by Atia Abawi
“But some of our women are happy. Look at me,” my mother says, almost pleading. “I was blessed the day that you came to this village. I was blessed the moment your family came to mine for khastgaree and asked for my hand in marriage. I thank God every day for you and the children. I want Fatima to have a provider like you. And I think she has a better chance of that with our own kind.”
“What matters is his upbringing. His parents.” My father’s voice begins to rise again.
“Of course, ethnicity isn’t all that matters. But this boy has a good upbringing. Good parents. He even went to a university in Kabul.” My mother sounds desperate. “He is the reason why most of their village has electricity. And we both know that she will never be fully accepted by any other ethnic group.”
“Mossuma Jaan, I’m exhausted right now. Can we discuss this later? My mind and my heart can’t take any more tonight.”
“Yes, azizam. But we can’t put it off too much longer.” My mother’s words feel like a rope around my neck. “We knew from the moment our daughters were born that they wouldn’t be with us forever, that one day they would belong to another family.”
I can’t help but think about what it would be like to be part of Samiullah’s family, but then I feel worse, because even though they are kind to me now, I know they never would want me as a match for their son. My mother is right. A Hazara girl could never marry a Pashtun boy.
Five
FATIMA
The temperature is still frigid as I wake up at dawn and head outside, but I can already feel the sun’s rays slowly emerging, burning off the icy air. I splash water on my face from one of the jugs and let the cold water help me wake. I use more water to rinse out my mouth, swishing it and then spitting it back out on the ground. As I spit it out, I know I will be sent to the well again to refill the jugs, but for once it makes me happy because it means time away from home. All I can feel is dread as I head into the room with the tandoor, where I will spend the next two hours with my mother making bread.
By the time I get there, she has already pulled out the cooking distarkhans, placing the plastic sheets around the tandoor. “Salaam, Madar Jaan,” I say as I walk in.
“Salaam, janem,” she responds. “Can you start making the dough?”
“Yes,” I say as I grab the small plastic tub and rinse it out with the remaining water from last night’s kettle. I place it on a distarkhan, adding the flour, water, oil and some eggs. I mix the ingredients for the dough until it gets tough and hard. Then I start to fold and beat. The only thing that gives me strength is knowing that I will see Samiullah in a few hours, the way we’d planned when we said good-bye in the wheat field. We won’t leave the woods this time, which will make it safer. Thinking of this gets my mind off my mother and her plans to ruin my life, and my father the fraud.
I notice her throw some plates of dung in the bottom of the tandoor and light them with matches and old news paper. She uses a long and thin metal rod to help the fire spread and build. We both work in silence like we usually do. But every now and then, I feel my mother’s eyes on me; I don’t dare meet them. I’m afraid it will lead to talking, and right now I don’t want to hear anything she has to say. I don’t even want to hear her voice.
She puts the kettle on a metal rack over the tandoor as I start patting out round balls of dough and placing them on the distarkhan.
My mother breaks our silence. “Maybe today we can sprinkle black cumin seeds on the bread and make it a little more fancy. It’s what I used to do when I first got married to impress your father.” I nod my head and continue to pat the balls of dough. “One day you’ll do it for your husband too. The extra effort shows that you’re a good wife and that you care for him.”
I wonder if Samiullah likes bread with seeds? He’s never told me. I’ve never asked him.
“Maybe we can make salty cookies today as well? I think we can spare a few cups of flour,” my mother says, smiling. “One day when you get married, you’ll have to remember how to make all this food because I won’t be around to remind you. You’ll become the woman of the house, cooking for your husband, his family and, inshallah, your own children.”
“I need to go to Zohra’s today,” I say as I pound my fist into the dough before ripping off another chunk.
“You can skip your lessons today. The cookies will be more important to your future than reading.”
“They’re expecting me. It would be rude not to go.” I lie to my mother but don’t feel the least bit guilty about it. She’s betraying me by wanting to marry me off, so why can’t I do the same?
“Rafedara bitay?” my mother asks with an annoyed tone. I hand her the small pillow used to put the bread into the tandoor. She begins to flatten one of my dough balls into a thin round. She uses her fingernail to poke holes in the dough, which will allow the bread to breathe as it bakes on the walls of the tandoor. “Put the seeds on like this,” she says as she pats some of the cumin into the dough. When she’s done, she takes the boiling kettle off the tandoor to expose the opening and slaps the dough onto the inside walls. She tosses me the rafeda, and it’s my turn to follow suit. “You know, one day you’ll want to be married, and you’ll even enjoy it. It makes you a woman. I was so lucky that your father came for me. He has blessed me every day since, treating me like a friend, not a servant.”
Samiullah had always reminded me of my father, his kindness and his gentleness. But last night’s revelations made me realize my father is not the man I thought he was. Samiullah could never be like that. Samiullah would be a man who would treat everyone well, not just his wife.
My mother continues to talk, but I can’t hear her anymore. I drown her out with thoughts of what a future with Samiullah would be like. Most likely in a home built by him and his cousins. It would have a big room for the tandoor. We could have tea in the living area and a courtyard for the livestock. We would eat candy, laughing and sharing stories . . .
