Hafsah said little at first and it suited me. When the azan sounded, she recited her prayers kneeling on her sleeping mat. I prayed on my mat too but we were praying with different views.
Muneerah took every opportunity to mock us. ‘Once you blaspheme, God can’t help you. It’s unforgivable. You’ll never get into heaven now.’
I didn’t believe her and I hoped Hafsah didn’t either. Nothing is unforgivable. It astounded me how we could worship one god and have such a different understanding of him.
‘Did Muneerah beat you too?’ I asked Hafsah.
She inclined her head.
‘Is that why you’re here by yourself?’
‘I suppose. They say it’s for my safety.’
‘Asia Bibi is on death row in solitary confinement. I hope it doesn’t get that bad for us.’
‘Who is she?’
‘A Masihi woman who drank from a cup Muslim women were using. They argued, then they said she blasphemed.’
Hafsah glanced at me. ‘All over a cup of water?’
‘Ji, like you with the quilts.’
‘And you with your bad spelling.’
Then she smiled. It was the first she’d given me. ‘I heard once a Muslim man and his wife were in an accident. When the motorbike was out of control it crashed into a Muslim shrine. They were both accused of blasphemy and put in jail. This is a black law.’
I sat there thinking. Abba had said that the blasphemy law was originally in place for good reasons, to protect the Muslim faith in a sea of Hinduism during the Raj, but lately it was rarely used for good. Too many people used it as a weapon. And once someone was charged, even if they were proved innocent, they never seemed to lose the taint of blasphemy. It stuck like the engine grease on Abba’s clothes.
‘Did you come from a village?’ I asked.
‘Ji, it could have been a good life.’ She sighed. ‘But my husband’s family needed sons for the farming work. Not four daughters taking everything they earn. At least she waited until I’d weaned Lala.’
My face must have crinkled up trying to understand, and she told me what had happened. ‘My mother-in-law saw the quilt clipping the Qur’an. She said I did it on purpose to insult Islam.’
I was incredulous. ‘Why did she say that?’
‘She hates me.’
Hafsah glanced up but there was no spark of emotion in her eyes. ‘I can only have girl babies. She wants a grandson, but my husband loved me – he wouldn’t divorce me. So my mother-in-law arranged another marriage anyway.’
She put her arms around her legs. ‘I’m glad I’m not there to see my husband marry another girl. The house is too small not to notice when he would visit her bed.’
I watched her, aghast. I even missed my little cousins, how much she must miss her own children. I didn’t say what we had learned in biology: that the sex of babies is determined by the man. Miss Saima said that unless men are educated they never believe this. They only believe it if they have boys. I touched Hafsah’s hand and she clasped it tight.
‘I’m lucky to be alive. Some girls have acid or fire thrown at them,’ she said. ‘But I’ll die here.’
‘Surely not,’ I said quickly.
She tipped her head to the side. ‘It is what my husband’s family wants. Even if bail was possible and they could afford it, they would never pay it. Same with Narjis.’ She dipped her chin at the next cell. ‘That poor woman is weak in the head. Who knows what her husband did to her. Her family won’t want her now, nor will they pay bail – it’s a miracle they didn’t kill her.’
I didn’t know what to say. How depressing. At least I knew the Colonel would have paid my bail.
That afternoon the genie brought the mail along with my glasses from Mrs Jamal. I’ve never known something to be fixed so quickly. No one else received a letter but there were two for me, which started Muneerah grumbling. I was glad she couldn’t reach me. Both letters had no return address for the senders’ safety. One was from Sammy and I retreated to my bed to read it.
Hey Cuz,
We’ve finally found out where you are. Dr Amal has contacted us on Facebook. I’m so sorry this has happened to you, well, to all of us actually, as we are family. We are down with Barakat’s family. It’s good spending time with him but I have to do my homework from school all morning. If this goes on for much longer I may go to high school with him. He’s in his last year too. Everyone is well and we hope you are. I really hope you are okay, Aster. It kills me that I can’t do anything for you. I keep imagining how depressing everything must be for you, and if I could swap places I would. Never forget we love you and pray for you daily. Everyone sends their blessings.
