“Now I believe Judgment Day happens every day. Every day. Why, God, were so many of us created only to be sacrificed?” she lamented to the sky.
Zeba rested her hand on Bibi Shireen’s.
“She’s right.” Heads swiveled to look at a woman who’d been sentenced to twenty years for running away. It had not mattered to the judge presiding over her case that she’d had three broken bones and a stab wound to her leg at the time she’d fled her husband’s house. Her voice sang out:
“Our womanly blood men seem to revile
While the rest of our blood brings them a smile.”
“I have one, too,” called another, hesitantly. Zeba recognized her as a woman who’d been betrothed to a man who had never bothered to claim her. When her family arranged her marriage to another man, the family of her uninterested fiancé reported her for zina out of spite. She was young, her complexion still plagued with acne.
“If an accusing finger is aimed your way
You’ll never see the light of day.”
The couplets had become a way for the women of Chil Mahtab to pass time. Some were clever and some were stilted. They were all bits of freedom, though, in a world where most of the women did not know enough of letters to sign their names. This had been Zeba’s unwitting gift to them.
Zeba was prepared for the judge to make his announcement today. She’d been prepared, she realized, since the very moment she’d been alone with Kamal’s body. It was the reason that she’d slumped to the ground and sat motionless, waiting for her children to come home and the world to discover what had happened. Basir, her neighbors, Yusuf, her mother, and even her father had all made valiant attempts to change her fate, but it was not to be.
The women of Chil Mahtab had clung to her, wondering if they were witnessing the last days of Malika Zeba. If a woman could be imprisoned or lashed for being seen with a man, she would surely be hung for murder. It was as if the prison had already begun to mourn her.
Zeba had spent the past two days distilling her prayers down to what was truly important. She wanted only for her children to speak her name without shame or resentment. She wanted them to think of her and know that she’d nurtured them as best she could, that she’d watched over them while they slept and cried when they’d lived forty days, and that she’d winced when they’d stumbled and scraped a knee. Food had no taste if she did not see her children enjoy it. She’d not felt alive until the moment she felt Basir stir in her womb. That was when time began, when the eyelash began to move across the dial and measure seconds, days, and months.
She hoped they would know all this.
Latifa snapped her fingers.
“I’ve got one! I’ve got one!” she called out. “It goes like this:
“These hardheaded men from their pulpits won’t budge.
How the world would be different if a woman could judge!”
There was a trickle of applause and a chorus of praise. Latifa beamed for a moment until the weight of her words fell upon her own ears. She looked at Zeba.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Maybe it wasn’t the right time.”
“Latifa, what better time could there be? It was wonderful,” Zeba said. A box of chocolates was making its way through the crowd, generously shared by one of the prisoners. The women used a spoon to cut each sweet square into quarters, so that everyone could have at least a taste. “For a house with no windows, Chil Mahtab is not that bad. Sometimes I breathe easier here than I ever did at home.”
“Exactly,” called another woman. Zeba couldn’t see her face. She was embedded among the others, only identifiable by the hand she raised into the air like a flagstaff. “Malika Zeba, they call this place Chil Mahtab, because that’s the time we spend here. Forty moons at least. But you, you’ve lit these halls with the light of forty moons. No matter what happens, your name will be painted on the walls of this jail, in our blood if that’s what it comes down to, for as long as each of us stays here.”
Zeba felt her throat knot. She’d given them so little and received so much in return. They could return to their petty squabbles over who’d gotten more than her fair share of food or who had pilfered laundry detergent from her cellmate another day. Today, they gave the bickering a rest.
“God is merciful,” called another voice, just as a northern breeze sent a quiet rustle through the leaves of the arghawan tree at the corner of the yard. Even the fence glinted in the sunlight, looking more like radiant silver than harsh metal. “Inshallah, He will hear our prayers. Have faith, sisters.”
Latifa broke the melancholy mood with one final couplet.
“If I’d known Chil Mahtab could bring me such joy
I would have happily let myself be used by a boy!”
