The Truth About Peacock Blue

by Rosanne Hawke

  ‘Nothing. I said nothing at all.’

  The young policeman from the van coughed. ‘It was an exam, sir. She wrote the blasphemy.’

  ‘What did you expect to gain from that? Only your teacher would see it.’

  ‘I didn’t write any blasphemy. I didn’t mean to,’ I said.

  The senior officer leaned forward. ‘“Didn’t mean to” isn’t good enough. We have to uphold the law here, and blasphemy is very serious.’

  He pulled a pad of forms towards him and picked up his pen. In the quiet I could hear a commotion outside, shouts. The officer who had spoken to the principal ran with some others from back rooms to stand at the front door. They had firearms at the ready.

  It took the senior officer a long time to fill out the First Investigation Report. He asked many questions that either I or one of the young officers who collected me answered. The three policemen stood to attention near me, as if I needed guarding. The senior officer left the room with the form and the man who had bundled me into the van and frisked me said, ‘I know you Masihi girls go with men before you’re married. I’ve seen how American women act in films.’

  He slipped closer to me and I tried to step backwards but the wall was behind me. He shoved me so that my head hit the bricks too hard and my wrists felt as if they were being sawn through. My head spun in circles, but not one of the other men intervened even though they must have been watching. He pressed himself against me as if he was hugging me. It was nothing like my father’s hugs and I screamed.

  He slapped my face just as the senior officer returned. I squeezed my eyes shut to stop them filling.

  ‘Ikram! Leave her alone,’ the senior officer snapped.

  ‘She’s nothing, who cares what happens to her? We could throw her out the front door right now and that mob would tear her apart.’

  The older police officer stared at the younger man until he stepped away from me, but no one apologised. The senior officer told Ikram to uncuff me. Ikram pulled me around and unlocked the cuffs. A sudden pain shot through my arms as I brought them to the front to straighten my glasses.

  The senior officer asked for my signature. I was still fretting about what could have happened if he had taken longer to return. He handed me the pen and I stepped forward to scan the form, my arms throbbing. There were details about me, then I saw the words ‘Accused of blasphemy, in accordance with article 295c of the Pakistani penal code’.

  Was I supposed to sign this? I wished someone was there to advise me. But being accused didn’t mean I did it. Surely signing wouldn’t mean I’d confessed?

  They all watched me. The fat one at the desk had his eyebrows raised. He glanced at the pen and I fleetingly wondered what would happen if I didn’t sign.

  Would they threaten me? Would I be tortured? I decided it was just an information form. I wasn’t confessing to anything, just saying that the information was true.

  My hand shook as I signed ‘Aster Suleiman Masih’. The signature didn’t look like mine but I put the pen down with as much dignity as I could manage.

  ‘May I go home now? My parents will wonder where I am.’

  The senior officer narrowed his eyes at me. ‘You aren’t going anywhere tonight.’ He glanced at Ikram. ‘Put her in the holding cell until we’re told what to do with her.’

  I wished the senior officer would take me himself. I didn’t want to be anywhere with Ikram. I glanced back at the senior officer with what I hoped was a pleading look as Ikram led me away. Hadn’t he seen with his own eyes Ikram abusing me?

  The senior officer clicked his fingers and the other two officers followed us. It didn’t make me feel any better. Ikram walked like a stork. When Ijaz and I were younger we’d imitate the way people walked or spoke. We found it funny, but there was nothing amusing about Ikram. One of the other officers unlocked the door. His staring unnerved me. Ikram pushed me inside and followed. I backed away – there was no one else in the cell. I could see into the next cell, where a man sat on the floor, watching us.

  Ikram smirked at me as though he knew my thoughts. ‘You silly girl. You will never be safe, not even in jail.’

  Jail? I glanced up at him. ‘I’m innocent. I’ll go home as soon as they realise it was all a mistake.’

  I hated the way my voice sounded, like I was asking a question, and Ikram gleefully answered, ‘You’ll never go home, so you had better get used to your new life.’ He clapped a piece of iron with a chain hanging from it around my wrist.

