The Truth About Peacock Blue

by Rosanne Hawke

  The pity in Mrs Jamal’s eyes silenced me.

  ‘Aster, at least you will be alive – and free.’

  Free Peacock Blue

  To see a world where freedom,

  peace and justice reign

  Sign petition here

  Target: 100,000

  Rights of a Child

  Bet you didn’t know that in 2004 Pakistan brought back the death penalty for children? Apparently this is because some 17-year-olds were committing adult crimes like murder and terrorism and needed to be controlled. The Convention on the Rights of the Child abhors this move. The United Nations outlines rights that children should have, including a safe place to live, a family, education, medical care, the right not to be bullied or hurt, the right to say and believe what they wish, basically the right to be themselves.

  Mrs Jamal Khan, lawyer, states children in Pakistan shouldn’t be given the death penalty and holds hope that Peacock Blue will be released. There are no reports about her in my country but the UK papers have small pieces: Family of schoolgirl accused of blasphemy in hiding. Village of schoolgirl accused of blasphemy abandoned for fear of reprisals.

  Please sign here to show your support for an innocent schoolgirl whose rights have not been recognised and who has been wrongfully accused. Help free Peacock Blue.

  COMMENTS

  Rashid I do not have the luxury to believe what suits me, to ‘be myself ’ as you put it. You say we all have the right to be who we are, but who made up all these human rights? People in nice peaceful countries like yours, that is who, people who eat more than once a day, who have a government that gives welfare if you lose your job or your home, who do not care what you believe as long as you do not break the law. My country is a theocracy – there is no room to be myself.

  Shafique My father left a country like that to keep us kids safe – he didn’t agree with the majority religion.

  Rashid I do not want to leave – my family are here, my roots, my ancestors – but I am always watching my back.

  Sabha My Hazara father was threatened – he had to leave Afghanistan or we would have been killed. We came by boat to Australia. We had no money but the smuggler let us come for free, he understood what we were running from. It’s very difficult as we didn’t realise Australia does not want troubled people seeking asylum.

  Asif My father was tortured in Kashmir to confess he was a terrorist. By the time the army was finished with him, he didn’t even remember his name, let alone that he wasn’t a terrorist. The strongest person will sign anything, especially if their family is threatened.

  Maryam No one can take away what you believe inside, Rashid. Find out what that is. I find my faith keeps me stable. I’m learning happiness is a choice, whatever situation I am in.

  Fozia You sound idealistic and naïve, Maryam. Maybe you look at life through the lens of your sweet country. You and me both, we can hold suffering at arm’s length. When have we suffered like Asif ’s father or those girls abducted in Nigeria? Events like that make me see how stupid religion and talk of happiness is.

  Shafique I was tortured by extremists when I was only 15 because I converted to be a follower of Christ. I survived but only because I saw a vision of Christ every time they put the electric shock on my body. I live in Canada now. But even if you haven’t suffered like our family, Maryam, I still think you are right: if we give in to despair these people have won. They can hurt us physically but they can’t take our soul.

  Dana I don’t understand how Peacock Blue blasphemed.

  Fozia Do you honestly think Peacock Blue can be happy? Get a grip.

  MESSAGES

  Hadassah Bashir + 2 Salaam, cousins. Aster’s parents are staying with us near ’Pindi but we’re not letting them out of the walled busti (our neighbourhood) for their safety.

  Maryam Yusef That’s great, Hadassah. We have over 50,000 signatures on the petition already. When we get 100,000 I’ll send it to the Pakistan High Commission to give to the Governor of the Punjab.

  Hadassah Bashir Maybe you could send it to the lawyer who is defending her as well. The case hasn’t come up yet. Sometimes it takes years, even if there is a lawyer.

  Maryam Yusef Anything is worth a try. It’s good she has a lawyer. Can you find her contact details? We have to get Aster out of that prison. Pity we can’t break her out like Steve McQueen could.

  Sammy Ibrahim She may be safer in there, have you thought of that? Barakat says hi, by the way, as does Afia and their family. We’re staying with them near Lahore until this dies down, if it ever does. Maybe we should boycott the cricket – just joking.

  Maryam Yusef I’ll keep posting and sending the petition link via email. It’s just flying around the world with this social justice website I’ve linked to. We have to believe that change is possible and be brave enough to say what we think. We are not attacking the country we love, we are saying that if young people like Aster are treated like this then the justice system needs reform.

  CHAPTER

  20

  Back in the cell I unzipped my schoolbag and found the letters. The first one I opened was from Abba and Ammi. Their words showed how distraught they were. Even Abba’s beautiful Urdu was uneven. They explained how it still wasn’t safe for them to visit. They had to think of the whole family and community. Some of our extended family and neighbours had fled into hiding until it blew over.

