by Rusk, Day
In my research I also read about women, daughters, who had dishonored their families and became prisoners in their own homes. They were treated poorly and lived under the constant stress of not knowing which day would be their last; they knew their family was going to eventually kill them, their days were numbered, but they didn’t know where and when or how. And the how was sometimes brutally horrific.
In some of these cases the fathers, sons or uncles found horrific ways to dispatch these women who had dishonored the family. Whether it was hacking them to death or setting them on fire, or any number of sadistic methods, they carried it out in a brutal and unfeeling fashion. Some of the stories I read online were related by women who had somehow, miraculously survived their execution, some of them permanently scarred and disfigured. There were groups out there trying to help women who might fall victim to honor killings, and it was these groups that recorded for posterity many of the horrors I was now immersing myself in.
The narrow-minded, out-of-date beliefs of these men, who could so easily discard their women, as if they were ants under their shoes, only served to anger me; I still wanted to lash out, but knew that was foolish. I could always abandon my idea of writing a book on honor killings, but it was also my tribute to Safia – a permanent memorial to her being. I tried to reconcile in my mind that by indulging in this horrific topic, and possibly bringing it to light, maybe it was one more step on the road to righting such a wrong. I wasn’t delusional; my step would be a baby step; there were others out there doing all the heavy lifting on the subject matter, but nevertheless, as a writer, it was the best I could do – all I had to offer. It was write or do something I’d regret forever – namely indulge myself in revenge.
I chose my course of action; I was going to write. Ah, but life had other plans; it wasn’t going to let me off the hook that easily; it wanted to test me; for some reason it wanted, obviously, to nurture my hatred. Just remember, it wasn’t the path I chose, but the path that chose me – the fact that I embraced it when it came with violent glee, well, I regret that now, but, I hate to say it, enjoyed it at the time.
I never expected to see Saif standing at my door.
CHAPTER Eighteen
“WHAT Do you want?” I asked as I looked directly into the eyes of Safia’s reputed killer – her brother, Saif.
I’d only seen Saif at a distance; up close, he and his friend, whom I would later learn was named Farooq, looked like two insolent teenagers trying desperately to look tough.
“You been following me?” asked Saif
I guess my surveillance on Safia’s parent’s home and grocery store hadn’t been as careful as I thought – I’d obviously been spotted.
“Why don’t you get the hell out of here?” I suggested.
I went to close the door but Saif reached out and grabbed it, holding it open. My first instinct was to punch him in the face. If he did what he was rumored to have done, he deserved that and a whole lot more. I grew up, however, in a civilized society and had become accustomed to ignoring those violent urges, electing to deal with matters of confrontation with words, not fists.
“You’re trespassing, son,” I said, looking Saif directly in the eye. Farooq was standing to the side of him, doing his best to look tough, but must have felt left out of the proceedings, as both Saif and I were intently focused on one another. Saif and I stared at one another – a challenging stare; you could sense the tension between us, and even I didn’t know how it was going to evolve, whether he’d back off and leave my property or we’d end up punching it out on the front lawn to the consternation of some neighbors and the amusement of others.
“I ain’t finished here, dawg!” he said, defiantly looking me in the eye.
Great, just what I needed, another teenager, in this case a South Asian teenager, who thought he was 50 Cent or something; didn’t they know they looked foolish when they tried to act Black?
“You been drinking?” I asked.
Both Saif and Farooq seemed just a little out of it; maybe they had to drink some liquid courage in order to come here and confront me; I don’t know what it took for them to come here, but all I knew was I had two poseurs on my front porch and I wanted them gone.
“You fuck with me or my family, I fuck you up, man,” he said.
“He’ll fuck you up, dude,” echoed Farooq.
I had to smile; the job of sidekick was never glamorous; it was really a useless position, as Farooq was clearly illustrating now.
“You’ve got two seconds to take your hand off the door, before I remove it myself,” I said as forcefully as possible. This was getting tiresome, and I knew if it didn’t end soon, something bad was going to happen. I could only be expected to maintain my cool for so long. This prick was a murderer; he’d stabbed to death the woman I loved.
“I want Safia’s things, asshole,” said Saif.
“Time to go boys. I’ve had just about enough of this.”
They both snickered to one another, like I’d just said something funny. That really was the wrong move, as it just served to piss me off even more. I’d had enough, so I stepped forward and shoved Saif. I’d taken him by surprise; I guess he hadn’t figured someone like me would make any physical move; I imagine the two of them had suspected that the sight of them would have me shaking in my boots.
Saif stumbled back, his hand coming off the door. I was about to back up and close the door behind me, when Farooq, no longer surprised by my move, lashed out and hit me hard in the side of the face. I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting such a move; I’d expected a lot of posturing, but when push came to shove, figured they’d lose any courage they’d mustered coming over here and just leave – probably leaving behind them a long series of expletives.
Farooq had quite a punch; it sent me stumbling backwards, momentarily dazed. I expected to suddenly feel a wealth of fists pummeling me, taking advantage of my surprised state, but instead the two idiots bolted past me into my house. I gained my senses and followed after them.
“What the hell do the two of you think you’re doing?” I called after them.