I snap back to reality and realize how crazy I am for having those thoughts. Zohra was right, I keep dreaming of things that aren’t possible. And a future with Samiullah is impossible.
Six
FATIMA
After we’ve finished with the bread, I leave my home, taking the route I use to Zohra’s house. I feel bad about missing time with Zohra’s bibi, but I promise myself I’ll review the work in my head later tonight, before I fall asleep. Besides she may still not be well enough to teach us today. I walk through our flat fields until the tree line begins. We don’t have much greenery in our village, but we do have spots where the pine trees grow. Children go there in the fall to gather pine nuts, but the area is ignored during the spring and summer.
I walk several meters forward, cracking and breaking the small branches under my feet. If I were going to Zohra’s, I’d keep heading straight on the dirt path created by Karim walking to the fields every morning and home every evening. For a split second, it dawns on me that I can follow the path and actually see Zohra. I can read with her and her grandmother and save myself from the dangerous plan Samiullah and I have made. It would be the wise choice, going straight.
I don’t. I turn right in an area where the foliage is sparse. Protected by the cover of the trees, I hunch over and whack away the branches and leaves. While I wait for Samiullah, my heart rate accelerates and my breathing becomes heavier.
I have rarely lied to my parents. I’ve never really had a reason to. But this seems worth it. And even though it frightens me, I can’t stop myself.
I know that if I get caught, Samiullah and I could be in a lot of trouble, especially if we have a real run-in with Latif and his men. But what worries me more is that it will ruin my family’s name and honor to have their elder daughter running around the village unsupervised. Not just unsupervised—alone with a boy. The more I think about it, the more my stomach drops. I feel the rush of blood darting straight to my face. I
can’t do this. It’s far too risky. But just as I’m deciding to turn around and go to Zohra’s, I hear him.
“Fatima?” Samiullah says, his voice deep and soothing. “Is everything okay?” Any anxious feelings I had suddenly disappear and I’m in a place of calm and warmth.
“Yes, everything is fine,” I tell him.
“Are you sure? The color has drained from your face.” His eyes look concerned.
“Yes, I’m sure.” I smile at him and kick a small stone on the dirt below, trying to avoid his gaze.
“Good, then! So what do you want to do today? I should probably teach you a little bit of reading just in case your parents want to test you soon,” he says, smiling as he pulls out a notebook and pen from the pocket of his payron. I think he might be more worried than I am about getting caught. We both know his punishment would be less severe than mine, but he seems more alert than I am, ready to run at the smallest sign of trouble.
“I’m already a good reader, Sami,” I tell him. “I’d be fine if my parents decide to test me.”
He raises an eyebrow, and I think perhaps he’s impressed. Then he laughs and says, “Well, what would you rather do?” as he puts the pen behind his ear, gently weaving it through his thick, wavy hair. I have an urge to touch his hair, just to see what it feels like, but instead I quickly look away and sit on the large rock behind me.
“How about we look for toot?” I say.
“That sounds perfect!” He actually seems excited. “I’ve missed the mulberries in this village. The fresh, juicy kind. I had dried toot while I was away, but I wasn’t able to ever find the fresh ones.”
“Good, then!” I’m happy my idea has been so well received. We head deeper into the woods, looking for the trees growing in the wild.
“I think I found one,” Samiullah yells. I run over and see the wide tree with long branches and beautiful red and purple berries. I pick one and pop it in my mouth. The tart juices spark throughout my tongue. It’s hard to believe these are the same berries that we dry and have with tea during the winter; the flavor is so different when they’re fresh. “It’s delicious, isn’t it?”
I nod and continue to feast. Sami joins me. I find a branch thick enough to climb. I reach and feel the coarseness of the tree scratch the inside of my hand. I try to pull myself up, but I don’t have the strength. Sami walks toward me and bends over. “Here, step on my back,” he says.
“No, you’ll get dirty.” I’m looking at his white payron.
“I can have my clothes washed.” He smiles at me with crooked lips before looking back down. I push myself up and am able to climb to an even thicker branch. Sami follows and sits next to me. He reaches out and pulls down a long branch, picking some berries and handing them to me before taking more for himself. We sit quietly eating our toot in the cool shade of the woods.
Thoughts of my parents’ conversation last night keep popping into my head. I don’t want to get married to a stranger in another village. I won’t know him; he won’t know me. And I won’t be able to see Samiullah anymore.
“What are you thinking about?” Sami asks, breaking the noise in my head.
“Nothing,” I lie.
“I don’t think that’s the truth,” he says, making me smile. He has always been able to read my silence better than anyone else. “I see what we’re doing—we’re playing the guessing game! I like this game.”
I can’t stop grinning now and play along, pursing my lips together to show that I won’t say a thing.
“Let’s see. What can it be?” He snaps his fingers. “You’ve decided to lead a women’s rights march in the village?” I snort, picturing my mother and the other women parading around. I saw women do that in the capital city back when our television set was working, before its battery died. “From the snot that just flew out of your nose, that is not it.” I quickly touch my nose and realize he was teasing. And, of course, now he’s the one smirking.
