in his voice.
“Please, you go first, my Lord,” said the prosecutor. The judge was a former prosecutor himself and famous for the precision of his examination of witnesses. The prosecutor sat back in his chair to let the judge do his job for him. “I’ll just sit right here.”
“Mrs. Mohammad, does the Holy Q’ran not state at 4:34 that ‘men are qawwamun over women’? Are not men the protectors of women because they have more strength?”
“My Lord,” Reshma replied without emotion, “the problem with the modern translation of qawwamun is that it supports a limited interpretation of the word. According to ancient Arabic dictionaries, the word can mean many things—head, or boss, or leader, or protector, or even manager, guide, and advisor. These words can be open to authoritarian or to democratic interpretations. Thus, where a society was authoritarian, it made sense that interpreters colored the meanings with an authoritarian perspective. But today, as the world has changed, modern jurisprudence can regain for the word its original meaning. In light of Pakistan’s being a democracy, the Court would do well to opt for nonhierarchical interpretations of the word.”
“Interesting, Mrs. Mohammad, but does the Q’ran not also state that man is faddala—superior to woman?”
“My Lord, technically, according to Arabic etymology, faddala simply means different from, not superior.”
“So, which interpretation are we to believe—to apply to this case, Mrs. Mohammad?” asked the Chief Judge.
“Under rules of jurisprudential construction, general principles carry more weight than particular ones. Clearly, the equality principle concerning the souls of men and women is general. But this second verse, indicating the so-called superiority of men over women, or of men as protectors and managers of women, is limited only to circumstances where women are financially dependent on men. In those circumstances, the verse informs us, God gave to a man supporting a woman the responsibility of offering the woman advice in those areas in which he happens to be more experienced.”
“And presumably the woman is entitled to reject this so-called advice?” the judge asked.
“Well, otherwise advice would not be advisory, now would it, my Lord?” She smiled and the audience chuckled. Reshma was charming them. She said, “This interpretation is consistent with the verse that states that Muslims, male and female, are each other’s walis—protectors, allies, guardians.”
The Chief Judge surveyed the audience, the attorneys, and his associates on the bench. Sensing that the questioners were satisfied by her answers, he returned to Reshma.
“Mrs. Mohammad, you have the appreciation of the Court.” He nodded to a line of police who were pouring into the courtroom with their sticks drawn. “This matter will be taken under advisement and a ruling will be forthcoming. The bailiffs will please secure this courtroom. This court is adjourned.”
The judges stepped from the bench and disappeared behind closed doors.
“Go into the holding room,” Rahima Mai told Faisah. “I will stay on the courtroom side of the door. We don’t want a replay of the riot in Lahore.”
“Baji, you were brilliant. Shukriah,” Ujala said to Reshma, hugging her. Reshma’s sons felt shy in front of these relatives they hardly knew. Mohammad was smiling. Despite himself, he could see God’s work in his wife’s reunion with her family. Allah be praised!
Lia kept trying to be heard, to get a word in the commotion. At last, she jumped up, waving a sheaf of papers in her hand, “The government shut down the radio station this afternoon,” she said, and the room hushed. “They locked us out on an administrative directive. Something about inciting violence on the airwaves.”
“It’s from the Minister of Information,” Faisah said, reviewing the papers Lia had been brandishing.
If the government has closed down the radio station, Ujala thought, the next loss might be the judges’ decision in her case. Maybe even her life.
My Sisters Made of Light Page 28