This wasn’t good. Instead of retreating, they were now in my home; surprisingly, I wasn’t worried or frightened by their presence, and if they knew what was going on in my mind, they would have been worried and frightened. I knew if I didn’t get the two pricks out of there and soon, all hell was going to break loose, and either they or I would be posing for a chalk outline on the floor of my living room.
Saif and Farooq came to a stop in my living room. They had no way of knowing where to look for Safia’s things. They’d obviously made their move before thinking it through carefully. As I followed them into the living room, Saif turned to me; there was anger and hatred on his face as he looked at me; I’m sure he was looking into a mirror.
“You’re giving me Safia’s things, you fucking asshole!” he yelled.
“Get out of my house, NOW. Before the two of you end up in jail,” I said.
“FUCK YOU!” offered Farooq.
God bless the dimwitted sidekick.
“You’re going to give me her stuff, or I’m gonna fuck you up, bro,” said Saif.
“I’m calling the police,” I said moving for the phone.
Farooq rushed me. This time I was ready. It was a clumsy rush, and when he lashed out to punch me once again in the head, I was able to duck his thrust. Missing threw him a little off balance, which gave me the opportunity to punch him in the head, sending him falling to the floor; he hit the ground heavy, the sound of his breath leaving him upon impact, escaping from his lips. “Idiot,” I thought.
It’s funny, even though my friends and I in high school liked to consider ourselves to be tough guys, when I look back on those days, we really didn’t get into that many fights. There was a lot of posturing and puffing out our chests and what not, but things seldom resulted in fists actually flying. There were those who did fight, and we knew who they were; those guys you avoided. We stuck to our cro
wd which talked a good game, but very rarely put ourselves in a position to need to have to back it up. Of course, after college, as a journalist, I was an adult, and for the most part adults try to stay out of fist fights. It doesn’t seem like a great way to solve problems, and you’re building a life, collecting possessions and such, and now if you do lash out some lawyer is going to come along and take everything you have, now and potentially in the future. You could throw a punch, but nobody was going to take it for what it was, they were going to sue your ass – so you didn’t throw punches. Simple enough. Hitting Farooq was the first punch I’d thrown in a very, very, very long time. I connected well, sending him to the floor severely dazed, but at the same time, damn it, it hurt like hell. I’m a writer, I have soft hands, not calloused hands that are used to throwing punches, and connecting with him solidly, well it hurt.
When I looked back at Saif, he was standing there, a knife, what looked like a fancy, decorative, but sharp knife, in his hand, and a shit-eating grin on his face. I don’t know where he got it, from his belt, or strapped to his leg, but he had it; it stopped me in my tracks.
“You fuckin’ ruined my sister! Dishonored my family! She had to pay and so should you, motherfucker!” he yelled.
My full attention was on that knife in his hand; a chill travelled through my body. Saif had pulled a knife on me. Safia had been stabbed to death. Jesus Christ, was I looking at the knife that had taken her life? Would he have been stupid enough not to get rid of it, but to actually carry it around? Could anybody be that stupid? Looking at him, and the company he kept, which was still on the floor moaning in pain, I figured, yes he could be.
“You killed her?” I asked.
“I needed to right a wrong,” he said.
“Is that the knife you pulled on her? That you used to stab her to death?”
This was unreal. I tried to look at him, but my gaze kept going to the knife. I’m sure he thought I was worried about it, which was why I kept looking at it, but that wasn’t the case; I just kept looking at the instrument that had taken my love from me; this object that had brought such grief and harm to my life.
“She was a whore; she died a whore’s death,” he said.
You talk about the straw that broke the camel’s back. He’d found it all right.
That slow simmer of mine at times was like a well tuned, high performance sports car that could go from zero to sixty in seconds; all it took was the right motivation. I don’t even know if Saif saw it coming; whether in that brief second he had spotted that murderous glimmer in my eyes and knew he’d stepped over the line and was about to pay the price for it. Personally, I think he was too stupid to know anything.
I charged him and I charged hard. I don’t know what I was thinking; he still had that knife held out before him, and by charging him, I’d be charging directly into it, but that didn’t matter, as he’d crossed the line. He could stand there all night saying whatever he wanted about me, but once he brought up Safia and dishonored her memory that was it.
Fights in the movies are often brilliantly choreographed; this wasn’t one of them; this was real life. I charged him and he hadn’t expected that move. He was looking for fear, and me begging him to spare my life, so when I didn’t I guess it kind of gave me an advantage. I was on him in no time; I was in a rage.
I can’t say I know for sure what happened with the knife; possibly it glanced off the side of me or something when I tackled him; I really don’t recall, all I do know is that I wasn’t stabbed. I think in his surprise, he had probably dropped it; I wasn’t some helpless woman whom he probably snuck up on and stabbed in the back; I don’t know if that’s how he did it with Safia, but seeing him now, and the company he kept, I’m sure it was sleazy and cowardly however he did it; if he’d come at her head on, she’d have probably clocked him and saved her life.
