Out of the Silence

by Owen Mullen

Ali wondered what the matriarch’s reaction might be if she knew her son used prostitutes. He considered what he’d seen. If it was his duty to drive his mother around, he must be Firdos, the youngest son.

  Around five, with the heat slipping from the day, he tried again. A figure was in the garden. He crossed the street, level with the gate and peered through the iron railings and saw a woman strolling on the grass. Ali pressed his face to the bars and whispered. ‘Afra.’

  She didn’t hear. He tried again. ‘Afra.’

  Her chador was pushed back. She sang to herself. Ali lost his head and called out. ‘Afra. Afra! Here! Over here!’

  The city was full of madmen, shuffling through a parallel universe, arguing with people who weren’t there, shouting, talking to themselves. Maybe she thought he was one of them. He shook the gate. She turned and his excitement died. This could never be her.

  She wasn’t a woman, not yet, she was young, very young; a sad-eyed child, gazing in benign confusion. Ali said, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  Ali edged away from the gate and stumbled to the car. He didn’t look back.

  Chapter 22

  Jahan’s was Simone’s idea. Female curiosity. She wanted a glimpse of the man Afra called to through her pain; the one she insisted must never know. ‘I must see what he looks like.’

  How could I resist?

  In the shortest time we’d become inseparable. Every moment was shared, and as she revealed herself to me, my defences dropped. We sat in a corner of the restaurant on M M Alam Road, holding hands and whispering. Whenever the door opened, Simone held her breath and squeezed my fingers.

  ‘Is that him?’

  Eventually, she got tired of watching, returned to me, and it was just the two of us. The meal might have been superb – in our hurry to get to her flat we didn’t finish it. A perfect evening in every respect, save one: Jameel Hafeez didn’t show.

  -------

  The sound of clapping and shouting was deafening. I weaved round the chanting crowd, imagining how ferocious it would seem further in, trying to keep Simone in sight. Thousands of women acknowledged their heroes on the stage. It reminded me of a Rolling Stones concert, yet the comparison could hardly have been less apt.

  Simone looked back, wild-eyed and smiling, encouraging me to follow, edging through line after line of saris and chadors and faces burning with excitement. Twice I lost her. She found me again, touched my hand and continued her crazy progress. No one noticed me even when I pushed or pulled them to make space for myself. It wasn’t possible to get to the platform; wooden barriers twenty yards from an open-backed truck prevented it. The police were here in numbers in a line of khaki uniforms in front of the barricade. To the side, many more, wary and tense, standing in groups to reinforce their fragile authority.

  Two nights earlier, over coffee in her flat, the question had been asked so innocently and I’d fallen for it. ‘Why don’t you come?’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  Simone had curled her legs underneath her on the chair. In her eyes, I saw someone complete in her beliefs. ‘I’ve spoken about the injustice women suffer in this country. It’s a bleak picture, but it’s not a hopeless one. Some day the balance will be restored and women and men will be the partners in life they were intended to be.’

  She looked irresistible. ‘Until then, we struggle, building on small triumphs. Womens’ movements here have a hard time yet they grow stronger, furnishing us with the most powerful tool, the one we’ll use to bring about change. Information: the enemy of the oppressor.’

  When Simone talked her passion overwhelmed her. I liked it.

  ‘Which organisations? I assumed there wouldn’t be any, that they’d be outlawed.’

  ‘No, a few survive. Women Against Rape is one. Every obstacle that can be found is placed in their path. Still they live and campaign, thorns in the flesh of the government.’

  ‘And what is it you’re inviting me to?’

  ‘A rally. Education for Us, it’s called. You may learn something.’

  ‘You think I need educating?’

  She kissed me. ‘You’re a man, of course you do.’

