by Atia Abawi
Oh, Samiullah, your life is not in God’s hands now. It’s in mine.
Twenty-three
FATIMA
“Are you sure this is what you want?” Mullah Sarwar asks.
“Yes,” Sami responds immediately.
“I was actually asking Fatima.” Mullah Sarwar looks at him and then back at me. “My child, I want to make sure that this is what you want. I don’t want you to feel forced into doing anything. I know you think there’s no turning back, and you might be right. But there are different options moving forward, and this is just one of them. No matter what you choose, I’ll help you.”
I look at Sami, who is staring at me with the eyes of a worried cat, waiting for my response. We just spent the last hour explaining to Mullah Sarwar why we felt justified in running away together. He listened with kind eyes and patient ears. Without judgment. I first avoided the mullah’s eyes, afraid of disapproving stares, but not once did this gentle old man make me feel like the whore my mother must be calling me right now. Instead, the mullah has been trying to hear my intent through my quiet, short answers. When he found out about my burns, he left the room, only to come back with medication. I find myself avoiding his eyes again, now afraid to see the sympathy in them because I know it will bring me to tears.
“Don’t listen to what people may have told you growing up,” Mullah Sarwar continues. “Our culture and tradition is not our religion. As a Muslim woman, you have the right not to be forced into marriage. And I can’t marry two people without knowing they have both come to me of their own free will. Do you understand? I wish your families were here to accept this union, but I understand that in this case, they will not. Still, this is your choice—not mine and not theirs.”
I nod and look at Sami, who seems nervous. His gaze has fallen to the carpet. The man I ran away with now looks like the little boy I once knew. The boy who has always taken care of me. The boy who always made me happy. And the man I can’t imagine a life without. I am more sure than I have ever been.
“I want this,” I finally whisper.
Sami’s head pops up, and he looks at me, a smile on his face. I can’t help but return it as I turn my face away in embarrassment.
“There is nothing to be ashamed of, my dear,” Mullah Sarwar says to me. “Love is a gift. And this gift will give you the strength for what lies ahead. It won’t be easy. There won’t be a day that you won’t miss your family.” I feel my eyes begin to fill with tears again, thinking of my parents, my brothers and my baby sister. “But you have both made your choice. And until we can make sure you are both safe, you will stay with us.”
“Thank you, Mullah Saib.” Sami goes to kiss his hand. Mullah Sarwar pulls his hand away and taps Sami’s head.
“My son, you don’t have to thank me.” He looks at Sami with a smile so powerful that it lifts my heart. “The family will get you both situated.”
“I’m sorry,” I find myself saying. “I’m sorry for the trouble we’re causing you.”
The mullah looks at me with his sympathetic eyes again. I feel my emotions swell as a teardrop falls from each of my eyes. “I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to help. I know Sami is a good boy. And I can see the love that you both share.” I am embarrassed at hearing the word love. Sami and I have never used that word or words like it, even though I feel it in my heart. “But you both must know that even when we make this right in the way of Islam, there will be those in our society who will never approve. And you have to be ready for that.”
I look at Sami, and I know that I am.
• • •
Mullah Sarwar asks his grandson Walid and an older son named Ahmad to be our two witnesses. Usually the bride’s and groom’s family members perform that role, but in our case, he says Sami is already like his own son and now I am like his daughter, making us family. I’m still in disbelief that this is really happening. I’m about to marry Sami. This is not how I imagined it. I had dreamed that our families would be with us. At least showing us their support, if not happiness. But today we are with three men I have just met, only the five of us. Despite the circumstances, I don’t feel sad or alone like I did so many nights in my own home.
“This nikah will join your lives together. After the agreement of marriage, no longer will you have two separate lives, you will become one,” Mullah Sarwar says. I can’t stop a smile from spreading across my face. I’m going to marry Sami, and we will start our new life together. I’ll never feel alone again.
“I know you do not have something to offer Fatima for her mahr, but as my son, you may have this.” The Mullah pulls off his own wedding band and then reaches into a small leather pouch and brings out a ring decorated with small beads of emeralds and rubies. I can’t believe my eyes. I have never owned jewelry before, except for the bangles I had around my wrists when I was Afifa’s age—as my arms grew, the bangles popped off one by one.
“Mullah Saib, I can’t . . . we . . .” Sami starts to talk but can’t finish his sentence.
“Please accept this, my children. My wife and I wore our rings every moment of our lives together.” Mullah Sarwar examines the sparkling band and takes a deep breath. “I hope that the bond you feel with each other is even stronger than the bond Aziza and I shared. May God bless you both a thousand times over.” He puts the rings down on the carpet and pushes them over to Sami.
“Thank you, Mullah Saib, but we can’t take those from you,” Sami says. “They hold your memories.”
“Don’t be silly, my boy. The memories are here,” the mullah says as he taps his heart. “These will now be tokens of our love passed down to you. And maybe one day you will pass them down to your children. Besides, there needs to be a mahr; this can’t happen without a marriage settlement from the groom to the bride. And since you are my son, this is our gift to Fatima.” Mullah Sarwar smiles at me.
