by Atia Abawi
“Please leave my daughter alone,” Mohammad begins to plead. “She’s not a bad girl, no matter what you have heard. She is to marry soon. She is of no harm to anyone. Please . . . please . . . leave her alone.”
“She’s not a bad girl? That’s not what I heard.” Latif turns and stares at me. Although my face is masked with my scarf, I suddenly feel exposed. “Rashid, rasa! Come here, my boy!” I cautiously walk to Latif, avoiding Mohammad’s eyes. “Take off that stupid scarf,” Latif demands. I shake my head. I don’t want Mohammad and his family to see me. “Don’t be a qussy!” Latif curses as he rips off my scarf, exposing me.
“Rashid?” Mohammad says with disbelief. I feel a pang of shame.
“Rashid here has told us everything.” Latif starts to speak again. “He was obviously worried about his village and the women in his family. The example your daughter is setting is dangerous for everyone, and we have to fix it. Isn’t that right, Rashid?”
I nod, but I’m unable to look up.
“Rashid, my boy, please tell them this is wrong. Tell them the truth about my daughter. You’ve known her since you were children. Please!” Mohammad starts to plead with me now. I avert my gaze even more. “Rashid, you know this isn’t right. You know it’s not. This is not what God wants.”
“What God wants?” His words fill me with rage. “What do you know of what God wants?” How dare he tell me what God wants! A man who shares the blood of the monsters that killed my family! “What your daughter and my cousin did was wrong. What they have done is an insult to our religion and our culture, and they deserve to be punished!”
“They don’t deserve death,” he continues to plead. I turn my eyes away. “You are sentencing both my daughter and your cousin to death. Can you tell me that is what God wants?”
The truth is, I don’t know if God would want them to die. But I know I don’t want to spend another second arguing it with the old man. “She’s obviously not here. Can we go?” I ask Latif.
“We’re not going anywhere yet,” Latif responds. “Not until we get what we came here for.”
“But she’s not here. What else can we do?” I am now turning my frustrations on Latif.
“Well . . . if we can’t have one daughter, we can always take the other.” Latif turns his attention to Fatima’s little sister, who can’t be more than three years old. She is cute for a little Hazara baby. The little girl is grasping her mother, wide-eyed and afraid. Her gaze is set on a gunman not far from them, leaning against a mud wall picking his teeth with dirty fingernails.
“No! Please don’t do this!” Mohammad drops to his knees, no longer able to hold himself up. The same way I remember my father dropping to his knees, trying to save us. I suddenly see flashes of that horrible day. My mother’s screams, my father’s pleas, me lying on the floor in my sister’s blood, pretending to be dead.
“Please, she is an innocent child!” Mohammad yells, bringing me back to today.
“Then maybe we should keep her innocent.” Latif walks over to the little girl, who immediately starts crying as she sees him approaching. “It’s okay, my darling. Come here to your kaka. I want to talk to you with your baba.” She digs her face into her mother’s thigh. Latif sticks his gun to the mother’s temple before he begins speaking again. “It’s okay, little angel. Even your mother wants you to come with me, right, Madar Jaan? Right?” He jabs the woman’s head with more force. She looks at her husband for guidance, but all he can do is sit there, paralyzed and afraid.
I have no idea what Latif’s plan is right now. But maybe he is using her to get Mohammad to tell the truth about where his filthy other daughter is.
“Yes,” the woman finally says. “It’s okay, my azizam. Go with Kaka so he can take you to your baba.” The child wipes her face on her mother’s skirt before she takes Latif’s hand. This doesn’t feel right. He shouldn’t be touching this baby who wobbles with every step as she comes near. Her eyes are swollen from crying, and her face is still moist with tears.
She tries to run to her father, but Latif yanks on her arm, and she winces in pain without making noise. “No, no, my dear. Not yet.” He kneels down to face her. She looks frightened and confused. “You see, your baba has to make a decision right now. It’s a hard decision, but he needs to do it.”
Latif shifts his attention back to Mohammad and begins to speak in Pashto instead of Dari. “Pakhto ghagaygay?” He asks the old man if he speaks the language. Mohammad nods his head. “What about the rest of them?”