Your cousin, Sammy.
We love you. It brought a smile. Even though he didn’t write I love you, I knew that’s what he meant. What I didn’t know is how he meant it. Brotherly, Masihi love or something else? It was stupid even thinking about it. My case would probably take ages to be heard even with Mrs Jamal as a lawyer and I’d never be let out until I was old. I was beginning to think like Kamilah and Hafsah.
The other letter was from Afia, Barakat’s sister. This one had drawings from my little cousins. Afia’s letter began with polite protocol and it was ironic that even a letter to me in prison could begin as if nothing had happened.
Dear Aster,
Greetings to you from Ammi and Abu and all our family. I hope you are keeping well amidst your circumstances. I’m so sorry that you are in prison and wrongfully so. I hope you are getting enough to eat and that no one beats you.
People often mistreat those who they think don’t matter, but I want you to know that you matter the world to us, so please keep being yourself despite your trouble if you can. I can’t wait until you are returned to us.
I’m sewing more now and making some money from it. Ammi has a sewing machine that works with electricity. Would you believe we have electricity now after living here in the busti so long without any? We even have a water pump so we don’t have to collect water with pots in the mornings. A western organisation installed it. Maybe we can ask Uncle Yusef to buy one for your village.
Noori, Akeel and Marya have each drawn you a picture on the back and of course Rubina wanted to as well. I’m teaching the little girls how to sew hems around dupattas, but I wish you were here to tell them stories to keep them quiet. I don’t have your talent.
Everyone sends their love. With all of my blessings, dear cousin, who’s like a sister.
Afia.
I turned it over, thinking how if we’d had a water pump and a well in the village Hadassah wouldn’t have been attacked. Akeel had drawn me with bars in front of me, angry black bars. There were pictures of goats, butterflies and birds from the girls but Rubina, talkative, annoying Rubina, had drawn a heart the colours of a rainbow. It caught at me, made me gulp down a sob.
One of the stories I had told her was about a peacock with a tail as beautiful as a rainbow, and she had said, A rainbow is a promise. She had made me promise to always love her.
‘Aster?’
I didn’t answer at first. When I looked down, little Jani almost had her face squashed between the bars, trying to see me. ‘Aster, can we play?’
I took the drawings down to show her, as well as some of the paper Mrs Jamal had given me. I drew a picture for Jani and dripped blue ink out of the fountain pen to colour in the sky, then I drew a black tree from the ink bottle. It looked like a wasteland and I thought how appropriate it was for me.
Jani liked it – she’d never seen ink. ‘Let me, let me,’ she said.
It was obvious she’d never drawn a picture before either. She’d never seen a village, or an animal.
My eyes welled at how different her life was from that of my little cousins. Then I drew my village for her, thinking of my parents, Dadi-ji, the games we kids played, the animals, the village school, singing in church, Sammy winking at me, Hadassah’s wedding.
I wondered if I’d ever experience any of it
again.
CHAPTER
19
Mrs Jamal visited again. The genie took me to the interview room. At least I didn’t have to endure Karam’s innuendos. The genie stood to attention near the door, but she didn’t wipe the sneer from her face quickly enough when she saw who my visitor was.
Mrs Jamal had brought my backpack with my schoolbooks, my glasses case, and my Injeel, New Testament; also two shalwar qameezes, a blanket and a towel. Even shampoo. When I saw the bottle I touched my hair – even in the braid it felt like wheat stalks.
I’d heard that prisoners’ families should bring these things, and extra food too, but other than Mrs Jamal and Dr Amal, I had no visitors. But none of the women in my previous cell had ever had a visitor.
‘How are you, Aster?’ Mrs Jamal turned my face from side to side. ‘No more bruises. Are you getting enough to eat?’
