by Atia Abawi
“I just have a really bad feeling. And we need to get away from here.” Sami looks at me with determined eyes. “What I’m about to say will sound insane, but just listen. Okay?”
I don’t respond fast enough, so he asks again, “Okay?”
“Okay . . .” I wonder what he’s thinking, what he’s been planning all day.
“We can start a new life somewhere else, together. We can get married. I’ll take care of you, and I’ll be a good husband to you. I promise I won’t let anyone harm you. I’ll make you happy again, or I’ll die trying. Please let me.”
I’m at a loss for words, which is fine because he continues.
“There are so many people in Kabul, they’ll never notice two more entering the city. They won’t know who we are. We can get lost in the crowds and start our lives—together. We can be happy.”
Listening to these words, it feels like my dreams have become nightmares. This is all I’ve ever wanted, for Sami to care for me, to live in Kabul, maybe even to attend the university there. Now, all those dreams are Sami’s dreams too, but I still can’t make them come true. I can’t believe how cruel life truly is.
For the last week I’ve been imagining a life with Sami. In those dreams, we had children. Our parents supported us and were happy for us. My mother was still bitter because I married a Pashtun, but she softened at the sight of her grandchildren.
I now start to create a new fantasy. Sami and I are still together, alone without our families, but still happy. Raising children in a capital city I have never seen before but have always pictured as crowded and magical. We grow old together, me side by side with my Sami. But that’s when I force myself to snap back to the present. This is an impossible dream. The words he says are based in desire, not reality. I can’t leave my father, my little brothers and my Afifa. And he can’t leave his parents, siblings and tribe.
“Sami, we both know we can’t do that,” is all I can finally say to him. I feel defeated.
“Yes, we can. Please, all I ask is that you think about it.”
“No! Because if I think about it, I will make myself believe we can do this. Not because it is possible but because I want it to be!”
“You want it to be,” he says, smiling. “And so do I.” He gently touches the back of my hand. I feel a sudden sensation race through my body and into my heart. An electricity only he can generate inside of me. “Please, just think about it. That’s all I’m asking. Give me a day to figure out plans, and Saturday night after my family is asleep, I’ll wait for you behind the rock, our rock. I’ll wait there every night for a week and head back to my house before my family wakes, if you don’t come. But if you do, we’ll go. You don’t have to say anything now. Just tell me you’ll think about it.”
His eyes have regained the light that I’ve been so used to seeing there and are looking pleadingly into mine. His fingers are pressed against the back of my hand—his touch has warmed my whole body, but I still feel myself trembling. I hesitate before responding and look at his sweet, broken face. His small smile is filled with hope.
I don’t want to see the light in his eyes dim; I want to always remember them as they are now: glowing. So I say, “I’ll think about it.” I slip my hand away from his as I walk away and wince as I pick up my jugs. I don’t turn back for another look, because I know if I do, I will crumble. With my head down, staring at the dry fields and feeling the pain radiating up my arms, I make it home before the sun drops completely behind the mountains.
• • •
That night my father doesn’t speak to me. My mother only barks orders. I am grateful that my siblings are too young to know what’s going on, but I can tell by the way their doe eyes look at us during dinner that they know something’s wrong. Still, by the time we get into the sleeping area, they are back into their world of marbles and giggles before being forced into bed.
I lay out my toshak, ready to sleep. I approach my parents. “Shaw bakhair,” I mutter softly as I look at the ground.
“Good night,” my father responds, without looking up. My mother just lets out a hmph.
I make my way back to the toshak and get underneath the covers, keeping my arms on top of the fabric, but I don’t sleep. Last night and today’s events keep running through my head, and I try to make sense of it all. I hear my mother attempt to start a conversation with my father, one that begins with her cursing about me. But my father lets out a sigh and a prayer, which always indicates he wants to be left alone. My mother lets out another hmph before going to bed herself.