“No, I’m the only one in our family who understands Pashto,” he says, keeping his focus on the little girl, whose eyes dart back and forth from her father to Latif and to her mother, who is quietly sobbing.
“Good,” Latif says. “Then we can make this your sole decision. I will give you three options. Option number one, tell me where your whore of a daughter is.”
“I told you, she is not a whore, and I don’t know where Fatima went!” Mohammad yells out in exhaustion and defeat.
“Okay, then that leaves you options two and three. Option two, we take this little one with us until you can present your other daughter. And don’t worry, we will take good care of her.” He strokes her damp cheek and then kisses it. “Oh, salty! Her tears taste so salty.” Latif smirks at his men, who begin to laugh. It seems as though I’m the only one who doesn’t find this funny. This disgusting creature calls himself a mullah?
He turns his attention back to the little girl and speaks in Dari again, “Don’t be scared, my little sugar cube. Kaka Latif and your baba will work this out soon. Don’t cry anymore. Okay?” She nods her little head, bouncing her short red hair.
Latif looks back at Mohammad, speaking in Pashto again. “Are you ready for option number three?” He waits for a response. There is none. “Okay, I’ll tell you whether you’re ready or not. Option number three is that we kill this little one in the place of your other whore. It’s only fair, don’t you think?”
“Please stop! Please!” Mohammad begs, covering his face with his hands. It looks like he is trying to prevent his child from seeing his tears. His wife is frantic and keeps yelling and asking what is going on. But he holds his hands in front of his face and continues his quiet sobbing.
Latif can’t be serious about this. He won’t kill an innocent baby. He can’t. There is nothing justifiable in the eyes of God about that.
“What’s the matter? Like you said, she is innocent. We would be doing her a favor. Letting her die innocent, before she follows your other daughter’s footsteps. We should all be lucky enough to go to our graves so innocent and pure.”
“Please. Please!” Mohammad starts screaming. This causes more tears from his family and more laughter among Latif’s men, who are now holding their guns to everyone’s heads. I can’t believe what I am witnessing. These guys are worse than thugs—they’re animals. But I’m too afraid to say anything. The baby is huffing and swallowing her tears in fright, still holding the Latif’s filthy hand, unaware of what is going on.
“Rashid, my boy. Come here.” Latif yells out to me. I don’t want to go to him, but I’m frightened about what he’ll do if I don’t. So I hesitantly go closer.
“Please, Rashid, please help us! Please, Rashid!” Mohammad starts yelling. His eyes spark with hope at the sight of me.
“Rashid, it doesn’t look like your neighbor wants us to take his little girl. I don’t think he trusts us,” Latif says, looking at me. “And since you were the righteous one to bring this to our attention, I want to give you the honor of performing God’s glory and helping us serve justice.”
What! No. I can’t. I won’t. “But . . . but . . . she’s a baby. She wasn’t the one who committed the crime.” I turn my eyes to Mohammad, who is still looking at me through his tears.
“Are you questioning me?” Latif says. I turn and see the anger on his face.
“No .
. . no . . . no, that’s not what I am trying to do.” I’m afraid now of what he’ll do to me if I don’t do what he asks. I look around and see all the men holding their weapons with their eyes on me as well.
“Good. Then take this and do it.” He hands me the pistol. My hands are trembling, and I can barely hold the cold metal. “Now place it on her forehead and shoot!”
“Please . . . please . . . God, please . . . ,” I hear Mohammad mutter. “This can’t be real . . . this can’t be real.”
I try to walk toward the little girl. My feet stagger forward and then back. I notice her brown eyes, full of fear and confusion. They’re big and round, like my sister’s used to be. My hand starts to quiver uncontrollably, and I think I’m about to drop the pistol.
“Give me that.” Latif snatches the gun back. “With the way you’re holding it, you’ll kill all of us.” He puts the gun away and into his holster. “Besides, I’ve changed my mind.”
Oh, thank God. I start breathing normally again. I look at Mohammad who is smiling and starts saying, “Thank you. Thank you!”