‘Now I am.’ I didn’t say it was meagre compared with what we had in the village, and many times smelt off. We wouldn’t grow fat like the genie in prison.
‘So they put you in a single cell?’
‘I’m with another girl who is accused of blasphemy.’
‘Is she violent?’ Mrs Jamal asked quickly.
‘Nahin, just like me – she’s innocent too.’
Mrs Jamal pressed her lips together. ‘Her name?’
‘Hafsah Ali Shah.’
She wrote it in her notebook. ‘I don’t remember this name. It’s possible one of the other lawyers in our firm is representing her but I’ll check.’
She put her pen down. ‘Now, Aster,’ she sat back and observed me for so long I began to worry what was wrong, ‘I have seen your parents.’
I jumped off the chair. ‘How are they? Are they safe?’
She nodded, then glanced at the genie. ‘They are living near Rawalpindi,’ she said softly.
‘With my cousin Hadassah?’ I whispered.
‘Yes, but they cannot come to see you yet. Their names have been in the paper as parents who have reared a blasphemer. It isn’t safe for them. The village has been deserted until this settles down.’
Her words were never comforting but this was terrible. Who would do the work for the landlord? Who would be working for Mrs Rafique? Would my mother ever get her job back?
‘In fact,’ and she licked her lips, something I’d not seen her do, ‘I’ve advised them to leave the country for their safety.’
‘But—’
She raised her hand slightly. ‘They have refused. They want to stay close to you, even though they can do nothing.’
There was silence while I digested this awful news. I didn’t know whether to be sad or happy: happy that my parents loved me enough to risk their safety or sad that they were in danger.
‘Now, Aster,’ Mrs Jamal drew her notebook out of her briefcase and turned on the phone recorder, ‘what do you think is the overriding factor of you being accused?’
I hesitated. ‘Being in high school? My brother died so Abba sent me instead.’
She frowned at me. ‘So you think because your brother died, you were accused?’ She made it sound silly and I tried to justify myself.
‘It led to it. If I wasn’t in high school, I wouldn’t have met Mrs Abdul—’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’
She looked up from her notebook. ‘Aster, think about this carefully, do you think being a Christian was a factor?’
‘I’m not sure.’ I thought of Hafsah, a Muslim and still accused. Wouldn’t Mrs Abdul still be angry if a Muslim girl profaned the Prophet?
‘Did Mrs Abdul ever say she wanted you to become Muslim?’
‘She said if I were Muslim my homework would be easier, which is true, I suppose.’
Mrs Jamal shifted on her chair.
I tried again. ‘She said when I was arrested that now I’d have to become Muslim to save myself.’
‘There is a school of thought that converting will lessen your punishment or at least give you a better chance to enter heaven, if you are executed.’
‘I believe Khuda is bigger than—,’ I stopped, suddenly realising I could have blasphemed. ‘I’m sorry.’
Mrs Jamal stared at me in interest. ‘You’re probably right, I’m sure entering heaven has little to do with man-made laws.’
She opened her notebook to a different page. ‘I have met this woman. These are the things she said about you. That you were disruptive and argumentative in class, disrespectful of her position, disrespectful of Islam by purposely not doing your homework properly, trying to convert a girl called Rabia, who, she says, confessed to this.’
She glanced up, checking my reaction. My horror must have shown, for she nodded.
‘Now Aster, do you think this woman has a personal dislike of you?’
Rabia’s words came back to me: If you say the Kalimah you’ll be Mrs Abdul’s special project.
I sighed. ‘I felt she hated me. At first I thought it was because I was slow in her class but I grew better at my work. My friend Rabia helped me, as did Colonel Rafique, but even when I improved Mrs Abdul didn’t warm to me. She only praised Rabia, not me.’
Mrs Jamal wrote a note. ‘Colonel Rafique, who’s he?’
