by Atia Abawi
“Yes, I agree. They need to be made an example of. This is why I am here, Mullah Saib.” I am thrilled that they will be punished in front of everyone so the public can learn and prevent further harm to our culture and society. But I am curious about what else we can do besides lashes. I also think he is too fast in his judgment about sexual relations. We don’t know that or have witnesses who have seen them in the act. I can’t see my cousin going that far into the abyss. But who knows?
The mullah starts tapping his finger on the desk, and that’s when I notice a giant gold watch on his wrist. “Lashes will not be enough . . . Do you like my watch?” he asks, smiling, and begins twirling it around his wrist so he can look at the face. “I took it from the district governor who used to live in this house. He offered me his riches to spare his life, including his watch and this phone.” He picks up a flat rectangular device. “Look, when you touch the screen you can move things with your fingers. It operates with your touch, not buttons. It’s from overseas,” he adds proudly. “He left me a lot of things, but I killed him anyway.” He starts to chuckle. “Poor bastard, I kept him alive just long enough to let me know where everything was. I couldn’t let him live, you know? He worked for the enemy, and we must help God in weeding out these bad people,” Latif continues as he plays with his phone’s screen. “Who’s to say he wouldn’t have gone back to Kabul and then to another province to terrorize the people there? I mean, look at this watch and this phone. Do you think a clean guy would own all of this?”
“No . . . ,” I say in agreement. “A man of God would not sell himself for all of this.” My eyes slide to Mullah Latif’s watch again, and I wonder if this man I’m talking to is a real man of God.
Nineteen
FATIMA
I pull my body up off the mat in complete darkness. I know everyone is finally sleeping by the sound of their breathing. I’ve been awake, thinking of Sami and waiting for the darkest part of the evening before I go. I take the letter I wrote earlier out of my pillowcase and lay it on the place my head will never rest again. I start to crawl out of our sleeping area. Hands first, slowly feeling my way through to ensure I make no noise by hitting anything or anyone. I feel calmer than I have in days. I know I’m doing the right thing.
I slow my breathing, and I feel a pulsating drum in my temples as I try not to make a sound. My arms still throb, but I can tell they are healing.
I touch the rough carpet with my fingertips, feeling the stiffness from the years of sand and dirt that have seeped between its weaving, as I creep to the door. I finally take a deep breath as I make my way outside. I’m relieved to be out of the small room and in the open air, but I know I can still be caught.
The moon’s gleam provides more light as I walk to our storage room to retrieve the clothes I wrapped in an old sheet along with one of Afifa’s undershirts so I don’t forget the smell of my little sister, my father’s old rag and a book of poems Bibi gave me when she saw my reading was stronger than Zohra’s. I pause for a moment and think of my favorite poem in there. The one that says “This is love: to fly toward a secret sky.” And that is what I’m doing. I’m flying, flying toward a secret sky to meet Samiullah, to meet my love.
I slowly unlatch the door and cringe at the squeaking sound as I pull it open. As I walk into the room, my vision weakens in the space covered by darkness and hidden from the moon’s rays. I quickly look for the sack I hid under a bag of quroot from last year. When I finally feel the clumpy bag of quroot, I yank at it in order to reach my clothes, but it won’t move. This can’t be happening. Not now! My heart begins to race as I pull harder. But my newfound energy makes me drop the bag of solid yogurt balls on the dirt floor, setting off a rumbling noise. In the silence of the night, it sounds like I dropped dozens of bells in the still air. I’m frozen. Afraid to move. I stand there paralyzed for a minute, and when I don’t hear anyone, I grab my bag and run. I’m running like I’ve never run before. Not even as a child racing my friends, racing Sami.
Perspiration makes my feet slip in my sandals, but I don’t stop to take them off. Belatedly, I wonder if Sami will be there. What if he’s not? I decide not to think about that. He said he would. And Sami has never broken a promise to me.
As I get closer to the rock, I turn around and see I am still alone. No one is chasing me. No one can see me. The only noise comes from the panting of my own mouth. My family is probably still sleeping, unaware that I’m gone.
My poor baba, he will be heartbroken. No matter how angry and disappointed he is with me, I know he loves me. But my mother will wish she had killed me when she had the chance. And my siblings, they will be confused. The boys will understand that I’m gone but not know why. I don’t think little Afo will fully comprehend my absence and will probably expect me to come back before the sun sets—she’ll sit waiting, like she always does.
I shake my head. I can’t think of this now. Or else I won’t go through with it. I chose to do this. I’d rather be afraid of a future of uncertainty than one of beatings and isolation. The last few days have been more miserable than I could have imagined, with my father ignoring me completely and my mother beating me and calling me a whore. When I saw my life unfolding like that before my eyes, I decided my survival was more important than my family’s honor. I know it’s selfish, but I’m hoping that once I’m gone, the villagers will forget. That my family will eventually be better off with me gone. Most villagers will likely feel sorry enough to leave them alone.
When I reach the rock, I find Sami leaning his head on the hard surface, sleeping with his hands wrapped around his body, keeping himself warm in the chilly morning hour. He looks so comfortable, as if he is in the confines of his home with nothing to worry about. Across from him sits a bicycle with a bag tied to the front and an extension added to the back.