Latif then squats back down behind the baby. He strokes her bright red hair and looks as though he is about to hug her from behind. But that’s when those demented eyes return. The eyes of Satan. And before I can make out what is about to happen, he twists her neck and her lifeless little body drops to the ground. “Can’t waste precious bullets on her, now, can we?” He turns to his men, laughing. But all I can see is the little girl lying there as if she’s sleeping.
Twenty-one
RASHID
As we board the motorbikes, I hear their screams. The wailing burns through my ears and into my stomach. I’m about to get on behind Azizullah, one of Latif’s gangsters who I noticed enjoyed the show, when I have to jump off. I hunch over and feel bile burning through my throat. The vomit tastes of the bread I had this morning. I continue to heave, gasping for air, my hands pressing against my knees. Something wants to escape from my body, but it’s stuck.
Azizullah sits on the bike and laughs at me. “The first time is always the hardest. But you’ll get used to it.”
I ignore him as my body contracts, trying to push it out. But all I get is burning bile.
“Come on, we have to go. Stop upsetting yourself over it. Besides, it was just a little Shia Hazara baby. She would have gone to hell anyway, with parents who can’t teach her real Islam. No one will miss her.”
I glance up and see Mohammad cradling his baby in his arms. He’s kneeling on the dirt floor holding her small corpse, swaying back and forth.
“Wake up, Afo. My Afo, wake up!” He’s yelling at her and then looking to the sky. “Why, God? Why? She’s innocent! Why?”
The mother is leaning against one of the mud walls, staring with vacant eyes, unblinking, her mouth open in shock. The two young boys are sitting behind their father, hugging each other and crying. The more their dad screams, the stronger their tears flow. The sight makes me cough up more bile before I force myself onto the bike. I straddle the back end of the seat and hold on to the sides as we speed off to my uncle’s house. The cold wind blowing on my face helps settle my stomach, but the bouncing on the gravelly fields knocks my brain around, making it harder to make sense of what just happened. Before I can figure it out, we’re at my family’s home.
“Get over here, Rashid,” Latif calls out before spitting on the ground. “Bring the men in your family out so we can talk. Tell them to bring Samiullah with them.” I nod to let him know I understand.
I approach our door and knock lightly on the cool metal surface. By afternoon, the sun will be heading east and will scorch the exterior, making it almost impossible to touch, but for now, the metal is almost soothing as I press my hand against it. I futilely hope that if my family can’t hear the tapping, no one will answer, and we can leave.
After what happened at Mohammad’s place, I don’t want to see any more, at least not for today. I didn’t expect anyone to be killed, let alone someone innocent. I keep searching for justification. Maybe Latif is right. Maybe the child had to die so she wouldn’t grow up like her sister. They already raised one sinner—who is to say their next daughter wouldn’t turn out the same or maybe worse? Maybe we did do her a favor by letting her die as an innocent. But if that’s the case, why do I feel sick again?
“Rashid!” Latif calls out, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“No answer. I’ll try again,” I say as I thump on the door with my knuckles a slight bit louder this time, loud enough for Latif to hear. I listen as a pair of feet crunch the dirt and rapidly make their way to the door. Not long ago, this noise lifted my heart, but today it makes it sink. I hear the peephole slide open and see my aunt Gul Babo’s eyes.
“Rashid! My son, it’s you!” Her eyes brighten at the sight of me, which fills me with shame.
“Salaam, my dear aunt—” She closes the peephole and unlatches the lock to let me in. She embraces me before I can even attempt to kiss her hand.
“I’m so glad you’re home. We need you to help us.” Her eyes are filled with tears.
“What’s the matter? Are you okay? Is anyone hurt?” I feel a chill run through my body.
“No one is hurt, but Samiullah is missing.” She starts to sob. “We don’t know where he is.” She falls into my arms, and I hold her. I’m craving her embrace just as much as she’s craving mine right now. I cling to her for as long as I can before I peel myself away.
“Gul Babo, I have to go now.”
“But you just got here. You have to help us find him!” She’s clutching my arm, pulling me toward her, but I stay outside the house.
