I Should Have Honor

by Khalida Brohi

  I didn’t know where or when the boundaries of hate had ended and love had started in my heart. But I did remember learning to forgive after a meal with Kalsoom’s mother.

  About a year after Khadija’s murder, people were doing a good job of making it look like she had never existed. But Khadija spoke through the walls of that house, through the wind that passed beneath the neem tree in the center of the house, as if a witness to the loss.

  Ammi had gone to visit neighbors, and Khadija’s mother and I had this time to ourselves. My aunt and I sat on the floor of her kitchen, made from loose bricks, bamboo, and straw. We shared a meal in silence. Some kids played out in the yard. All I wanted was to look into her eyes and understand: how was she living her life with such a loss?

  But her eyes were content. I had often seen her cry when she washed clothes or made a fire for a meal, but I never thought I would see this peace in her eyes. I instantly knew that she had forgiven Liaqat. Not forgotten, but forgiven the people who took her daughter from her, murdered her, and erased her from the face of the earth. I learned the biggest lesson about forgiveness that day, that when you forgive, you don’t do it for others but to relieve yourself. You do it to allow yourself to be unburdened, so that you are present for those who are around you. She had chosen to forgive my uncle so she could serve and be with those in her family who still lived.

  It took me a long time, but I slowly learned to forgive, not just my uncle but every single person I had a grudge against. It allowed me to become stronger, freer, and more able to do the work I wanted to do.

  So that day, as I walked toward the little Karachi apartment where Kalsoom and her siblings lived, I kept reminding myself that I had forgiven my uncle. What I saw that day, I would not forget for the rest of my life.

  The tiny, humble apartment had two plastic floor mats, a small fridge, and heaps of books as its only contents. In the center, my uncle lay on the floor, his head in Kalsoom’s lap as she stroked his hair and fed him soup. The person who had taken my cousin Sajda’s childhood from her, who had taken the life of my cousin Khadija, who had deprived the others of their parents, who had taught that family to live in fear, had in the end learned many things from these children. The biggest was that he had learned to love. He had learned to bring coloring books for the little ones, to listen to Kalsoom and bring the exact groceries she asked him to, and to wipe tears from the children’s faces when they were scared. He had learned to tell them stories at night that made them laugh and took their pain away, even if just for a little bit. He had learned to have a family. And right when he did, God was taking it away from him. His life was leaving him, and at that moment my eyes couldn’t help but weep for him.

  As I took off my shoes at the door, the sound of my sandals broke the silence, and my weakened uncle exclaimed, “Look! Khajo is here!” (Khadija’s nickname). Everyone’s face drained, because they all saw that he was looking past me and seeing someone else standing there, looking at him. That day I knew that all these years, Khadija had lived right here, next to me, waiting for the moment when my uncle recognized her presence. I felt ashamed for not having seen her, for not having made her be seen. And that day I promised to write this book, to give testimony to her murder, to tell her truth to the world.

  Just two months later, in February 2015, barely a month after my wedding to the man with whom I had fallen in love, Liaqat passed away.

  We have a saying in my tribe—in God’s justice there is delay, but no darkness.

  ALL THIS MIGHT NEVER HAVE happened. Despite being a woman, I have freedom, education, and authority. Some days I wonder if it all could be a beautiful illusion. It was so unlikely that my life would be so different from the lives of my cousins and the other girls in my village, yet there I was, sitting next to a man from the other side of the world, celebrating our union with my tribe. Can this be real?

  These were my thoughts on the day of my wedding to David, as we sat together on the stage in the wedding hall in Karachi, decorated like a king’s palace, with chandeliers and curtains of roses and marigolds, everything so glamorous. The wedding celebration lasted ten days and included more than five hundred guests at different points. From all across the country my tribal relatives filled buses and vehicles to come and be part of this unique wedding.

  On the day of the main ceremony, I dressed in my beautiful red lehenga (skirt) with intricate gold embellishment, chosen a month earlier at a local wedding dress market. My gold jewelry was draped over me like fruit on a full, ripe tree: a necklace, earrings, and my favorite large round nose ring with a beaded gold string attached to an earring, a set that David and his mother had given me as a wedding gift.

  On my wedding day, no matter how hard I tried, my tears wouldn’t stop. They soaked the makeup that five patient women had applied in an expensive parlor earlier that day. I cried for so many reasons: for the heavy guilt I felt in my heart; for the sadness I felt for my cousins who were dancing to the traditional drumbeat, holding their little ones, waving at me frequently, joyful that I was marrying the love of my life and a man of my choice, but knowing they might not have a similar option; and for my gratitude at being so blessed.

  As I looked out from behind my net veil dusted with gold stars, I saw the faces of girls who had kept me up at night. I saw my childhood friends who now had children of their own. Memories poured through me: laughter, tuneless songs, hair flying through the air, running after a herd of cows, bare feet churning up dirt, dancing in the July rains in Khuzdar, telling stories under a sky coated with stars. I was awash in other memories that were not as happy: pushing my face into a pillow so I could cry, feeling so helpless when a friend was married at eleven, the confusion of it all. My lives and their lives were the same, my face and theirs were the same, but my fate had taken a different turn. One small thing had made the difference: education.

