CHAPTER 65
SHEKIBA
“THEY SAID AROUND ONE O’CLOCK. Shouldn’t be much longer. Just look at this crowd! All these people here to see our Queen Soraya!”
Shekiba held Shah’s hand tightly, her eyes scanning the stage for any sign of Amanullah. She wondered what he looked like now. It had been years since she last saw him.
Stupid, she told herself. Look at this crowd. How could you have thought you were suited for something like this, that you could be worthy of taking that stage, of appearing before all these people!
Shekiba adjusted her veil and leaned over to give Shah a handful of nuts to snack on. She’d been unable to stomach much food in the past few weeks and even the woody smell of roasted almonds turned her nose, a smell she’d never before even noticed.
Little Shah was happily entertained by the many faces, the man selling vegetables from his wooden cart, the children holding their mothers’ hands. He did not mind that they had been standing around for over an hour, nor did he notice the number of stares his mother’s face attracted. Shekiba kept her veil draped over the left half of her face and averted her gaze when she saw curious eyes. Shah was seven years old now and wise enough to detect stares and whispers. She did not want her son to feel embarrassed by her.
Gulnaz and Shabnam were at home. Gulnaz was not happy that Shekiba had been invited for an outing by Agha Khalil’s wife and she had only spoken a few words to Shekiba since finding out. But she contented herself with the knowledge that Aasif would be pleased she’d stayed home instead of shamelessly wandering around Kabul in a crowd of people.
Soldiers lined the stage and created a perimeter around it so the crowd couldn’t get too close. In the center of the stage was a podium draped in navy blue velvet with gold tassels and embroidered with two crossed swords. Shekiba looked at the soldiers and thought of Arg, the guards, the harem. It seemed like a hundred years ago that she’d walked about the palace grounds with cropped hair and men’s slacks. She looked at her son, soon to be a young man, and wondered what he would have thought to see his mother dressed that way.
He wouldn’t understand. Only a daughter could know what it was to cross that line, to feel the freedom of living as the opposite sex. Her fingers touched her belly briefly. She looked at Shah and knew this one was different. She could feel it.
Mahnaz shielded her eyes from the sun.
“Have you seen her before?” she asked.
Shekiba shook her head.
“She looks like a queen. I don’t know how else to describe her. You should see the clothes she wears! Straight from Europe! My husband tells me that even the children wear European clothes!”
“Your husband works with them?”
“Yes, he does some calligraphy work for the king and he serves as counsel to the queen when the king is away. He’s going to be traveling with them soon.”
“He’s away often, isn’t he?”
Mahnaz nodded, her face showing her disappointment. “He is, but at least I have my mother-in-law and his family around. I would be so lonely otherwise.”
“How was your marriage arranged? His family is from Kabul, are they not?”
“Yes, they are. He and his family had traveled through our village on their way to Jalalabad one year. In that time, his father and my father came to know each other and they arranged for us to be married. I had seen him only once, just for a second. It was so unexpected!”
“And you’ve been living in Kabul since then?”
“Mostly,” she said, and leaned in to speak more discreetly. “My husband had some differences of opinion, you could say, with some of the government officials. We went through some difficult times then. They took everything from us. Our furniture, our home, our jewelry. We moved into the countryside for a year and a half until word was sent that we could return. The children were miserable there. We were so happy to come back!”
“That sounds awful,” Shekiba said. But worse could have been done to you, she thought.
“It was awful. But that’s how it is. When you don’t agree with powerful people, be prepared to lose everything. I only hope we will not go through such an experience again.” She sighed. “It is hard to say, though, since what men will tolerate changes as often as the shape of the moon.”
Shekiba nodded.
“There they are!” Mahnaz spotted Amanullah and Soraya being escorted onto the stage. Soldiers were lined up ceremoniously on either side of them and generals stood at their side. They were smiling and waving to faces they recognized in a group of dignitaries just in front of the platform.