The more I stare at him, the more real this is becoming. We are leaving this place forever. I feel a lump form in my throat.
“Fatima . . .” Sami’s voice comes out softly. “Is that really you?”
“It’s me.” I look at him as he fumbles himself awake.
“So I’m not dreaming? This is real?” he says.
“I’m scared, Sami. I’m really scared” is all I can answer, feeling my eyes moisten.
“I know. Me too. But I’m glad you came.” He smiles, revealing those twinkling eyes I was afraid of losing forever. “And I have a perfect plan. But we should start to go now. Before the sun comes up and our families notice we’re gone.” He looks at his wrist, now adorned with a watch I’ve never seen before.
“You have a watch?”
“I traded my cousin Daoud my fishing pole for it,” he says, smiling, still with sleepy eyes. “Do you like it?” He lifts his hand up to show me.
“It looks like a plastic bangle,” I respond, grinning, and Sami returns the smile.
He gets up and walks over to his bicycle, unzips the front of his blue bag, and pulls out a chadari. “For the first part of the plan, I brought my sister’s chadari. You both are about the same height, and I figured you would trip less over this one than the other ones in my house.”
I’ve always hated these coverings, but I know it’s necessary for us to hide, and what better way than by covering myself in the blue fabric that most women in our villages wear, especially if they are traveling long distances. He then pulls out a pakol, the thick-rimmed, flat and ring-shaped hat most men wear if not wearing a turban.
“And here is my chadari.” He places the hat on his head and tilts it down so it covers his brow.
I pull the chadari on and cover my body.
I can barely breathe. It feels like I’m in a heavy bag that encloses me from head to toe. I gasp, searching for the air that will keep me from fainting.
We start to walk, Sami rolling the bicycle next to him. The farther we go, the harder it is for me to breathe, trapped in that sheet of fabric. The steaming
heat makes it worse. It’s as if there are coals surrounding my feet, raising the temperature around my body. Beads of sweat soak my clothes and slowly evaporate in the confined space, fusing with the air, making it even thicker. The only ventilation comes from the little holes pricked through the cloth. The holes are meant to help me see, but the truth is they don’t help much. The dark fabric is blinding. But there’s nothing I can do about it. I have to keep it on.
The troubles with the chadari are nothing compared to the troubles in my mind. I can’t stop thinking of my family.
“How are you doing?” Sami asks after a while.
“I’m okay,” I lie. If I talk about how I feel, I know I will break down and change my mind. “You?”
“I’m okay too,” he says, holding on to his bicycle’s handles. He’s walking next to it, and I’m trailing behind. We go back to our silence with only the sounds of the wheels hitting rocks, our feet crushing the ground and the occasional desert critters scrambling, startled by our presence.
The pulsing sound of my heart is faint compared to the deafening noises it made this morning, but it still races when I think of all that happened and what may happen.
• • •
We haven’t talked much since this morning, except for when we’re going downhill and Sami tells me to sit on the bicycle extension, making it faster for us to get to our destination. We walk most of the time, since it’s the easier option. It would be too difficult for him to pedal both of us. We’ve only stopped once so far, to drink some water from the bottle he had placed in the front basket and eat some old bread he kept in a plastic bag next to it.
He did explain that we were heading to a village to see a man he trusted who would help us. A man he said had saved him and made him believe again in God’s true greatness. A man he said would marry us.
The more Sami speaks, the more I find it hard to. It’s all happening so fast, and I haven’t been able to come to terms with what is going on. I keep thinking of my family, which makes my eyes well up. I feel the sobs building in my chest and try to swallow as many of them as possible, hiding my crying from Sami. It makes me almost grateful for the repulsive chadari; it hides both my body and my heart.
We walk so much that my calves are numb and the heels of my feet crack and sting. With all my perspiration, the wounds on my arms begin to itch. I focus on the pain. The irrepressible itching, the prickling stings and the ripping skin. Thinking of this helps take my mind off all that has happened in the last few days and the unpredictable future that awaits us down this road.
We pass one rocky mountain after another, and it makes me wonder how Sami can tell where we’re going. But we keep walking. We have yet to see another soul, and I’m grateful.
“We’re almost there.” Sami breaks our silence. “Maybe another thirty minutes. We should be passing a small village to our east before we get to his town. But don’t worry, we likely won’t see any of the villagers; they don’t tend to come out to the main path unless they’re heading to town.”
“Tashakur.” I thank him and suddenly feel scared again. I’d almost forgotten about my fears when I started focusing on the physicality of the situation. But I don’t want to pass strangers—I’m afraid of seeing my father in the crowds or Sami’s family members or, worse, someone who will figure out we are unmarried and traveling together. I’m even scared to have a moment to sit and talk with Sami. I’m frightened of what I’ll say, what I’ll want to do once we’re married. I feel confused, as if the world has turned upside down, and I don’t know if I’ll ever feel stable again.
As we get closer to town, we pass by some shops. Men are sitting outside of them, some sipping tea and others fiddling with prayer beads. But even through my fabric lens, I notice all eyes are on us.