‘He’s a family friend – actually, he’s my mother’s employer, but you know how it is – we have become their family.’
‘I see.’
The question that was burning in me burst out of me in a panic. ‘Did you believe Mrs Abdul?’
She shook her head. ‘Not for a minute. Nor was I pleased when she couldn’t produce the exam paper. When I said I would bring a search warrant, she said she’d burned the evil thing. Didn’t want it in her classroom, nor any reminder of your perversity.’
‘But now there’s no proof. It’s her word against mine – actually, I’m between the devil and the deep sea, aren’t I? Because I don’t even know what I wrote.’
‘How soon after the exam did the police come?’
I groaned inside. She’d asked this before.
‘We went outside to eat lunch. I didn’t get to eat. It was as if the police were there immediately.’
‘Immediately? Sounds premeditated to me. We know this woman destroyed the alleged blasphemous exam paper, probably because she didn’t want anyone else to see it. The principal didn’t see it, nor did any other senior teacher. Even the police didn’t see this exam paper. A court should find that extremely interesting.’
She turned the recording off.
‘This is not just because you are Christian. An elderly Ahmadi man is in prison because some college students asked him to explain his faith. They were writing a research paper. They asked to tape it so they wouldn’t forget what to write. He obliged them.’
‘They reported him?’
‘Yes, for trying to coerce them to become Ahmadis. Even on the tape it is clear he is only explaining, not coercing, but still he is in prison.’
Mrs Jamal leaned forward. ‘I am not trying to frighten you on purpose. I want to get you released. But you must realise how precarious your position is – that a woman hated you enough or believed the only way for you to become Muslim was to accuse you. Either way, she wrongfully accused you. This is not what our constitution allows. Minority groups under the constitution are allowed to practise their own faith without persecution. Mrs Abdul persecuted you and that will be our argument.’
‘Will it work, do you think?’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘I will do my best.’
Then she said, ‘On a happier note, there is a blog written about you.’
I lifted my head. ‘Truly?’
‘It’s called Free Peacock Blue, written by a girl called Maryam Yusef Masih.’ She smiled. ‘My young research assistant found it. He is very thorough, and discovered this was your Facebook identity. Very sharp.’
‘Maryam is my cousin, she lives in Australia.’ Even I could hear the wonder in my voice. How did she do it?
‘She has almost fifty thousand signatures already
.’
‘Signatures for what?’
‘A petition. Fifty thousand people in the world believe you should be set free.’
I couldn’t take it in. All those people knew about me, knew I was unjustly accused. ‘From Australia?’
‘From everywhere – Pakistan, the UK, America, Canada, the Middle East, Asia.’
‘Can it do any good?’
She spoke as if musing. ‘What will be stronger – western sentiment or the power of extremist mullahs? Hmm?’
I knew the answer to that question already – a street full of men going about their normal business could be whipped into a mob in minutes.
‘It may stay a death sentence,’ she said finally.
‘The death sentence?’ I echoed, alarmed.
She glanced at me sharply. ‘Aster, you must know blasphemy incurs the death sentence.’
‘Ji, I just never thought it would apply to me – I’m just a schoolkid.’
‘No child has ever been given it for blasphemy.’
She sighed. ‘I think your cousin’s campaign can be very useful for your case. The court will not like to hear how your rights as a child are being withheld. And how the whole world knows about it.’
She put a hand over mine. ‘Do not lose hope, Aster. There are people who care.’
Her words brought tears but I blinked them back quickly as she put her notebook and iPhone away.
She stood to go.
‘One more thing – when you are released you need to understand you will not have your old life back. You and your parents will need to live elsewhere, probably overseas.’ I knew what she meant. Some people who didn’t agree with a court’s decision would take justice into their own hands.
Still, I protested, ‘How can we do that? Apart from the cost, we will miss our village, our family.’ Then I added softly, ‘This is our country – it’s all we know.’
The Truth About Peacock Blue Page 11