In the dark room, I run Sami’s proposition over and over again in my head. I see flashes of my mother scalding my flesh. Then I see Sami’s comforting green eyes. I try to feel his touch again and the sensation it caused, the one that made me shiver. I feel it again, that bolt, that tingle, so I keep reliving the moment in my mind—his skin against mine, over and over. I envision a future with him. I see us holding our babies and growing old together. But every time I get lost in that dream, I see my family, here, without me, shamed by my actions. How can I leave them with the shame of a daughter who ran away with a boy? Haven’t I disgraced them enough?
I was born into this family, we share the same blood, the same ancestors, the same loyalties. But I know we will never be the same, not after all of this. My father won’t be able to look at me after he has married me off to his friend. My mother will always hate me; forgiveness has never been a natural emotion for her. She will ban me from this house and from seeing my siblings. Likely tell them stories so they will hate me as they get older. But I can’t blame her for what my life has become. My actions have set everything in motion. I am the one who is responsible for this. And I know what I need to do.
Eighteen
RASHID
I can’t believe my uncle. He slapped me . . . me! He should be beating his son for the shame he brought on our family, but instead he hit me for shaming him in front of the peasants. He never laid a finger on his precious Sami. He did let my grandfather beat my snake of a cousin, but then he acted as if that’s all that had to be done. He is wrong. So now it’s up to me. Sami needs to be punished. His whore needs to be punished too. I know I’m right. If other boys and girls see them getting away with their actions, they’ll think it’s okay. Our society will change. God’s laws will mean nothing.
I walk up to the lime-colored house, still annoyed that it has taken me three days to convince the morons I’ve been traveling around with to set up a time for me to speak with Mullah Latif directly. I’ve bounced from one imbecile to another, all picking their teeth and being as unhelpful as possible, wanting to know my issue before I speak with the mullah.
“I can’t tell you first,” I told them all, “but if you don’t let me speak with the mullah saib, it will be you who burn with regret.”
Some may have considered it smug, but I don’t care what they think. Before long, they will be polishing my shoes. The lower-ranked thugs scrambled about, scared of the possible consequences, but the higher up the chain I went, the angrier they got with that answer. Everyone is trying to assert their power over me because they see me as a child. What they don’t realize yet is that I understand God’s word more than all of them combined, and I care more about spreading his message. I hope that Mullah Latif will see that too. I can’t wait until I am rewarded and start spitting orders at them, whipping them into shape. They’ve done nothing to help our cause but lie around like cows. I’m the one going out and finding infidels. I’m the one who will even sacrifice my own family’s sinners to follow the righteous path.
I make my way into the absurdly large home after being let through by the guards. And although the house already looks run-down, from its structure, I can tell it was built in recent years. This is the new Afghan architecture borrowed from the Afghans who lived for many years across the border in Pakistan. Some have labeled them the narcotic mansions because
most have been built with drug money. But I call them Peshawari palaces, because I’m told that’s the Pakistani city the design comes from.
When I make it through the entrance, I get a big whiff of the scent of too many men. The smell is a combination of body odor, dirty socks and backed-up toilets. The interior of the home looks as dilapidated as the exterior. I’m escorted up a marble staircase with stained, chipped stones and am told to wait as my escort sends a text message.
These men are a disgrace to Pashtuns. But I will be the one who will restore our honor. I’ll be promoted, clean up the ranks and bring back order. We’ll take more towns under our wing, not by fear but by respect. Mullah Latif will see the potential in me, and he’ll know that I’m the man to help him, not these half-wits. And slowly we’ll expand our reach and lead our nation into Islamic supremacy and then, inshallah, the world. God willing, it will happen.
I’m awoken from my thoughts by a door slamming open. Another unkempt lackey walks out. This one is so much fatter than the rest, his vest won’t even cover the balloon-sized belly drooping down over his waistband. His beige top and bottom were obviously once white; the stains are disgustingly visible. His hair is a mess, as if he crawled out of bed and started his day without even trying to clean himself up. His face is also desperate for a wash; I think I see lice jumping around in his beard.