  Would it ever?

  Even when I was released my family would have to be relocated. Abba had written me a Bible verse: Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.

  They loved me, exhorted me to have faith, not to lose hope. My parents’ words were heartbreaking – they sounded as if they knew they had lost me forever. The blasphemy law is like a huge army tank that has no brakes. It squashes everything in its path – families, lives, hopes, dreams. I used to think of marrying one day but how could I marry anyone now? Even if I was released I’d always be the girl who was accused of blasphemy.

  I opened a letter from Hadassah, also written in Urdu.

  Dear Aster,

  I hope you are keeping well enough in your situation. We hope and pray you will be released soon. They will have to realise what a stupid accusation this is.

  I am well, and happier than I thought I’d be. Little Daud hugs me and Rebekah is growing used to me gradually – she remembers her mother more than Daud does. It is good having my family and your parents staying here but we are all sad about you. They send their love.

  My husband Danyal sends his best wishes also. All the churches are praying for you. Always thinking of you, with love, Hadassah.

  PS Maryam is writing a blog in English to get support for you so they will have to free you. Keep the faith.

  She had included a drawing of a peacock from her stepdaughter Rebekah. Hadassah must have told her I liked them. The tail feathers were pink and purple and it made me smile. At five we draw the world as we want it.

  I picked through my schoolbooks and pulled out To Kill a Mockingbird. I didn’t want to read the Islamic texts again. My parents said in their letter the school had expelled me – there was too much pressure from the other parents.

  ‘What’s that?’ Hafsah said. Her voice gave me a start. She was pointing at the novel.

  ‘It’s a story we read in English class at school.’

  ‘Can you read it?’

  It was the way she said it, as though it was a tremendous feat. I answered carefully, ‘Ji, just.’

  ‘Show me.’

  This was the first sign of enthusiasm I’d ever seen from her. Not that we had any reason to be enthusiastic, but she’d shown little interest at all before, even when talking about her life in the village. Maybe I’d have become like that too if I’d been here two years.

  ‘Can you teach me to read English?’

  I turned to the first page and saw the enormity of what she was asking. There was no way I could teach her to read English from the novel. I pulled out an exercise b
ook and wrote her name in English on a page, Hafsah.

  ‘See, this aitch says “huh” just like haa in Urdu.’

  Her face was blank.

  ‘Do you read often in Urdu?’ I asked gently.

  She shook her head. ‘I had no time to learn. I was the eldest girl. I took my younger brothers to school but couldn’t go myself – I had to wash their clothes, help make food.’

  ‘How many brothers did you have?’

  ‘Five. Aneel used to show me his homework and I began learning to read Urdu. But then he went to high school and had no time for me.’

  ‘I can teach you to read Urdu if you like.’

  ‘Truly?’

  I smiled at the shine in her eyes.

  ‘And you’ll tell the story?’ She patted the novel. ‘Start that first.’

  ‘Teik hai.’

  I opened to the first page again, and silently translated each sentence before I told it in Urdu. Jani was hanging on to the bars behind me, her nose stuck between them in her effort to listen. Kamilah was probably listening as well. It was good practice for me. We had translated some parts of the story in class, but to do the whole lot would take ages and for the first time I smiled at myself. Did I have anything else to do? I’d have to censor some for Jani’s ears and so I told the story. How a man, Tom Robinson, was accused of rape when he was innocent. I skipped many of the children’s antics but kept some if Jani was awake.

  When we reached the rape allegations in the courtroom, I was thinking of Hadassah and was startled when Kamilah gasped.

  ‘That’s what happened to me in the police station, except no one believed me.’ She was outraged. ‘Yet that girl was lying and everyone did believe her. That’s not fair!’

  It was Muneerah who asked why the story was called To Kill a Mockingbird. We had discussed this in class.

  ‘Because Tom Robinson, like children or victims of prejudice, is a vulnerable person in society, just like a little bird.’

  I wanted to tell the story a bit each day, so it would last longer, but Kamilah and Hafsah clamoured for it. Even Gazaalah was quiet when I spoke. It was not so strange when I remembered how much our family loved to hear stories.

  The afternoon I told about Tom Robinson being killed when trying to escape, Hafsah laid a hand on my arm to stop me.

  ‘That’s what would happen to you and me if we were released.’ She said it softly so no one else heard, and I shut the book without finishing the story.

  The next time Mrs Jamal came she brought wool and embroidery thread for me.