A man in a suit took the podium and began to speak. He introduced himself and spoke of King Amanullah’s recent trip to Europe. Afghanistan was in a period of rebirth, he declared, and would grow with the leadership of such a strong-willed and visionary monarch. His speech went on until one of the generals could take no more and whispered something into his ear that brought him to closing remarks rather abruptly.
“Our noble king Amanullah!” he announced, and stepped away from the podium, his arms outstretched dramatically to welcome the country’s leader to the stage.
“As-salaam-alaikum and thank you! I am pleased to come and speak here with you!”
Shekiba’s lips turned up ever so slightly in a half smile. He looked even more dignified than she remembered, his olive-brown military jacket was decorated with medals and stars and cinched at the waist with a leather belt. He took off his hat and placed it on the podium before him. His posture gave an aura of confidence, a self-assurance that seeped through the crowd. Shekiba looked at the faces around her, their eyes focused on the stage, their expressions eager.
We are in good hands, people seemed to be thinking.
Shekiba tried to focus on his speech but her mind wandered. She kept her eyes on Amanullah, wondering if he would remember her, the harem guard with the scarred face. She willed his kind eyes to fall upon her again. She felt a flutter in her stomach and wasn’t surprised that even the smallest of spirits could be moved by Amanullah’s presence.
Mahnaz looked over at her occasionally, nodding in agreement. Shekiba realized the king must have said something noteworthy. Shah pulled at her hand and she absentmindedly pulled raisins from her purse. He ate them one by one, bored by the speech.
Queen Soraya joined him at the podium. She wore a thin head scarf, plum colored, to match her skirt suit. She wore a fitted jacket with a brooch that caught the sunlight, over a pencil skirt that ended midcalf. Her shoes were smart—black Mary Janes with a modest heel.
This is his wife, the woman he spoke of as thoughtful and dedicated, strong-willed. Indeed, she does walk with her head held high. Then again, why shouldn’t she? She is queen to our beloved Amanullah.
Suddenly, Queen Soraya looked at her husband and pulled her head scarf off her head! Shekiba’s mouth dropped open. She looked at King Amanullah and was shocked to see him smiling and clapping. Mahnaz grabbed Shekiba by the forearm and broke into a grin. A mix of gasps and applause rippled through the crowd.
“Isn’t that amazing?” she said excitedly.
“What just happened? Why did she do that?”
“Weren’t you listening? He just said that the chador is not required in Islam! The queen is doing away with her head scarf!”
“But . . . how could she . . .”
“It’s a new day in Kabul! Aren’t you glad I dragged you here?” she said, nudging Shekiba with her elbow.
Amanullah went on to say a few more words with Soraya at his side. He declared her, his wife, to be the minister of education and queen to the Afghan people. He turned the podium over to Soraya. Shekiba looked to Shah, then turned her attention back to the stage. Today’s speeches were more interesting than she had anticipated.
Queen Soraya spoke eloquently and with a confidence that complemented her husband’s. Shekiba felt humbled and listened to her talk on the importance of independence.
“Do you think, however, that our nat
ion from the outset needs only men to serve it? Women should also take their part as women did in the early years of our nation and Islam. From their examples we must learn that we must all contribute toward the development of our nation and that this cannot be done without being equipped with knowledge. So we should all attempt to acquire as much knowledge as possible, in order that we may render our services to society in the manner of the women of early Islam.”
“Imagine. Just imagine, being able to speak like her to a crowd of people this size. She is a remarkable woman. Oh, the people of Qala-e-Bulbul would just faint to see something like this, wouldn’t they?” Mahnaz said with a laugh.
Shekiba thought of her own uncles. No doubt they would have sneered and walked out on such a speech. A woman? Telling their wives to acquire knowledge?
It was an exhilarating day. Shekiba was vaguely aware that this day would change something, though she wasn’t sure what.
She’s a wise woman, Shekiba thought. A woman like that would have given my father’s land to me. She would have told my grandmother to send me to school instead of the fields.
Shekiba’s lip stiffened with resolve.