  -------

  The moment my eyes opened I was back in the crowd. There was no period of grace, no honeymoon; my brain started the awful pictures rolling within a second of being awake. I was thirsty and my body ached. Even lying in bed hurt. I pushed back the covers and swung my legs over the side. The tiled floor felt cold on the soles of my feet, at least there was a part of me that wasn’t in pain. I padded into the kitchen and filled a glass with water from a bottle in the fridge. On my way back I picked up a bottle of J & B. The whisky had been trying to attract my attention for days. I took a sip of water. The liquid slewed round my mouth, a cool, healing sensation. My arms were bruised blue, black, and yellow. My chest was the same.

  Lucky, so very lucky.

  The day before was too frightening to forget, and too painful to remember.

  I unscrewed the top off the bottle, poured three fingers into the glass and had my first drink of alcohol in days. The clock on the bedside table told me it was seven-twenty in the morning. So what?

  Threads of fire ran down my throat. Yesterday played in my head.

  -------

  ‘Stay with me, Ralph! Nearly there!’

  Simone cut through the mass of women who’d stood for hours. A space opened in front, one final push and we were pressed against the barricades. A banner with red lettering, hung from the side of a truck, read Education! Education! Education!

  A woman walked to the microphone and spoke in Urdu. ‘One, two! One, two!’

  The crowd cheered, the woman smiled, reassured about the sound quality. She picked her way over black lengths of cable and disappeared. Now we were at the front I saw police on the roof of almost every building, ready to act.

  Authority is an illusion that exists as long as it’s agreed and accepted otherwise it becomes coercion, held in place by force and fear. If the crowd acted together they could smash the illusion and take control. Weight of numbers would overcome any opposing force in the end. Gatherings like this were prohibited because they promoted belief; faith ignited in these conditions.

  Dangerous stuff.

  Simone stood beside me but her spirit was with her sisters. Her mouth was drawn in an unconscious grin, she smiled, happy to be a part of it. Her brown eyes glowed; the colour, the noise, the crush of bodies and their solidarity reflected in her flushed face. She was high, freedom was her drug. ‘Can you believe it?’ she said.

  It was impossible not to feel the power generated by the crowd. The energy was tangible. I might as well have been waiting for Charlie and Keith to kick into Honky Tonk Women – that was a buzz I could understand.

  Sun broke through an overcast sky. The platform party climbed the wooden steps at the back of the truck and filed along to their seats. All carried sheets of paper. The crowd gave up the second big cheer of the day. Many more would follow. Uniformed policemen straightened their shoulders, raising themselves to a higher level of alertness. It was beginning.

  A woman in a sari crossed the stage, sorting through her notes. She called in Punjabi. ‘Salam!’

  The crowd clapped and called in reply. She said, ‘I am Satta, Satta Wasim Akram!’

  and pointed at the policemen on the rooftops. ‘Shall I say it again for you?’ The crowd roared their support of her defiance.

  ‘Satta! Wasim! Akram!’ Each word was cheered. ‘Now you know who I am, remember me!’

  Another cheer. Simone translated so I’d understand.

  ‘We know why we’re here today. The women of Pakistan are coming to the end of a dark night. It has been long and frightening, but morning is breaking over our country and the light of knowledge will show us the way forward, guide us to where we should be. The time of oppression is almost gone. In one thousand years people will say its end began on this day. With you! With me! With us!’

  Some
of the translation was lost in the noise. It didn’t matter. I’d been to many rallies in the past, the phraseology didn’t change. Short, uncomplicated sound bites. Communication through emotive one-liners. The technique of connecting with the masses. Nothing more was necessary, everyone knew the issues.

  For ten minutes the woman set the tone, capturing the mood of the crowd, feeding it messages of courage and hope. After a while, Simone stopped translating, mesmerised by promises of a different tomorrow to pass them on. I was tall and white and male. And alone. A succession of speakers addressed the crowd, the atmosphere becoming louder and bolder with every optimistic generalisation. For some it was too much. Women who passed out were carried from the mass.