  ‘But nothing’s been proved.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter with blasphemy. You hear that mob out there?’

  There were still shouts and sounds like stones being thrown at the walls.

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather be in here with us?’

  The youngest officer was staring at me in distaste but the other one couldn’t keep his gaze off my mouth, my hair, my chest. I pulled my dupatta closer around my head and tried to cover my front. Ikram stood back but not before he had squeezed my other arm so tight I winced.

  ‘You would be beautiful if your skin was fairer.’

  He let go of my arm and ran a finger down my cheek. I turned away but his head came so close I thought he would try to kiss me. I tried to show how disrespectful I thought he was without actually looking at him – I didn’t want to give him any encouragement.

  I caught his grin, showing all the evil in his heart. A flash of Hadassah struggling on the ground shot through my mind. Did those boys bait her like this?

  ‘You’ll soon lose your high and mighty ways. You’ll be like everyone else, trying to survive. Just let me know when you’re ready to play.’

  ‘Ikram!’ The fat officer’s voice boomed in the short corridor. ‘Get a unit out the front and disperse that crowd. Fire over their heads. They’ll be breaking windows next.’

  Ikram left and the youngest man locked the door; it was just a barred gate like the one we used for our goats. ‘You should be ashamed, insulting Islam. You deserve everything you’re going to get.’

  Was it bullying or intimidation? Whatever it was, it worked: I was miserable. I looked around the cell. There was nothing except two buckets on the cement floor. There wasn’t even a partition around the buckets to hide me from the man in the next cell. How was I supposed to relieve myself? There was no charpai, so I stood, listening to the shouts and shots outside. I wiped the sweat from my neck with my dupatta. It was hot and stuffy with no fan.

  Finally, I was too tired to keep standing. I sat on the cement floor with my aching arms around my legs. I rested my head on my knees, my mind blank from the shock. Never in my thoughts or worst nightmares had I ended up in jail.

  I was roused by a voice I recognised. He was shouting. ‘Bebekoof! You imbecile! What are you doing arresting innocent schoolgirls? Your superiors will hear about this.’

  The senior officer raised his voice too. ‘She has already been accused. Our hands are tied in such cases. You must understand this, Colonel Sahib.’

  ‘I demand to see her.’

  Perhaps they couldn’t stop him, for there he was outside the cell. ‘Aster, my god.’

  I stood. The sight of him made me cry.

  ‘Beti, you have to be brave. They won’t give bail in blasphemy cases. I told them you are a child but they are not listening. I am sorry I cannot take you home.’

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ I whispered.

  ‘Of course you didn’t. No one in their right mind will believe you did.’ His face was flushed; his thick white eyebrows bristled together. He would look formidable to someone who didn’t know him as I did.

  ‘Why didn’t Abba come?’

  He glanced behind him and lowered his voice. ‘I don’t want to frighten you more than you must be, but there is a mob of men outside who would—’ He broke off. ‘I bring his love, beti. I am sorry I didn’t bring anything for you – I thought they’d let me take you, considering your age.’

  I gulped on a sob I tried to swallow.

  Hi
s fingers clenched the bars. ‘Come here, beti.’

  When I reached him he slipped his hand through the bars and laid it on my head in blessing. ‘May God protect you and vindicate you and keep you strong.’

  Then he whispered, perhaps to himself, ‘Allah, be merciful.’ His eyes watered as he looked away.

  I heard him as he left. ‘She is just a child, and if any one of you touches her, I’ll have him jailed.’

  There were sniggers as he left, then everything went quiet inside except for office noises. The mob outside was still shouting. It was dark in the corridor now. I’d be able to use the bucket as soon as they turned out my cell light. Then I heard a voice close to me, from the next cell.

  ‘Be careful of Ikram, and there’ll be more like him. They wait for provocation to hurt, so keep your head down. Do not argue or give him a reason to punish you.’

  I didn’t answer. I wondered why he was in jail.

  Ikram arrived with rice and a spoonful of curry on a tin plate. Unfortunately he had to unlock the door to put it inside.