A roar of laughter erupted, and hands clapped in delight. Zeba’s and Latifa’s eyes lit upon each other and they agreed, without breathing a word, that there was much to be thankful for, even on Judgment Day.
QAZI NAJEEB’S OFFICE WAS A TIGHT FIT FOR YUSUF, THE PROSECUTOR, Zeba, Gulnaz, and a guard. Mother and daughter squeezed into the floral armchair, Gulnaz’s hands wrapped around her daughter’s. She’d spoken with Tamina in the morning, she’d whispered to Zeba. They would be paying her a visit in the next day or so as the villagers had begun to cool their attacks on Tamina’s family.
The prosecutor twitched with nervous energy. He’d gone so far as to wear a tie for the occasion, even if it did remind him of a noose as he tightened the knot at his neck. He was eager to see this case come to a close. Yusuf sat opposite Zeba and Gulnaz, looking at his client from time to time to gauge her state of mind. She seemed more composed than he would have anticipated, but then again, she was a woman full of surprises. He tapped his foot and avoided looking at the prosecutor who sat to his right.
Qazi Najeeb had entered his office last, wanting to wait until everyone had taken their seats. Out of habit, he reached into his vest pocket as he moved behind his desk. His tasbeh was there, the beads rethreaded by his wife at his urgent request. He stole a glance at Gulnaz and decided to leave the string in his pocket. He coughed twice, the end of his turban bobbing with the movement of his head. He cleared his throat and looked at the papers on his desk as he began to speak.
“Today, I’ll announce the sentence of Khanum Zeba,” he said evenly and deliberately. “We’ve all spent our time working through this case, giving the victim the attention his death deserves. It is a tragic case. A husband is dead and a mother is in jail. Children are left without their parents. Sins have been committed and must be handled according to the law. There’s been much talk about mercy, but mercy is best left for Allah to manage.
“I’m sure you all know the saying: ‘Let justice find its rightful owner.’ It’s a common phrase though most people don’t know the story behind it.”
Yusuf squeezed his pencil between his thumb and index finger until the pads of his fingers went white. The way the judge said “justice” made his stomach drop.
“There was a thief who, just before dawn, was caught trying to steal food from the home of a decent family to feed his own children. Someone heard a noise and lit the wick of a lantern. When the man saw the burglar backing out of his window, he shouted so loudly that he woke his neighbors. The thief took off running, but half the neighborhood gave chase, swinging sticks and knives and whatever else they could find.
“The thief ran through the darkness and came upon the masjid. He thought he could hide out in the house of worship and ducked inside. As his luck would have it, the mullah had gone out to the stream behind the masjid to perform his ablutions. The thief slid into the mullah’s bed and pulled the blanket over himself just as the angry mob approached. They entered the masjid and assumed the man sleeping was the mullah. Just then, the mullah returned from his ablutions and was surprised to find an irate crowd of people. Seeing him return, they assumed him to be the thief and dragged him outside, waving sticks and fists at him. He denied being a thief and begged them to consid
er carefully before they imposed punishment upon the wrong man. He cried and beseeched them, ‘Let justice find its rightful owner!’ whereupon they chopped off his hand. It was the penalty for stealing. Amid the chaos, the sorry thief returned to his hungry family.
“On the occasion of the mullah’s death, he reached the gates of Heaven and met the angel of death. He asked the angel why God had allowed him to be punished for a crime he hadn’t committed and why the true thief had been allowed to go free. Where was the justice in that?”
The judge paused for a moment, allowing his audience to ponder the question. He cleared his throat and continued.
“The angel told him that the thief had only intended to feed his hungry family. As for the mullah, while he hadn’t been guilty of that particular theft, he’d once swatted a cricket and broken its fragile leg. It was a sin without witness but that made it no less of a sin. ‘Just as you said, my friend. Let justice find its rightful owner,’ the angel explained. What looked like injustice was actually justice overdue.”
Gulnaz flipped the end of her head scarf across her shoulder. She looked at Yusuf, who dared lift his eyes from the floor.