  I was detached from the groundswell of passion racing through the thousands yet the energy was tangible and a little frightening. A glance at the policemen grouped together showed me my apprehension was shared, tension shone as clearly in their eyes as revolution did on the endless sea of female faces before them. I’d all but stopped drinking since the second meeting with the doctor, now I was overcome with creeping claustrophobia and an irrational need to get away.

  I needed a drink; really needed.

  The feeling grew. The speaker’s voice came and went. I struggled to get back in control. Simone remembered I was with her. I faked it for her. She turned back to the speeches, my hands and arms began to tingle, a film of sweat broke on my brow. I inhaled and exhaled, slow and deep. A new speaker clutching a sheaf of paper, a woman of about thirty, dressed in the familiar tunic and baggy trousers made her way to the podium. I fought to stay in the moment.

  She held her arms aloft. ‘Women of Pakistan, the days of bondage are ending.’

  Simone returned to translating, unaware she’d ever stopped. The woman organised her pages. ‘Lies. We’ve been told lies, sisters.’

  Her voice was strident and clear, her gaze strafed the crowd drawing each of them to her. From the first word I knew this was a performer. No introductions, it was what she had to say that was important.

  ‘Those who keep us where we are do so with misconceptions, myths and barbaric traditions. These people will never set us free. We are the only ones who can do that, but first we must know the truth. When the women in this land know the truth, they’ll rise against these liars who would steal our lives from us and walk out of the silence.’

  The crowd cheered.

  She shouted. ‘Liars! All of them, liars!’

  A young policeman fingered the gun at his side.

  ‘And what have they lied about? Everything sisters! Everything!’

  The speaker distracted me from my racing heart, the attack was passing.

  The crowd was listening. ‘Wife-beating! How many have not endured this indignity? According to the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan eighty percent of women suffer from some form of violence or abuse in the family. Beatings, mutilations, marital rape, are still not against the law. Why?

  ‘And our friends the police, what do they do?’ She waved a hand at the armed men around her. ‘Nothing!’ Her hands gripped the podium. ‘Nothing at all!’

  The speaker’s face was a mask of anger mirrored by the crowd. The party atmosphere had been replaced by resentment. Everywhere I looked I saw sullen females, hardening against their oppressors. A time was coming when violence would be returned with violence.

  ‘Acid burning increases, but no law to criminalise. Why? They tell us women cannot have education. Why? Every day we’re told we cannot have jobs outside the home. Again, why?’

  She scanned her audience. ‘Read, sisters! Read and learn!’

  Simone was transfixed.

  ‘Rape is used for revenge or to humiliate a family. In Pakistan, a woman who is raped must supply impossible proof or be accused of fornication. So every woman here lives in terror. Who wants it this way? We know who!’

  The speaker stopped to sip from a glass.

  ‘I could go on. I could go on about the higher status of men, about inheritance, about divorce, female circumcision or polygamy. Only men could convince themselves that it’s right. Because they have the power and they intend to keep it. They won’t share it. Don’t take my word for it. Don’t take anyone’s word. Learn to read, and read to learn. Lack of education holds us in chains, encouraging so-called honour killings. Honour killing isn’t about morality or virtue. It has nothing to do with purity and everything to do with domination, power and the subjugation of women. Hatred of women considered to be less than human, things to be used, abused and disposed of when their usefulness is at an end.’

  She raised her fist in a call to action. ‘Woman of Pakistan, education will set us free! Education is the key to freedom!

  ‘Education!

  Education!

  Education!’

  The crowd followed where she led, taking up the slogan and the salute.

  ‘Education!

  Education!

  Education!’

  In the growing hysteria no one noticed the woman slip into the space at the front. She wore the outfit of the dominated; a black robe, a hood and a veil. She walked to the centre of the clear area. One hand held a beaker.

  ‘Education!

  Education!

  Education!’

  Thousands roared. On the stage the speaker paced, her fist punching the air. I was moved by her conviction. Next to me, Simone affirmed her sisterhood. Out of the corner of my vision I registered the woman from the crowd splashing liquid over her head and clothes. She turned her face to let it wet her skin and eyes.