“But Mullah Saib—” I finally have the courage to say, but the mullah holds up his hand to stop me.
“Fatima, my dear, please don’t refuse. You will hurt me if you do.” His eyes look so sincere that I no longer resist and instead thank him.
“Okay, let’s get started,” he says, smiling at the both of us.
I brace myself to feel anxious, but the nerves don’t come. I am relaxed and confident—feelings that have felt so foreign to me in the last several days.
“Bismillah Rahman al Rahim,” he says.
“In the name of God, most Gracious, and most Merciful,” Sami and I repeat.
“Do you both come here willingly wanting to marry each other?” he asks.
“We do,” Sami and I say together. I smile and notice he is smiling as well.
“No one has forced your hand into this marriage?” Mullah Sarwar looks at us for our response.
“No,” we say in unison again.
“Fatima, do you accept Samiullah as your husband?” he asks me.
Before answering I look over to Sami, who suddenly seems nervous.
“I accept,” I answer, watching the relief on Sami’s face.
“Samiullah, do you accept Fatima as your wife?”
“I accept,” Sami says without flinching. I can feel his love for me in this moment even more than before.
This question and our acceptance is repeated two more times.
Mullah Sarwar then pulls out a piece of paper and a pen.
“This is your nikah khat. Fatima, sign here,” he says, handing me the pen and marriage contract. I sign above my name before handing the pen to a grinning Sami. My grin matches his.
“In the name of God, the Beneficent, the most Merciful, please bestow on Samiullah and Fatima’s marriage your greatest blessings of love, happiness and piety. We trust in only you and believe in only you.” Mullah Sarwar finishes this prayer by covering his face with his hands.
“Congratulations,” he says, smiling. “May
God bless you and may His blessing descend upon you and unite you in goodness.”
“That’s it?” Sami asks.
“Yes, that is it.” Mullah Sarwar, his son and grandson all grin at us. “You are married now.”
“But I thought there was more to it?” Sami says the words that I’m thinking.
“Like what? Is there something more you would like us to do?” Mullah Sarwar asks, laughing.
“No, I just . . .” Sami looks at me. “I mean, we’re . . . married?”
“Yes, my son and daughter, you are married,” the mullah says while Walid and Ahmad throw sugar-covered almonds over our heads.
Like Sami, I am in disbelief. And just like him, I can feel my cheeks flushing. We did it. He’s my husband. I’m his wife. And now God will bless whatever comes next.
Twenty-four
RASHID
We zigzag along the dirt road and make it to town. The sight of our motorbikes scares the shopkeepers; some shut their doors, and fathers pull their children in closer. The fear in their eyes is empowering. I know I shouldn’t enjoy it, but I do. As much as I can’t stand Latif, I realize being next to him gives me the authority I have always known I was destined for. Which is why I told him. Why I decided that he should be the one to punish Samiullah.
The late-afternoon sun is beginning to paint the sky orange. We pull into the street where Mullah Sarwar’s masjid stands and park our bikes outside. I’ve never seen men put on their sandals so fast to leave an area. Over by the wall, the old mullah is whispering something to a boy. The teenager gets on his bicycle and leaves. The mullah looks at us and walks into the masjid, making us follow him.
We have reached the door of the building when he finally speaks.
“Asalaam aleykum,” he greets us. “Please take your shoes off before entering.” Mullah Sarwar smiles as he lifts his hand to stop the men from entering with their dirty sandals and boots. “Thank you.”
Latif and his men just stare at each other. Stupid fools think they have authority even in a masjid.
“Why don’t you guys wait out here?” I say to Latif. “I’ll talk to the old man and see if he knows anything.” I don’t want these morons in here. It makes me feel dirty to see them even in the vicinity of the masjid.
“Fine. I need a cigarette anyway,” Latif says before they walk back to their bikes.
“Walaykum asalaam,” I respond to the mullah’s greeting as I take my sandals off.
“Would you like to pray with me?” the mullah asks. And I suddenly remember I haven’t prayed since morning.
“Umm . . . yes, please.” I walk out of the masjid and make my way to the fountain in the courtyard to perform my ablution. As I walk out, I can see the men at their bikes, and most of them start rolling their eyes. Those infidels! They should be joining me! They’re the worst excuses for Muslims I have ever seen. I can’t believe they are all that I have left in this world.
After my ritual cleaning, I head back into the masjid and pray side by side with the mullah. After my recitations, I ask God to take care of my parents and sister and grant them heaven as I always have. I then find myself begging God for forgiveness for how I treated my family today. And for causing the Hazara family the same pain that I lived through. I feel uncomfortable praying for them, but I can’t shake off the feeling of horror when I think of that little body falling to the ground. She was a child, like my sister.
By the time I spread my hands on my face to end my prayers, I notice my face is wet. I quickly wipe the tears before the mullah can see my weakness.
“May God grant you your prayers,” I hear the mullah say.
“Thank you, and yours too,” I mumble, still wiping my face.
“Are you okay, my son?” The mullah’s eyes glimmer with sincerity.