“The best way I can help you is by going right now.”
“Rashid—”
I yank my arm away. “Quickly lock the door,” I tell her. “You have to listen to me. Lock it now.”
“Rashid, you’re scaring me.” Her eyes are beginning to overflow again.
“Please just do it now,” I say, turning around. When I hear the door close and the lock latch back into place, I breathe out the air trapped inside me.
I walk to where Latif and the other men are waiting. Latif looks at me and shrugs his shoulders. “So where are they?”
“Samiullah’s not there. It seems as though he’s run off as well. Likely with the girl.” I look around. “I say we don’t waste our time here and we head out to look for them. They couldn’t have gone too far.”
Latif starts to chuckle and walks over to me. “So is that what you think we should do?”
“I think we should go now so we don’t lose their tracks and—”
Latif grabs my shirt and pulls me toward him. He shoves his face into mine. “I don’t care what YOU think we should do,” he says. I feel his spit fly onto my skin, and I can taste his sour breath. “You are not in charge here. I am!”
He throws me hard onto the ground before he kicks me in the gut, knocking all the air out of my body. “We’re going in. You can come with us, or you can lie here. What’s your choice?”
I gather enough strength and push myself up.
“Good boy.” He pats my back. “Come on.”
Before we make it back to the door, it creaks open. Then I hear my uncle Ismail’s voice. “Rashid? Rashid, it is you!” he says and then takes a look around. “Asalaam aleykum . . . ,” he greets Latif and the other men. His eyes search the group.
“And peace be with you!” Latif replies. “We’re so sorry to be intruding. I am Latif—”
“I know who you are,” my uncle says with an edge of contempt in his voice. I don’t think he’s ever met Latif, but he definitely knows of him and despises him. Latif’s men have come to take illegal taxes from my uncle’s shop in town on many occasions, and my uncle has never agreed to it lightly.
“Oh, good, then. You must be Ismail Khan. Yes?” My uncle nods. “Well, we are looking for your so
n, Samiullah.” My uncle’s eyes widen, and he shifts his gaze to me. I quickly avert my eyes; I can’t bear to look at him right now.
“What do you want with my son?” My uncle has closed the door behind him.
“Well, we have heard that he has shamed his family . . . your family. And we just want to help fix the situation.”
“This is a family matter, and we are taking care of it ourselves. You can leave.” My uncle waves his hand, gesturing for them to go.
“You see, Ismail Khan, we can’t do that. It’s not that easy.”
“It’s very easy. Get on your bikes and leave. This is our family and our tribe; we will handle this from within.” I don’t believe for one second that my uncle will punish his son. But after what happened earlier, I don’t blame him for not wanting Latif to be involved.
“That wouldn’t be fair to everyone else. Your son and your neighbor’s daughter have shamed the village. And as much as I respect that you want to handle this within the family and tribe, you can’t,” Latif says with mock sincerity. “It’s in our hands now, and it’s our job to take care of the situation.”
My uncle raises his right eyebrow, a gesture I’ve become familiar with, growing up in his house. He knows that his black beard, dark eyes and massive charcoal-gray turban can be intimidating, so he always works extrahard to put people at ease, primarily with his eyes. But every now and then, there is someone who causes his kind eyes to harden. And Latif has done just that.
“How, exactly, do you plan on taking care of the situation?” my uncle asks Latif.
“The proper way. As we both know, the Kabul government is useless here. We will take it to the shadow governor and let him decide the punishment. And if we can’t reach him, we’ll decide the punishment ourselves, and we’ll execute it in the village so everyone can learn from your son’s mistakes.” Latif adjusts the gun that is slung over his shoulder.
“So you are telling me you want to kill my son?”
Latif lets out a snort. “Look, since your son is one of ours, we’ll try to be more lenient. Maybe we can work out a way to save his life. There have been times where the punishment given was death, but it was reduced with a cash fine or land donations to lashes so the public could see some sort of chastisement. The girl, of course, will die. As you know, it’s necessary to save your honor and our people’s honor. A family that raises such filth can’t be forgiven.”