The prosecutor nodded intently, his eyes narrowed as he awaited the actual sentence.
“In this case, there has been much to consider, and as I’ve said all along in this case, I want to follow the laws that now govern our country. It’s the only way to move past the dark times when there was no order or when order was dictated by the individual. For that reason, I turned to the penal code.”
Yusuf blinked rapidly. He looked at the judge whose eyebrows were raised as he read through the lower part of his lenses.
“Article 400 of the penal code tells us that an individual who ‘kills another by mistake’ shall be imprisoned for up to three years or fined up to 36,000 afghanis.” Qazi Najeeb looked up, turning his gaze to Zeba. “From what I’ve seen, this woman did not have the intention of killing her husband. She had no plan nor had she made any statements to neighbors or loved ones that she was going to. Given her behavior and condition, we were even prompted to have her evaluated by an expert to assess her mental condition. She was determined to be in a very weak state and, after discussion with the mullah from the shrine, likely suffering from remorse. I do not believe she meant to kill her husband. I believe she meant to defend herself in light of his behavior—behavior that was both un-Islamic and illegal—and prevent her home from becoming a den of sin. It’s become clear that she intended to turn him in, which is why she’d approached the chief of police before her husband’s death. His deplorable behavior would have been punishable by law according to article 347, which makes blasphemy a crime.”
Yusuf felt a pounding in his chest to hear the judge citing specific articles from the penal code. The prosecutor’s face had contorted from a look of snide satisfaction to confoundment. How had things gone so wrong so quickly?
“And so, with Zeba having been found guilty, I have the responsibility to find an appropriate sentence for her crime, which I have decided will be the time she has already served in Chil Mahtab and a fine in the amount of one thousand afghanis.”
The prosecutor was on his feet, mouth agape. Yusuf’s nervous energy had taken him from his chair as well. If there had been more room in the judge’s office, he would have leaped on the back of the armchair. As it was, he turned to Gulnaz and Zeba to see if the sentence had registered with them.
“But Qazi-sahib, this is not right. Don’t make me go through the pain of an appeal. How could you find her guilty and then—”
The judge waved a dismissive hand in the prosecutor’s direction. The electric fan buzzed in the background.
“The time for arguments has passed. I strongly suggest you focus on your next case,” he said. He closed a manila folder on his desk and rested his two open hands on it protectively. “This decision is final.”
The prosecutor blew through pursed lips. He wouldn’t appeal, he knew. This case was rife with inconsistencies and he wanted nothing more than to move on.
It was just starting to sink in. Gulnaz’s hands pressed harder against Zeba’s. Zeba looked into her mother’s eyes, her green irises like tiny prisms through the pooled tears. It was the greatest gift for them. It was the chance to start anew, their secrets no longer hidden in the folds of their skirts. Judgment Day had come, and Zeba would be free to embrace the four angels she’d been kept from all these months. Anything she ate would be sweeter than the fruits of Paradise. Anything she drank would be richer than the river of unspoilable milk. Zeba would enjoy the humble heaven that was this world.
Zeba would live.
CHAPTER 53
YUSUF SCANNED THROUGH HIS CALL LOG AND PRESSED THE green button when he saw her name. It was Thursday evening, and the events of the sentencing were still fresh on his mind. The prosecutor had walked out without saying a word, a sulk that did not go unnoticed by Qazi Najeeb. Gulnaz and Zeba had pressed their foreheads together and sobbed. Yusuf had looked at the judge, but he had already risen from his chair and mumbled something about seeing to another case. He had paused only to put a hand on Yusuf’s shoulder and nod. He said nothing more.
When Sultana answered the phone, Yusuf pressed his back against the seat of the taxi in relief.
“She’s free,” he said, his words sparse so that he could get them out without his voice breaking. “Zeba’s free.”
“Honestly? You’re serious?” Sultana exclaimed.
“Yes, very serious. It happened just this afternoon. If I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t believe it myself!”
“But . . . but . . . why? What did he say?”