“Rasa!” He yells in a brutishly garbled voice for me to come. Even his voice needs fixing. He eyes me with what seems like disdain as I get up.
“Manana.” I thank him and try to put on a smile as I cover my heart and bow in respect, even though by the looks of him, he doesn’t deserve it.
I walk in and see Mullah Latif for the first time. He’s sitting behind a large, dark wooden desk. I always pictured him to be an older man with a thick waist, bearing a stark white chest-level beard, and a perfectly wrapped lungee on his head. The turban a man wears tells so much about him—it expresses his dignity and honor. I was looking forward to seeing the mullah’s lungee and interpreting what it meant.
But the man before me looks nothing like the one in my imagination. This man seems twenty years younger and forty kilograms lighter than I expected. And his dark hair is split down the middle, reaching his shoulders, no turban on top. The strands are so thick with grease I can’t tell if the waves in his hair are natural or from the grime. But what I find the most disappointing is that his facial hair can barely be called a beard; a better term would be whiskers. He’s sporting dark sunglasses with black plastic rims to match his traditional clothing, also in black. Although he doesn’t resemble the Mullah Latif that was in my head, or any mullah I’ve ever seen, he still looks much more presentable than his lackey.
“Asalaam aleykum.” I greet him in the proper Islamic way. I hold my heart as I approach him to kiss his hand.
“And peace be upon you too, my brother,” he responds, allowing me to kiss it. He then gestures to the chair at the opposite end of his desk and tells me to sit. “Kena, kena. Is green tea okay?”
“Yes, thank you. But there’s no need for the trouble,” I say out of respect, but in truth I’m completely parched.
“Omar, sheen chai rawra!” Mullah Latif has given a name to the disheveled lackey, ordering him to bring us tea. Omar nods and leaves the room. I’m a little disgusted that his hands may touch my tea glass.
“So you are Rashid.” The mullah turns his face toward me. I can barely make out his eyes through his dark sunglasses. “Welcome to our group. I trust you are happy to be with us?” He leans back in his chair, slowly springing it to and fro while fiddling with prayer beads that seem to be made of lapis lazuli.
“I’m honored to be a part of a brotherhood that will restore humanity in our society and take it back from those who are leading us down the wrong path.”
He starts nodding his head. “And you do see why we have to do this, right?”
“Absolutely. We have too many factions in our country right now that are trying to play us like puppets, when in reality, it’s they who are the puppets. From the foreigners, to the faux government and even our Muslim neighbors who don’t care about our people, they are all vying for power. And we also need to cleanse our society of the infidels who are trying to ruin our religion and culture—whether those infidels are outsiders or members of our own communities.” At least that’s what the mullah at our madrassa taught us. A mullah I respected even more after Sami decided he didn’t like him. Sure, he was tough on us, but it was to make us stronger.
As I finish my sentence, a young boy walks in holding a tray with our tea. His head is down, and he’s hunched over. He can’t be more than nine, but his body already looks old. The sad sight makes me almost wish it were the soiled Omar bringing the tea now.
“Oh, there he is! My boy!” Mullah Latif’s excitement doesn’t bring the boy’s head up. In fact, he looks quite frightened. Still staring at the floor, he quietly places the steaming glasses of tea in front of us along with a plateful of dried chickpeas. The boy turns to leave, but Latif stops him.
“Rasa!” he calls. The boy stops but keeps his back to Latif as he lifts his gaze toward the door.
“I said, come here, Abdullah . . .” Latif’s voice is stern, and his smile disappears. Little Abdullah turns around, keeping his eyes to the ground, and walks to Latif, who grins and places the boy on his lap.
“You look so pretty today,” Latif grabs the boy’s emotionless face and kisses it. “We took Abdullah in after his family was accidentally killed during one of our operations. We found him crying in the corner of a room that had been rocketed. We felt sorry for him and brought him home with us, as good Muslims should. He would be an orphan if it weren’t for us. Now we take good care of him. He’s my little angel.”