“Yes, I just have some dirt in my eyes from the trip,” I say as I rub my eyes to play along with my lie. I turn to him. “I’m here looking for my cousin. And I think that you know him.”
“Oh? What’s his name?” the mullah asks with his eyebrows raised.
“Samiullah Ismailzai,” I say. I look at the mullah’s eyes for recognition, but his eyes are still soft. “I believe he stayed with you after disgracefully leaving the madrassa we were attending.”
“Yes, I know Sami Jaan very well. You must be Rashid Jaana,” he says. God knows what Sami has said about me to this old man. “Sami spoke very highly of you. He cares for you a lot.” I don’t believe him for a second. It looks like I have found another lying mullah!
“Well, we are here to arrest him for breaking the laws of God,” I say, ignoring his words.
“What kind of law did he break?” The old man looks at me with curiosity.
“He has fornicated with a girl he is not married to, and she is a Hazara at that.” I now agree with Latif’s logic that they must have done more. They had to have, or else why have we been going through all of this?
“Are there witnesses to this supposed crime?” he asks, pulling out his wooden prayer beads and flicking them one by one.
“Yes, I saw them together in the woods talking, and they ran off like criminals,” I say with authority.
“But they were talking?” He continues to flick his beads calmly.
“Yes. Alone.” Is this guy listening to me? They were alone in the woods! That should have set him off immediately. But still it’s flick, flick, flick!
“I’m sorry, my son, but that doesn’t prove anything.”
“Are you defending such lewd acts?” I hit my hand on the floor that we just prayed on. What kind of religious man is this? What kind of Afghan man?
“I’m just saying that there could be more to their meeting,” he says to me. “Maybe they were having a friendly conversation. And I don’t want innocence falsely punished. God would not want that. God is the judge, not us.”
I know God is the only judge, but as a religious scholar, he should understand. He should be enforcing God’s law! We are here to help God!
“I am worried about what may happen to this young man and woman for something as innocent at talking,” he continues. “Do you trust those men out there?” His eyes glance up to the entrance. “Do you want them to hurt your cousin?”
“He is a disgrace! He is not my family anymore,” I snap. “And she is a whore for meeting with him! Whether they were talking or doing more, they have violated Islam!”
“Be careful, my son,” he says to me. “There is only one God. And it is God who knows best. Not us.” He looks at me. His eyes aren’t condescending. They actually look concerned. “And there doesn’t seem to be enough evidence to accuse these two for violating Islam.”
“Who are you to tell me about Islam?” I retort. I don’t care if he is a mullah and can play tricks with his eyes. I won’t be a fooled by another fake holy man! “Sami deserves to die for what he has done to me and my family! I don’t even have them anymore because of his sins!” I can hear my voice crack with the sadness of my loss. This enrages me even more. “I have to make sure Sami receives his punishment!” I feel my eyes filling with tears, and I look up in hopes that they’ll dry before anything falls.
“Rashid Jaana, no matter how far you go in this world, you leave your heart with your loved ones,” the old man says to me. “But when you take those you love out of your heart, you fall into a dangerous insanity that you may not be able to come out of.”
His words ring in my head, but I try to silence them.
“But what if you are torn from your loved ones? Or what if they are torn from you?” I ask, still avoiding his eyes.
“My son, even if you never see your family again, they have filled you with enough love to survive. But you have to hold on to it. When we receive this kind of love, we have to make sure that we keep it locked safe inside our hearts, where no one can touch it, because it is the one thing that belongs to us and
us alone.”
I try to understand what the old man is saying. Does this mean I haven’t lost my family’s love? “But what if we have done horrible things and have pushed them away? Or hurt them?” I ask, wanting to hear more.
“Sometimes in life,” he continues, “whether with good or bad intentions, we commit acts that we later regret. They are actions that will require forgiveness from others, from ourselves and, most importantly, God. If you are truly remorseful, God will forgive you. God is most merciful and most compassionate. To know that God can forgive us makes it easier to forgive ourselves. And if we are lucky, our loved ones will forgive us too. But we have to mean it, and we have to prove our sincerity.”
“But what if they are already dead?” I feel a lump in my throat as I think about the day that I lay on the floor faking death, unable to help my family as they were massacred around me. All I could think about was my own survival. A trait I can’t seem to let go of.
“You can still talk to them in your prayers,” the mullah says, without hesitation. “It helps to cleanse your soul.”
I have tried talking to them in my dreams, but the words always get stuck in my throat. I feel more and more unworthy as the days and years pass.
I clear my throat and shake these thoughts out of my head. I look at him and realize this man is tricking me. He’s fooling me into forgetting about my cousin and his sins. It won’t work. I won’t be tricked!
“I need to find Sami. Do you know where he is?” I look at Mullah Sarwar as sternly as I can.
“Do you really want to find him with men like that by your side?” he asks, motioning his head in the direction of the motorbikes.
“I need to make sure he is punished and that other people learn from his sins!” I raise my voice. And I need to show my family that I am the good one. They will see. I know they will.