She knew Queen Soraya was speaking of changes that wouldn’t affect her.
My story ends here, she thought. She now had a better life than she could have imagined. Somehow she had found an escape from a much worse naseeb.
But something in Shekiba did shift. She had a glimmer of hope, a feeling that things might get better with this woman Amanullah had chosen over her. Her face flushed knowing it still felt that way to her, as ridiculous as it was.
She thought of the way she was beaten when she took the deed to Hakim-sahib. She thought of Benafsha succumbing under the weight of the stones.
But sometimes you have to act out of line, I suppose. Sometimes you have to take a chance if you want something badly enough.
Things would be okay for Shah, Shekiba knew. He was a boy and his well-connected father would make sure he had every opportunity. She thanked God for that.
And may Allah give my daughters, should I be blessed with any, a chance to do what Queen Soraya seems to believe is possible. May Allah give them courage when they are told they are out of line. And may Allah protect them when they seek something better, and give them a chance to prove they deserve more.
This life is difficult. We lose fathers, brothers, mothers, songbirds and pieces of ourselves. Whips strike the innocent, honors go to the guilty, and there is too much loneliness. I would be a fool to pray for my children to escape all of that. Ask for too much and it might actually turn out worse. But I can pray for small things, like fertile fields, a mother’s love, a child’s smile—a life that’s less bitter than sweet.
CHAPTER 66
RAHIMA
I USED ALL MY STRENGTH TO STAY FOCUSED, to keep my composure. I couldn’t let anyone know that I had overheard what I had. Beyond that, I didn’t know what to do or who to turn to. Frankly, I didn’t think I could turn to anyone.
I sat beside Badriya in the following day’s session, ignoring the debate on funding for a roads project when everyone knew the decision was really in the president’s hands. And that he’d already made up his mind.
Tonight, Ms. Franklin was going to let us work more on the Internet. It was as important as learning to read and write, she said. The Internet was our gateway to the world.
I could have used a gateway.
While the debate of no consequence went on around me, a more important debate raged in my head. Should I go with Hamida and Sufia to the training center or should I stay with Badriya and the guards?
My hands were clammy and my shoulders stiff. I dreaded the session ending, knowing I would have to make a decision.
What does it matter? I thought. He already thinks I’ve snuck away from the guards. How could it get any worse?
But I was afraid. Maybe he would believe me, take my word that the guards had let me go. That Badriya had said it was all right. That I did nothing inappropriate or shameful at the resource center.
Impossible.
We were outside. I was looking at the three western soldiers on the opposite side of the street. They were leaning against a wall, talking with a crowd of young boys. Jahangir would have been one of them, I thought, if I’d been allowed to bring him with me. I wondered what the soldiers would do if I ran to them. They were here to help us, weren’t they?
We were just past the security check when Hamida called out to me. My heart raced. What would Khala Shaima tell me to do?
“Aren’t you going to come with us? Ms. Franklin’s expecting you!”
I looked at Badriya. She raised her eyebrows, wondering why I thought she would care where I went. She walked toward the car, which was parked a few meters away. I saw Maroof mumble something to Hassan, who nodded and mumbled something back.
Figuring I was doomed anyway, I took a leap and decided to go with Hamida. I didn’t know what I expected to come of my decision.
“I’m going to . . . I’m going to go with them. I’ll have her driver drop me off before they go to her apartment. Okay?”
Badriya shrugged her shoulders without bothering to turn around. I knew she didn’t want to give a formal answer, an answer she might have to defend to our husband. She got in the car and they drove off, melting into Kabul’s congested streets. I was relieved and petrified.
While we walked, Hamida talked and I thought of my husband. Twice, I thought I might vomit on the street. Sufia joined us two blocks from the parliament building. The guards walked a few feet behind us while the drivers stayed with the cars. With the traffic, it would have taken longer to drive to the resource center.
“Rahima-jan, what’s going on? You’re awfully quiet today. Everything all right?” Sufia asked.