“Okay, then what can it be? Aha, you’ve decided to join the Afghan army. Not because you want to fight for your country, but because you want to get as far away as you can from your mother?” That’s a thought. I should keep that in mind. But I press my lips together harder and shake my head.
“No, no.” Sami gives me a long look. “Could it be that you’re going to marry an old man with a long white beard and leave me stranded in this village without my dearest friend?” Samiullah says those words, obviously satisfied with what he finds to be a ridiculous statement, but it hits me right in the heart. Old or not, my mother does in fact want to give me away to someone. She’s begging my father to give me away to someone.
As I look up at Sami, tears fill my eyes and distort my vision. I can feel them running down my face, and I am suddenly gasping for breath. I jump off the branch. I don’t want him to stare at me when I look so foolish. I land hard on my feet and squat on the ground. The pain in my feet is nothing compared to everything else I am feeling. I hear Sami jump down after me.
“I’m so sorry. What did I say? Are you okay?” Sami kneels in front of me, his arms half outstretched, as if he wants to hold me but is afraid. I’m not afraid. Not anymore. I wrap my arms around his neck and bury my face in his shoulder, trying to hide my tears. He reaches his arms around me, holding tight. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “Just take a deep breath.”
Our bodies stay enfolded for what seems like ages. I begin to catch my breath, and my tears stop streaming like the winter snow melting from the mountaintops; they instead become little droplets of rain. As we unwrap our arms and bodies, I immediately want that warmth and comfort back. I begin to feel silly for what I did and just look at the ground. “I’m sorry” is all I can say.
“For what? Don’t be sorry.” Sami sounds genuinely concerned. “But you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”
I tell him everything, starting with my mother’s plan to marry me off. I don’t know if I’m just imagining it, but I think he looks distraught. I go on to tell him about my father and what he did when he was in Kabul. I tell him about the baby, but Sami doesn’t seem surprised. And this begins to upset me too. “Why aren’t you outraged?” I ask him.
“Fatima, your father is a good man,” he says, picking more toot and settling on the rock beside me. “He loves you. He is even fighting your mother so she’ll stop trying to marry you to a stranger. Not many fathers love their daughters that way.”
“But how can you call him a good man? He killed people!” I notice my voice rising.
“This country, our people, that’s all some of them know,” Sami says. “Maybe that is all your father knew until he was taught something different. I’m not defending what your father did; it was wrong. I’m just saying that he probably didn’t know better or he was forced to do it so he wouldn’t be killed himself. I don’t know. But I do know he isn’t the only guilty person in our country.” He reaches his hand out to offer me some of the berries, but I don’t take them.
“What do you mean?” I ask, almost disappointed in Sami for defending such horrific acts. We’re talking about taking lives! Taking lives of the innocent. Of a baby! “Do you think it’s okay just to kill people? Would you kill someone?”
“Of course not!” Now Sami’s upset too. “I’m just saying that maybe your father didn’t want to do what he did. But he had to. Maybe he was forced to! Maybe he didn’t know what he was doing!”
I’m suddenly caught off guard and become silent. I look at Sami and try to figure out his expression, but I can’t. His voice is full of rage, but his face seems so sad.
“I’m sorry,” he says, breaking the silence. But I still can’t find the right words to respond to him. I feel like there’s something I should be figuring out in the silence.
“It’s okay,” I finally say. But I don’t know if it really is okay. He looks like a lost little boy; it makes me want to hold him the way he just held me.
/> “It’s not okay,” he responds. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”
“So why did you?” seems like the best question I can ask right now.
“I’m just saying that life isn’t always what we see in our small village,” he says. “There is a lot going on out there that’s scarier than what we experienced yesterday, and it’s scarier than what we face on any day.”
I know Sami has seen and experienced more than I have and has been to more places than I have been. Even before he went off to the madrassa, he and his father would travel from village to village delivering goods. But he, like my father, barely talks about it. And when they do, it is all about how great our village is compared to the rest of the country. I’m beginning to feel the distance between us.
“There are people out there who don’t value life,” Sami says. “They have no sympathy for the innocent. They care only about power, control and money. And I’m just trying to say that maybe your father became a puppet for one of those men.” He snaps a branch he has picked up from the ground. “Our village protects us from all of that. And your father is protecting you from that. That ugly world is for a different type of person, it’s not for you.”
Even if it’s ugly, even if it’s terrible, I wish someone would let me see the world for myself. Then maybe I would understand. Then maybe I could have this conversation with Sami without feeling small, stupid and simple.
“I want it to be for me,” I say. “I want to see the world outside of our village. I just want . . . to know what else there is. It can’t all be ugly if girls are going to school and working in other places. I still don’t understand why you came back.”
“I love this village; I love the people in it.” Sami sounds sincere and sad. “I’m so lucky I was able to return. All I wanted while I was gone was to return. I begged and pleaded with God every day.”