It wasn’t pretty, but Saif and I bounced off the couch and hit the floor, with me on top of him. Like I said, he had expected fear, not confrontation, so I had the upper hand the whole time. Before he could get his bearings and decide to fight back, I was punching him in the face, as hard as I could. Blood was everywhere, as I’m sure I had shattered his nose. At one point he was like a rag doll underneath me, unable to defend himself in any way and I still kept on pummeling him. For all I know, I was killing him, but at that moment, I really didn’t care. I hit him and hit him and hit him and hit him; I was never going to stop.
“Shit! NO!”
Farooq’s voice snapped me out of my murderous rage. I turned to see him half raised up, still trying to recover from my blow. As I said, I’d connected well; one of those lucky punches that turned out to be highly effective. I looked down at the bloody mess that was Saif’s face; I’d been holding him by the hair with one hand and pummeling him with the other; both his face and my fist were covered in blood.
“You’re killing him!” said Farooq.
I rose to my feet and looked down at Saif’s unconscious body. Why hadn’t they walked away? They’d poked the bear, unknowingly, but poked him just the same. Neither one of them could have known the extent of the anger and hatred that had been building up within me all this time, nor that they were going to be the ones to help unleash it. Maybe that’s why they say, “Don’t poke the bear?”
I advanced on Farooq; he had only a moment to whimper before I was on him and continuing my rage.
I felt sick to my stomach.
I don’t know what had come over me; actually...yes, I guess I did know. The anger within me had been pent up for far too long and took advantage of the opportunity those two idiots provided. I have to admit, and I really don’t want to, because I know it says a lot about me, but I enjoyed the rage; I hurt, and I’ve hurt every day since Safia’s death, so I wanted someone else to hurt.
I sat there at the kitchen table both congratulating myself on having finally struck a blow towards vengeance, while deep down, another side of me, a side that was quickly losing its hold on my soul, was ashamed at what I had done. It had been stupid – bordering on insane – for Saif to have come to my house. I guess he wanted to be the hero in his parent’s eyes and do what Kareena and Rijja had been unable to do and retrieve Safia’s things. He had to know I wouldn’t be welcoming him and his friend into my home with open arms, or that his presence would change my mind; no, he figured he could frighten me into doing what he wanted. I had beaten that kid and I had beat him good. And I knew I should be ashamed of myself.
We live in a civilized society; brute force and resorting to violence, well, that’s the last resort of those who aren’t civilized; who can’t find a proper way to solve problems between themselves and others. Communication and reasoning should rule the day, as that’s the only way to get something productive accomplished; fighting, resorting to violence, well it may accomplish a specific goal in the short term, but in the long run it is more harmful to our world than we could ever imagine; the darkness in human hearts, and our willingness to turn to violence, is a cancer that has been eating away at us since the dawn of humankind.
I was a peaceful man; I didn’t believe in physical violence, but I had beaten that kid and his friend with gusto; two sides of me were now fighting their own internal battle to determine whether I could find my way back to who I once was, or whether I was to become someone different, darker, deadlier.
I stared at the knife Saif had brought into my home. It was resting in front of me on my kitchen table. It didn’t look well used; as I’d said before it looked almost decorative; something Safia’s parents had had lying around the house; maybe on display along with a lot of other ethnic crap they collected. It had laid around the house until Saif had been given his mandate to take care of his sister, and then it took on a new purpose. Why use a kitchen knife or something like that, when you have this fancy knife lying around; maybe by using it, Saif felt it had more meaning; he was carrying out a sacred ceremony and it was ceremonial – or at least I think it was.
I stared at it.<
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He hadn’t come out and said it, but Saif had hinted that this was the knife he had used to murder his sister. If so, didn’t I now have an important piece of the puzzle in my possession? I could take it to the police and no doubt they could link it to her murder; while I’m sure Saif had cleaned the knife, nothing is ever one hundred percent, and with forensics, maybe they could find enough trace blood or some shit like that and tie it to Safia’s murder; they’d have the smoking gun so to speak, and they’d have Saif dead to rights. And with Saif facing a long prison sentence, would he do the honorable thing and not implicate his parents in the crime? The way I figured it, anyone who would brutally murder their own sister was not a stand-up guy who could be counted on to do the right thing. Chances are when confronted by the police, with the knife and the loss of his freedom, he’d fold like a cheap tent.
At the same time, maybe it wasn’t the knife. Maybe he had just said that. And even if it was and it could be proven, what kind of sentence would he receive anyway? Sometimes these life sentences don’t really turn out to be life, but the culprit is out of jail after ten or twelve years, supposedly reformed. And who cares about the sentence, what about the trial to get there? Saif would be put on trial and he would use the honor killing logic as his defense. We wouldn’t be talking about out-and-out murder; no people would allow him to classify it as an honor killing, as if it set itself apart from any other regular killing. Honor killings meant nothing in this country, and as far as I’m concerned, we were heading in the wrong direction if we even dignify it by classifying it as such. It should merely be classified as murder.
No, a trial would also involve Saif and his family dragging Safia’s name through the mud. They would accuse her of all sorts of terrible things; dare to say what Saif had said, and call her a whore. A trial and the media coverage it would include would give her parents and Saif another opportunity to victimize Safia, and I just couldn’t allow that to happen.