I never meant to share it. My story just flowed out. Like the water that once upon a time bubbled over stones in the Kabul River, I told them about my husband, Bibi Gulalai, Jahangir.
We walked slowly, not wanting to draw attention from the security guards who trailed us. This wasn’t a story to share with them.
I answered their next questions before they could ask them. I told them about my parents and how they’d given us sisters away, then cloaked themselves in clouds of opium. I told them how Parwin escaped her hell in a flash of flames and that with Rohila about to become a wife, Sitara would be left cowering in the corner of our home, afraid of what fate my father would choose for her. And Khala Shaima, the only family I’d kept over the years, her twisted spine was squeezing the life from her bit by bit.
But my son. That was the worst of it. I said it and then I left it alone. The sore was too raw to touch. Worse than losing the unborn.
While I tried to control the shaking of my voice, I told them about the conversation I’d overheard. About the wife my husband wanted to take without violating the laws he suddenly wanted to follow. I didn’t have to tell them what I was afraid he would do to me. They knew.
They listened, unsurprised. I was only confirming what they’d already suspected, that I was one of those stories. My story was not unheard of.
I was broken and battered and didn’t care anymore how much I told them or what they thought or even what Abdul Khaliq would do if he found out. I had had enough. I kept thinking of Khala Shaima’s face, her soured expression, her disappointment in what had become of her nieces. And then there was Bibi Shekiba, the man-woman whose story had woven its way through my own.
“Dear God, what a mess you’re in, Rahima-jan! I don’t even know what I can say . . . ,” Hamida said. We stood outside the door of the resource center. Ms. Franklin waved us in with a smile.
“There must be something . . . there has to be some way . . . ,” Hamida said unconvincingly.
“Let’s not stand out here too long,” Sufia whispered gravely. “We can chat about this inside. Come on, ladies.”
I let Sufia guide me with a hand on my back, thinking of something Khala Shaima had said when I shared
the story of the girl from the shelter with her, how she’d escaped her husband only to be found again and beaten, punished for running away.
“Poor girl. She ran out from under a leaking roof and sat in the rain.”
CHAPTER 67
RAHIMA
“I’M NOT FEELING WELL AT ALL,” I said. I hoped I sounded believable.
Badriya huffed and rested her hands on her hips dramatically. “What is it now? You expect me to go by myself to the session? And who do you suggest should fill out the ballots that are due today?”
“I’m sorry, but it’s my stomach. It must have been something I ate last night. My stomach is a terrible mess,” I said, wrapping my arms around my abdomen and leaning forward. “I don’t want to cause a disturbance sitting next to you. I just feel like I might have to run—”
“Oh, that’s enough already! I don’t want to hear more. Some assistant you are. Useless!” she said, throwing her hands in the air. She grabbed her handbag and stormed out. When I heard her footsteps moving away, I crept to the door and put my ear against it. I could hear her speaking to Hassan and Maroof, their heavy voices echoing in the hall.
“She’s not going?”
“No, she says she’s not well. I suppose we should just let her stay here. I’m not staying with her, if that’s what you are thinking. I’ll hear it from the director if I miss another session.”
“Agh. This girl’s nothing but trouble,” Maroof said.
“Just take her. I’ll stay here with this one,” Hassan offered reluctantly. “The last thing we need now is for Abdul Khaliq to hear we left her alone in the hotel.”
“Fine.”
I heard the metal of the chair scraping against the floor. He was going to stay at his post down the hall. My chest felt heavy with anticipation.
I took a deep breath and went back to the bed, pulling my duffel bag out from under it. My hands dug through the dresses until I found what I was looking for. I thanked God I’d brought it along, even if I hadn’t anticipated wearing it. I changed quickly, a small thrill running through me. I went back to Badriya’s bag and rifled through it until I found the scissors she kept with her sewing supplies. To the bathroom again, where I looked at my reflection and finished what my husband had started. Snip, snip, snip. It was badly uneven but better than what Abdul Khaliq had done.