Yusuf recounted the judge’s reasoning, a new jurisprudence incongruous with his age and the traditions of the city. Yusuf was left to wonder what constellation of influences had pushed the judge to set Zeba free.
“That’s astounding.”
“It most certainly is. Listen, I don’t know what you told the judge and whether or not it had anything to do with this afternoon. What did you tell him?”
“Yusuf, I didn’t say much. I only told him that I was thinking of interviewing the folks from Zeba’s village and investigating the rumors circulating around her husband. He asked me why I would want to do that and I said because I thought the dead man deserved to have his name cleared if all the horrible things being said about him were lies. I asked Qazi Najeeb for his opinion on the matter, but he refused to say anything else. He was in a hurry to get off the phone.”
“Something clicked, Sultana. I don’t know what it was, but something worked.”
The taxi had just rounded the corner of his road. His apartment was half a block ahead, and it was that time of day that men were milling about the streets. The electronic rhythm of a pop song spilled out of a kebab shop along with the aroma of charred meat. A young boy offered to shine the shoes of pedestrians.
“She’s really going to go free? Completely?”
Sultana’s disbelief echoed the thoughts in his own head. Had Qazi Najeeb been turned by the mullah’s entreaties? By Gulnaz’s pleas? Or had he feared the attention that Sultana might bring to the case, revealing what kind of man Kamal was and inviting criticism of the judge who dared punish the defender of the Qur’an? There was also the possibility that the judge had reached this conclusion based on the truth, having finally received all the facts, even if it had not come in the form of the defense’s case.
“I wanted to thank you for what you did. That phone call you made, it just might have been the thing that got to him.”
“I doubt it.” Sultana sighed. “He didn’t seem too affected by what I said. He sounded annoyed that I was interrupting his evening, honestly.”
“It’s not the way I imagined the case going, but it is the result I wanted. I’m happy about that part.”
“That’s the frustration of trying to do something good here. Even when there’s a real judicial process, the result can make you think we’ve gone back to Taliban times. There wa
s a woman lashed in Ghor Province just this week for zina. Her case went through a real court and in the end, an audience of men watched as they carried out one hundred strikes against her.”
But Yusuf wasn’t discouraged by that bit of news or by the way his attempts to bring the procedural code to life had failed in Qazi Najeeb’s office. He understood that courtrooms could look like anything, briefs could be handwritten and scribbled on sheets torn from a composition notebook. He knew arrest registries could be works of fantasy and that zina could be deemed more criminal than murder. It only meant there was more work yet to be done.
“And what’s next for you?” Sultana asked as if she’d read his mind. “Back to the United States?”
“No, not yet,” Yusuf replied, smiling to hear Sultana ask about his plans. His mother would have the same question for him, though she would frame it more as a demand. He would go back to New York . . . eventually. He would be back on his parents’ sofa soon enough—maybe even in time to hold his new niece or nephew—but it wouldn’t be this minute. “I think I’m going to stick around for a while.”
“You are, really?” Sultana asked, a hint of playfulness to her voice.
“Absolutely. So if you have any other questions you want to ask me, I’m still available.”
The taxi stopped at the door of Yusuf’s apartment building. He could see the awning of the gym down the block and made a mental note to get back there later today, feeling a boost of energy. He slipped the cabdriver a few bills and stepped into the street. The smell of diesel and freshly baked bread hung in the air.
“Good to know, Yusuf-jan,” Sultana said. That she’d addressed him by his name and in such a familiar way was not lost upon him. It was the way things were done here—the land where rumors, hints, and insinuations were as solid as the mountains that contained them.
CHAPTER 54
THE CHILDREN HAD BEEN DELIVERED TO HER A WEEK AFTER HER release, brought to her by Tamina, who did not dare step foot in her brother’s home. She’d come in the evening, once the sun had set, arriving in a taxi that parked at the end of the block. She’d paid the taxi driver to wait for her, knowing it was costing more than she and Mateen could afford, but she did not want to be seen by the neighbors whose ears prickled for news from the home of the freed murderess.
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