“Sami. Sami, do you think they know?” I ask, trying to keep my voice down.
“No, they don’t know,” he whispers back. “They stare at everyone who rides into town. They mean no harm. But if you would feel more comfortable, why don’t you sit on the back of the bicycle, and I can pedal. We’re on flat land now. It’ll be easy, and we’ll get there faster.”
I sit on the metal backing and hold on to the handles he has fitted for me. I tuck my chadari in to make sure it won’t get caught in the wheels, and Sami starts to pedal. I can barely make out what the town looks like, but I’m amazed at the size and how close the homes and the shops are to one another. There are even black roads that are flat and smooth, making it simple to ride on. The town is so massive; I wonder how many people live in it. There must be hundreds!
We’re winding through some back roads when Sami slows down. The area seems quieter than the one we rode through before. He eventually slows to a stop. “We’re here.”
I climb off the back and wait as he pushes the bicycle to a building and leans it against the wall. He knocks on the door of the room before opening it. He looks around, then tells me to come in. I quickly step into the artificial safety of a room with walls and a ceiling protecting me from the outside world.
“You can take the chadari off and relax.” Sami brings in the bag of the remaining bread and the water. “I’ll be right back.”
“Wait! Where are you going?” I don’t want him to leave me in this strange place by myself.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be close by. You’ll be fine, I promise,” he says, and I believe him, but it doesn’t stop the feeling of anxiety that is echoing through my body.
“Okay,” I say. He looks at me and smiles before closing the door behind him. I promptly peel the sweat-ridden blue fabric off my body and throw it down next to me. I thought it would feel liberating to take it off, but I don’t feel free, I just feel vulnerable. Although I can breathe again, I miss the protection. No one knows who I am when I’m wearing the chadari, but now people can see my face, my features and my ethnicity. Whoever Sami has brought us to will know he’s a Pashtun boy and I’m a Hazara girl, and he won’t approve. How can he if our families don’t?
I suddenly want to drape that horrible blue chadari back over my face and body.
I want to feel safe again. I wonder if I ever will.
Twenty
RASHID
“I said, WHERE is she?” Mullah Latif yells at the old peasant again. His children call out, “Baba, Baba!” waiting for their protector to do something. But he can’t. He’s surrounded by all of us. He is helpless.
“Mossuma, take the children into the sleeping room,” he says. The woman just stares at him like a frightened child herself. “Quickly!” he yells at her. She finally begins to move the crying children in the direction of one of their filthy rooms, but Latif stops them.
“No. They’re not going anywhere,” Latif yells as he taps Mohammad’s nose with the muzzle of his pistol. The old man flinches as the steel hits his face. Latif is maniacal right now. You can tell he’s enjoying every second. Psychopathic eyes that seem familiar to me somehow. “I want them to stay as I talk to their baba.” Sarcasm fills Latif’s voice. His gang of thugs gathers the crying children and wife, making them kneel on the dirt facing Mohammad as they continue to wail.
“Please don’t do this in front of my children. I beg of you, please,” Mohammad says faintly.
“What was that? I can’t hear you. What is Baba saying?” Latif cups his ear. “Can you say it louder, Baba, so we can all hear?” He starts walking around, surveying the buildings, kicking the dried mud, letting bits of dirt fly in the air before turning again to Mohammad. “So no wall to protect your women from the eyes of strangers, huh? Could this be a reason why your daughter grew up craving the attention of men? It shouldn’t be too much of a surprise the one she gave herself to is your neighbor.”
“My daughter didn’t give herself to anyone,” Mohammad says through gritted teeth. I can tell his blood is boiling, but he is impotent and weak right now, outnumbered by Latif’s men and weapons.
/> “Then where is she?” Latif strikes Mohammad’s face so hard that spit flies out. The children start crying more.
“I told you, I don’t know!” Mohammad answers. “I’m just relieved she’s not with your disgusting men!”
Latif slaps him again. “Well, where could she have gone? If she’s not with my filthy men! Are there other men she likes to meet on a regular basis?” he says with a smirk. Mohammad steps closer, the desire to hurt Latif written all over his face. Latif just laughs and waves his pistol, like a mother would raise her finger to a child. “No, no, no . . . Now, that wouldn’t be a good idea. Would it?” he says, laughing.
“What do you want from us? We have nothing. This land doesn’t even belong to us—”
“I know who your landlords are,” Latif starts yelling again. “I know everything about you and your dirty family!”
“Then what do you want from us?”
“It’s not what I WANT. It’s what I NEED.” He starts to bring his voice down. “What I need to do is make an example of your daughter, or else we will have more girls thinking it’s okay to be with a boy out of wedlock. What I need to do is show the village what happens when you are scum. What I need to do is have a public execution of your dirty little girl so everyone can see and enjoy justice being served. You see, it’s not that I want to do it, but I need to,” he says with a sneer, exposing his crooked yellow teeth. It repulses even me. He seems to enjoy the idea of death more than justice—I am a bit thrown. I didn’t think he would really want to kill her. Maybe it’s better that she’s not here right now.