  ‘Education!

  Education!

  Education!’

  From nowhere the lighter sparked alive between her fingers. The flame caressed her body.

  Then everything changed.

  Fire raced over her. She screamed and fell to her knees, a human torch blazing in the afternoon sun. I put my arms round Simone and turned her away. What happened next had been waiting to happen all day.

  The police broke from the side of the stage and rushed towards the burning figure. The panic was instant. Many at the front thought it was a fight and swept the barriers away, eager to meet the attack. The terrified majority tried to escape. A few stumbled and were trampled. Others fell over them and shared their fate. The tide rolled through the crowd from the front to the back.

  All around us police fought with females insane with injustice. Some of the blows found me. The burning body lay on the ground, ignored. I grabbed Simone and dragged her under the truck. No one would claim responsibility for the final piece of madness. At the first volley I ducked. The shooting continued, I could hardly believe it. The police fired from the roofs into the panicked crowd. Every shot found a mark. Simone twisted in my arms, we witnessed what happens when fear takes over.

  Herd instinct. Stampede.

  Tragedy.

  -------

  Lucky, so very lucky.

  The bottle by my bed was half-full. Soon, it would be empty. Walking through that street had been like crossing a battlefield. Mangled bodies lay everywhere. Police casualties swelled the numbers. The awful pointlessness of it was clear to me; the righteous lay just as dead as their oppressors.

  There was little she could do, but the doctor in Simone wouldn’t be denied, working tirelessly even after the emergency services arrived. Finally, she allowed me to lead her away. We walked in silence to the car parked streets from the rally. I drove with no idea where we were headed until a red traffic light halted our escape and Simone spoke. ‘It really is a war. I thought it wasn’t, but it is.’

  ‘That was horrible, Simone –’

  ‘I’ve been content to cheer while others did the fighting. No more.’

  ‘Simone...’ I couldn’t reach her, she wasn’t listening.

  ‘I wanted to believe it was the long game my father talked about. That belief kept my hands clean, kept me a supporter. A spectator.’

  She laughed a bitter laugh. ‘But you can’t get a little bit pregnant.
I’m a doctor, you’d think I’d know that. Wars need deeds, not talk. And soldiers, not bystanders.’

  She opened the door and disappeared into the crowd.

  Hard to believe that had only been fifteen hours ago.

  I poured another. I’d no plans for getting out of bed today.

  Chapter 23

  The angle-poise lamp threw a lemon-rimmed circle on the wall and over the stock sheets, itemised lists of where the business’s money was hiding, disguised as earth-movers, tractors, pumps and hundreds of other things, big and small. Across from each was a number and a cost.

  Zamir Dilawar Hussein bent over the papers. His concentration, absolute when he’d begun the wearying task, was fading. From his office window inside the warehouse light fell on the rough concrete floor. Pallets filled with drums and sacks rose like small buildings inside the corrugated shell. Row after row of industrial metal shelving held countless boxes of smaller goods. That was Zamir’s job tonight, making sure they weren’t countless.

  His finger stabbed numbers into the calculator as his eyes moved up and down the columns. When he lost his way and had to start again; he cursed. Zamir had a system. He counted from the top to the bottom and wrote the total on the pad next to him then counted again, from the bottom. Incorrect figures were useless; Zamir was trying to establish the state of the business; accuracy was all. It was important work, and he hated it.

  His mind drifted to his older brother. While he worked, Quasim was probably with one of his women.

  Anger, the characteristic common to the Dilawar Hussein males, bubbled and died in him. The only son worth being was the first-born. How well he knew it. The business started by his father belonged to his older brother now. Zamir owned no share of it. He wasn’t a partner, just an employee taking his instructions from Quasim; a stranger wouldn’t guess they were related. The middle son had been eaten by resentment all his life. It never got better and never went away.