  ‘So you have high and mighty friends. Colonel Rafique.’ He sneered as he said the name. ‘He thinks he’s still in the army, but he’s a has-been. He can’t touch us.’

  He still hadn’t locked the door. Strange how I was more concerned that he lock the cell than any thought of escape.

  ‘You’ll have to stay here tonight.’ He said it conversationally, but I wasn’t fooled by his assumed manner. ‘Too risky to shift you right now.’ He moved closer and his shadow fell on me.

  I’d heard of girls being raped in police stations. Could that happen here? I pulled my dupatta closer around me. I wished I had a shawl. For the first time I even wished I wore a burqa.

  ‘How old are you, I wonder? You are not a child – children don’t look full and ripe like you do.’ He grunted. ‘Young, maybe, but you’re probably not even pure.’

  The thought of defending myself rose up and I opened my mouth but I remembered in time the prisoner’s advice. I forced myself not to be goaded. What if it didn’t work? If I screamed, would the senior officer come to my aid? Or was I not worth their care? I shut my eyes. Ikram’s breathing came closer. He must have been on his haunches, then he stood. ‘You’ll keep.’

  I glanced up as he locked the door, and wished I hadn’t. He gave me that evil smirk. It made me want to bathe myself.

  The light went out but I waited until I thought the prisoner was asleep; then I washed myself in the bucket of water after I’d drunk my fill. Afterwards, I used the empty bucket. There was a lota, a plastic jug to wash myself. It was so degrading to be kept where there were no other women.

  I slept fitfully on the cement floor. They didn’t even give me a blanket to lie on. Every door-slam woke me. The mob outside grew quiet.

  In the early hours of the next morning after the call of the azan my cell was unlocked.

  ‘Get up!’ It was a new officer.

  When I stood he handcuffed me and chained me to his belt so that I was forced to walk beside him out of the cell.

  ‘Keep quiet,’ he hissed even though I hadn’t made a sound.

  There were other officers standing to attention near a rear door. A new senior officer frowned at me. ‘I’m sending you to a district jail in the Punjab where you will wait for your case to come up in court.’

  I stared at him in horror. That was a prison. I thought my innocence would be fixed here.

  ‘It has a women’s section. There are not many women’s jails and nowhere for a girl your age,’ he said, sounding annoyed. ‘At any rate it will be much too dangerous to keep you in the district jail here in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.’

  He glanced at my face and his expression softened a little. ‘You should be safe.’

  His words did nothing to reassure me. He tipped his head at the officer by my side. ‘This is Siddique. He is your bodyguard – he will try to keep you alive on the way.’

  If Sammy had spoken in that same tone, he would have been joking, but surely this officer wasn’t.

  I glanced up at Siddique. He was as young as the officer who had stared at me in distaste the night before, but his face was immobile. Only a muscle in his cheek gave any indication that he sensed my interest. There was no warmth or care in his features. I could have been a buffalo he had to guard, not someone’s daughter. Though it could have been worse – he could have been Ikram.

  CHAPTER

  14

  We travelled south. The district jail was only a few hours away. Maybe I would be close to Hadassah. My cotton school uniform wasn’t warm enough in the early morning and I couldn’t wrap my arms around myself. Without a shawl to cover myself, I felt so exposed sitting next to Siddique, my hands cuffed behind me so I couldn’t brace myself from our thighs touching when the police van turned corners. It was like a macabre joining of a man and a girl with no joy on either side. Just like a shy groom, he didn’t speak once, and I was relieved – it was better than unwanted attention.

  After the traffic became heavier and the van took more turns I could see a huge sand-coloured building with white doors. It looked like a castle. There was a crowd outside, the men shouting and raising fists when they saw the police van. Siddique banged on the partition for the driver to keep going, but there were men gathered around the back too.

  ‘Shit!’ He unlocked my handcuffs. ‘You’ll walk better without these but you must stay close beside me. Do you understand?’

  I nodded as he locked my wrist chain loosely to his belt. ‘This is for your safety.’