  Education had given me freedom, confidence, and an understanding of my rights. Education was the thin line that separated me from those who danced before me now, celebrating my wedding, which was also a celebration of freedom—my freedom to choose. Gratitude and sadness filled my heart in equal measure. The man I chose to marry, with whom I had fallen in love, was very different from me and my world.

  My sisters Fatima and Fauzia watched me from the far side of the hall, their heavily lined eyes shining with pride. The lights felt suddenly brighter, and the music louder, people’s voices echoing in my ears as tears ran down my face. The drumbeat went on. My sweaty and happy father circulated and received congratulations from everyone. My mother beamed, my sisters looked glamorous as they hosted our guests, so many of whom were shepherds and tradesmen. Many had never been to a city.

  The magic of this evening also made me think, What if, all those years ago, my father had agreed to give me away before I was born in order to bring his brother a wife?

  As I looked out over the crowd, I imagined the person I might have become. She had been married off as soon as she bled, to a tribe she knew nothing about. I saw her washing dishes and cleaning the house. I saw her cooking with other wives and serving the men first. I saw her waiting shyly in a corner until they were finished, then taking the leftovers into the kitchen, huddling over them, and eating with the other women. Perhaps they would gossip, laugh a little, or whisper something funny; perhaps she would laugh too, her giggle reaching out of the kitchen, and she would catch herself and remember to be quiet.

  This imaginary woman crept into my heart and lodged there, next to my great joy at marrying my chosen man. The opportunities given to me had made me all that I had become, and they would continue to shape my path. I had a father who believed in me, cherished me, and had fulfilled his fatherly duties by educating me. And most important, when the time came, he had told me about honor and what it meant to him, which was what it had come to mean to me.

  In the distance, among shimmering dresses and happy faces,
Kalsoom never stopped dancing to the drumbeats. Her joy was about something bigger than this wedding, something that perhaps only I could understand. Her whole being seemed to say that this day when I married the love of my life was the day love did win in our family. Her sister did win.

  MANY MOONS AGO, IN A valley between the large mountains and cold waterfalls of Balochistan, a man traveled to Sindh and found himself in love with a woman in a tiny village with open skies and vast green fields. In those times, love between a man and a woman not arranged to each other was unheard of, unspoken. The man belonged to a different tribe, so marriage to this woman—who refused to leave his thoughts as he awoke in the mornings and slept at night—was impossible.

  All he could do was visit the village for one reason or another and hope to glimpse her beauty as she laughed with her friends or walked with grace and joy carrying water pots on her head. He was secretive about his trips to her neighborhood, but Fatima, clever and in her twenties, sometimes noticed this young man standing behind a tree or sitting near the water canal watching her as she washed clothes with her friends. She would look up, see him, and quickly avert her gaze. She knew very well that if her brothers, her uncles, or her father caught her, they would dig out her eyes for staring at a strange man.

  Then one day, using only the language of his eyes, Allah Ditta asked Fatima to come meet him behind the fields. The next day she couldn’t resist.

  During that first meeting, their hearts decided they couldn’t live without each other. They must marry. But discussion of such a topic was impossible for both their tribes. So they decided to elope, leaving behind their worlds and creating a new one of their own. One dark night, Fatima gathered a few of her belongings, made a traveling heap of them, and ran off with Allah Ditta to marry him in a distant village mosque.

  The news spread like fire devouring a forest. Before the young couple could leave the village limits, it reached the ears of the elders. They were caught.

  The matter was taken immediately to the village tribal leader. He saved Fatima from being murdered by her family in the name of honor but kept her in his large palace until a decision could be made about what to do with her. Allah Ditta, outmatched and in danger, was told to leave and never return. So he left.

  But during the night he traveled to the palace of the tribal leader. There he charmed a guard, using his good-natured ways, to sneak a message to Fatima.

  After hours of waiting behind the large walls of the palace, Allah Ditta saw the sorrowful eyes of Fatima emerge between the cracks. He sent a rope over the wall, and she tied it around her waist. Allah Ditta pulled it with all his strength until Fatima was on the other side. They quietly and joyously reunited, and without a word they fled into the dark, toward a village where Allah Ditta had organized a small wedding ceremony for them, and then to the mountains.

  Every day they traveled by foot, crossing one village, then another, one district after another. Before long Fatima was pregnant. With the baby in her belly, she was often hungry but had nothing to eat or drink. So when Allah Ditta didn’t return quickly from trying to find a safe place to stay, she would dress like a man and walk into the markets. She would buy herself food and sneak back home.

  Then the child was born. It was a gorgeous baby boy with big eyes whom they lovingly called Liaqat, a name given to those who were strong and able. They wanted to raise him to be a strong young man who never had to run from anyone.

  But fate had different plans for them. Fatima’s family found her. In her fear and distress, but before running from her little hut, she handed her baby to a gang of thieves whom they had befriended on their travels. Fatima was caught. She was beaten and kept away from Allah Ditta, who spent months looking for her. Even after finding her, he could not steal her back.