Latif strokes the boy’s face before placing him back down and tapping his butt, signaling that he may leave now. Little Abdullah looks more terrified than before as he scurries out of the room. “He’s pretty, isn’t he?”
“Uh . . . yes, he is a lovely child,” I reply, though I’m confused. Why does Latif care about this child’s attractiveness?
“So anyway, why is it that you need to talk to me so urgently?” Latif asks as he picks up his tea glass and begins to sip.
“Well, I have been a witness to dishonesty and improper relations between a boy and a girl, and I feel it needs to be dealt with through Islamic law.” I straighten my back as I say this, trying to convey honesty and strength.
“This sounds quite interesting. So, do you know how Islamic law works?” he asks.
“I know more than others. I have studied in a madrassa, and I am a qari, able to recite the Holy Quran in its entirety by heart,” I say, maybe with a hint of pride.
“Praise be to God for your accomplishment. What madrassa did you go to?”
“I went to the madrassa run by Mullah Rafi several villages to the southeast.”
“Ah, yes. Mullah Rafi and I were educated in the same madrassa in Pakistan when we were young refugee boys,” he says. “I knew he had sent some students my way. It seems he has sent me his top scholar! So tell me more about this sin you have been a witness to.”
“Well, we’ve had incidents in my district, and it has dishonored our village and my family. The wrong needs to be righted and our honor restored. As much as it pains me to say this, it involves one of my own family members.” I look down and take a deep breath, hoping that I will look more sensitive about outing my own cousin, which is actually much easier than I thought. “A scandal has brewed between my uncle’s oldest son and a Hazara girl. I myself saw them sneaking away and meeting in the woods. But I can no longer protect them, or else I will be contributing to the sin and God will never forgive me.” My belief in what I’m saying makes me feel less guilty for what I’m doing.
Latif’s mouth creases into a half smile as he starts tapping his fingers on his desk.
“You’ve
done the right thing, Rashid, by coming to us. I know it’s difficult to report family when they have done wrong, but to save our own souls from the devil . . . we must.”
I turn my face away and nod, hoping I look somewhat desolate. Inside, I am happy he agrees with me and hopeful that Sami will get what he deserves.
“We can fix this together and restore your family’s honor. But first, you must tell me everything, every detail of what you saw and the background to the story. I want to hear it all.”
For the next hour, I tell him about our lives in the village. I don’t leave any details out. I speak of Samiullah and Fatima, our families, and our history there. All the while, Latif nods his head and plays with the tiny tail of hair on his chin that I suppose passes as a beard. After I’ve finished explaining everything, I wait for Latif’s reaction.
“Tak, tak, tak.” He clucks his tongue. “This is an extremely bad situation. I see why you have come to me. How do you suppose we should handle this?”
I knew it! I had no doubt this would win me respect. “Well, according to my teachings, we need more witnesses to prove they have had indecent relations or have them admit to it. But we can find a loophole in which we can teach them a lesson and strike them with lashes—I’m not sure yet how many.” One hundred sounds about right to me, but Latif might have a better understanding.
Latif just laughs. “Do you expect us to lash them like a father does his son for taking candy when he wasn’t allowed?” He leans back in his chair.
“No, of course not.” I feel blood rushing to my face in embarrassment. “That would just be the start.”
“My dear boy, your cousin and this girl have committed sexual treachery!” He slams his hands on his desk. “If a girl is loose enough to leave her family’s home alone, she is up to no good. And the fact that you saw her with your cousin proves that she is having sex with this boy before wedlock—and in their case without even the possibility of marriage. A Hazara with a Pashtun? A Shia with a Sunni? A peasant and a landowner?” he asks sarcastically as he pretends to spit on the very idea. “This is all proof that they want Satan’s pleasures without God’s consent. We need to make an example of them in front of your whole village.”