  The van stopped close to the building and men jumped out of the way. Siddique opened the back door. It didn’t take long for the crowd from the front to materialise before us. The men’s shouts of ‘Kill her, kill her’ rushed around me until I thought I’d faint.

  Siddique stood in front of me, scanning the crowd. Then he shouted at them, ‘Go home! Go back to work! There is nothing for you here.’

  ‘We want to see her!’

  ‘Ji, we want to see the blasphemer!’

  The men behind jostled the ones in front and Saddique pulled out his pistol. He shot it in the air and two things happened. The men fell quiet for a moment and a dozen police in khaki uniforms and assault rifles appeared in a marching run to stand around the van, forming a path into the jail.

  Siddique pulled me and we hurried past the riot police, his arm around my back, keeping me on the path.

  ‘You shouldn’t protect a blasphemer,’ one man shouted as the clamour started up again. The men in fatigues edged closer to the crowd but I didn’t see what happened after that, for we were inside the building.

  Siddique delivered me to a room bigger than the police station. He reported to the jail superintendant with me still in tow. I was so unnerved by the mob that by then my whole body was shaking. Siddique glanced at me and, for the first time, I saw a flicker of compassion in his eyes.

  A large female officer appeared beside us and Siddique unchained me. She dismissed him with a nod and asked me to state my name and my crime to the superintendant sitting behind a desk. I didn’t speak; I didn’t want to say what I was accused of.

  She came closer and the look on her face made me open my mouth. ‘My name is Aster Suleiman Masih, I am accused of blasphemy.’

  The officer slapped me hard across the face, harder than any Mrs Abdul had given me. I grabbed my glasses as they fell.

  ‘Stupid girl! I don’t want to know what you’re accused of, just state your name and your crime.’

  I glanced behind me, hoping Siddique would step in. Wasn’t he supposed to be my bodyguard? But he was gone. I was shocked at how bereft that made me feel. The man behind the desk watched me impassively, as if I was a stray mouse in a cage.

  ‘But I’m not guilty.’

  Her next slap made me stagger and I put a foot back to stay on my feet. This time I kept my glasses in my hand. It was strange how I could still think about keeping my glasses safe.

  ‘Say it!’ she screamed.<
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  ‘My name is Aster Suleiman Masih and my crime is blasphemy.’ I hesitated over ‘my crime’ and she made me say it again. The next time I didn’t say it loud enough. She shouted at me to say it louder. I said it again and again, and each time the humiliation rose higher, swamping me. If I said it enough times, would I believe it? Is that what this was for?

  The superintendant finally waved his hand and the officer stopped badgering me. Would they interrogate me now? Slap me some more? I already had a headache.

  She wrote on a slate and smirked as she showed me. ‘This states who you are now and your crime. Remember it.’

  I put my glasses on, hoping she wouldn’t hit me anymore. The chalk gave my number: 753, the date, June 9th, my name in Urdu and the number of my crime: 295C.

  ‘Hold it, 753,’ she said. She pinned a piece of cloth with the number 753 on my qameez, then took a photo. I felt like a monkey in a zoo, exhibit A.

  After hours of forms and questions and interminable waiting, I was finally told how to conduct myself in the jail. The officer read from a folder: no phones, no computers or devices that connected to the internet, no social media. I could write letters but they would be censored and could be used as evidence. I signed the page where her fat thumb indicated without a murmur. It was hot and I hadn’t even been given a drink of water. But I had learned not to ask.

  The guard chained me to her belt and marched me out of the room and down a corridor. She moved faster than I thought she would. At my eye level a patch of sweat spread from under her arm. There were men in the cells, putting their hands out; one actually managed to touch me. The officer took up a lot of room in the corridor. I wondered how she grew so big. No one in our village had extra food to put on so much weight. She was like a fat genie I’d seen in a picture book. We finally came to the women’s corridor. Some of the women watched me quietly, but one shouted, ‘Hey, kid, what are you doing in here?’

  ‘Are you visiting?’ another said and the others laughed.

  The genie unchained me, then opened the door of a cell packed with women like the ones we’d passed, and pushed me inside.