  As the years passed, the baby boy grew fond of the thieves and their rugged lifestyle. Even after Allah Ditta triumphed at a big fight and brought Fatima home, the child remained with the group. He visited his parents only sometimes and finally moved into their home in his adolescence. The family, having never lost hope or love for one another, finally lived in contentment, without fear, and had several more children. My uncle Liaqat, the eldest, was the strongest of them all.

  AS I WRITE THIS, IT’S been three years since David and I became lifelong partners. I am the happiest and strongest I have ever been. David has given me immense love, made me feel powerful and fearless. Shortly after our marriage in 2015, he left his job to embark on this journey with me, to help me work to unleash potential in tribal women in Pakistan. With his support and the guidance of an amazing board of directors, we have registered the Sughar Foundation as a 501(c)(3) nonprofit in the United States. By so doing, we are now able to fully scale our work and replicate the Sughar Centers all across Pakistan.

  After our wedding in Karachi, David and I planned another celebration on the gorgeous campus of Verde Valley School in Sedona, Arizona. We wanted to share the story of our miraculous union with everyone we loved who could not attend the wedding in Karachi. But after experiencing the many hardships of bringing our two families together, we realized how much fear and misunderstanding live between our two very different worlds, and how few are the opportunities to connect people across borders. Instead of spending the money on celebrating the two of us for one day, we decided to use it to launch a social enterprise to build bridges across our two cultures, giving 50 percent of its profits for much-needed projects to support women and children in Pakistan. So we canceled the celebration and launched our new initiative, The Chai Spot.

  The Chai Spot was an overnight success! People came to Sedona from all over the world and loved and celebrated the vision behind the place—the delicious chai, the bright decorations, and ambiance borrowed from my country. And just like that, it became a place where people came to share and receive love, talk about peace, and learn about the beautiful aspects of Pakistani culture that are neglected by the media and remain unknown (and therefore scary) to most Americans.

  Then, after the trauma of the 2016 elections in the United States increased misunderstandings among people and sent a new wave of fear through the hearts of American citizens, David and I worked to start another initiative that took our peace-building efforts to the next level: Otaq, a boutique Pakistani guesthouse experience. We had learned that hospitality is an effective way to build bridges, and what better way than to invite people to stay in our otaq decorated the traditional Pakistani way, with plush rugs, intricately embroidered fabrics, and exotic floor seating? We provide our guests with a glimpse into the rich and diverse culture of Pakistan: they can visit Pakistan right here in America and experience a sliver of what David and I love most about my country.

  These three busy years have been the crux of my journey, changing me in ways I never imagined. Writing this book has taken me on a self-transformational journey. I have grown in new ways and am reminded of the beautiful stories and customs that make me who I am. David and I have taken each other to our worlds, introducing each to the other’s life, and become accustomed to each other’s realities.

  I took David to my tribe around Sindh, introduced him to cousins who showed him how to play cricket, aunts who taught him how to speak Brahui, and uncles who shared stories and chai with him. I took him to a Sughar village where we were greeted with such joy and love that they threw us an impromptu wedding celebration. We arrived unannounced in the morning, and by afternoon local musicians were drumming and singing, while the entire village danced in our honor and presented us with gifts. Afterward they served us chai, biscuits, and laughter. This tiny village, where the people struggle daily, felt such gratitude and enrichment from our work. The women teased me and laughed with me, while the men welcomed David in ways that transcended language.

  David, for his part, took me to his family in Chicago and introduced me to his cousins, who welcomed me with love and open arms and showed me all around thei
r city.

  In these years, the further my life has traveled from my tribal origins, the more it has brought me back to its values and how those values, if used properly, can enable women to thrive in our traditional society. Despite my anger at the destructive customs in my culture, I appreciate the overwhelming beauty of everything else. After crossing many continents, social classes, and cultures, I see clearly what a blessing we have in the wholeness, groundedness, and intuitiveness of our tribal wisdom—and, most of all, our core belief in nurturing honor.

  I have come to see that the presence of honor, of dignity, in our lives is the strength that enables us to thrive. It will help us reevaluate our cultural shortcomings in raising the status of women. I have come to know that the problem is not honor and tribal communities’ sheer need to preserve it. It is the way they do it that is wrong. Despite the fact that women are a tremendous and indispensable part of the society, and that women’s status is recognized, celebrated, and protected in Islam, they are demoralized in traditional cultures and households. The mothers who give birth to the sons later get disrespected by those sons. The wives who dedicate their lives to their husbands get beaten and abused. The daughters who cherish their fathers are given in marriage without their consent. Sisters, mothers, wives, and daughters are being killed because they demanded their right to freedom and right to love. There is absolutely no honor in any of these acts, and that is not the kind of honor my country aspires to.

  In my fight against honor killings, I have woven honor into my dialogues by drawing the attention of tribal leaders to what true honor should be for them. I have made it my goal to do what my father did for me when he sat me down many years ago and told me how I would honor him. I have made it my mission to redefine honor, to bring it back to where it belongs. Honor is not the inheritance of men. Every woman should have honor.