  ‘No knitting needles or crochet hooks, I’m afraid, and I had to assure that fat guard I only had one sewing needle, so don’t lose it.’

  She brought snacks too, including my favourite, chana. I’d be able to share it with Jani. As I reached for it Mrs Jamal took hold of my hand and turned it over.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Ink. The woman in my cell can’t read or write so I teach her that in the afternoons. And I draw with Jani, a little girl. She’s never drawn before.’

  Mrs Jamal frowned. ‘There’s a child?’

  I tipped my head in affirmation.

  She regarded me awhile, then she said, ‘You look peelah, yellow.’

  It was a comment people made in my village if someone looked pale and sick.

  ‘You need some exercise. I suppose they don’t let you out in the sunshine?’

  I stared at her in wonder. ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  I wondered afresh at her authority. At times like this I felt safe and hopeful – maybe she would be able to have me freed. She asked me about my life in the village, what I learned at school.

  ‘Did you study Islamiyat in the village school?’

  ‘Ji, I know about Islam and was taught to respect it as one of the world’s great religions. We studied Hinduism too. My great-grandfather was Hindu before he converted.’ ‘Did you learn to recite the Holy Qur’an in Arabic in the village school?’

  ‘Nahin, but we learned what was in the Qur’an. We recited the Holy Bible instead. In Urdu.’

  ‘Recite something for me.’ She turned off the recorder.

  I stood and recited my favourite scripture: chapter fourteen from Yohanna, John, about how Yesu Masih is preparing a place for us in paradise.

  ‘Very interesting. So you can recite the whole Bible – it’s very long.’

  ‘Nahin, miss, I can tell stories from the Torah, the Old Testament, but I can only recite from the Injeel, the New Testament, and Psalms. We had tournaments. When I was twelve, I won. My cousin Sammy had always beat me but that year he went to high school.’

  Mrs Jamal gazed at me a moment, her eyebrows raised. ‘I’m sure it will be a consolation to you. And you speak English?’

  I tipped my head again. ‘It’s important to learn English to study further. My brother and—’ I stopped, thinking about the games we played even though we couldn’t say the English ‘th’ or ‘v’.

  ‘Ji?’ Mrs Jamal prompted.

  ‘He spoke to me in English, for our mother didn’t understand. It was like a secret language. But we learned it in the village school also. Even Colonel Rafique often spoke to me in English.’

  ‘I suppose this Colonel Rafique would vouch for you?’

  ‘Ji.’ I thought of him storming into the police station for me.

  Mrs Jamal made a few notes but I couldn’t see how any of this would help show I wasn’t guilty.

  A few days later a new guard unlocked our cell. He was young and reminded me of Siddique.

  ‘Out, 753!’ he ordered. Hafsah grabbed my hand as if to keep me with her.

  He gestured at her. ‘You too.’

  We didn’t move quickly enough and he grabbed our arms and dragged us out. He handcuffed our wrist chains to either side of his belt and marched us down the corridor. It was hard to keep up when I’d had so little exercise.

  I could hear Durrah shouting behind us, ‘Your number’s up, you two!’

  ‘Good riddance, kafirs!’ Muneerah added. ‘They’ll torture you to confess. Cut your fingers off one by one until you do.’ ‘Plead guilty before they start,’ Gazaalah called. ‘Just sign what they want, don’t be a bebekoof.’

  I twisted my head and saw Jani staring at us through the bars, Kamilah’s face over her shoulder.

  Were they right? Was I going to be tortured at last? Otherwise why bring both of us accused of the same thing?

  We were marched down a different corridor where men sat in cells. When they saw us some stood and a few called out to us. The guard pushed us along but it was difficult keeping my shawl over my head with one arm. He shouted at the men but it didn’t stop the heckling. We reached the end of the corridor, in front of a huge iron door.

  My heart was thumping. I imagined how I’d resist converting – I couldn’t betray Yesu Masih – but would I be strong enough? I’d probably sign a confession as soon as they produced a knife.

  The guard unlocked the door and I shut my eyes. Hafsah gasped and my eyes flew open. We were standing in a courtyard. It wasn’t big – there was just a single tree – but we were outside. Outside.

  Even being shackled to the guard didn’t dampen the joy of seeing the sky. How many weeks had it been? The leaves on the tree were still green. Still summer then. It had felt longer; I’d lost my sense of time – no school, no chores or family events to mark the passing of days. I stared upward so much I couldn’t walk in a straight line and kept bumping into the officer’s hip. He gave me a shove and I fell, my arm dragged upwards with a wrench. I winced.

  ‘Can you unlock us? We can walk around the yard and not annoy you,’ I said as nicely as I could manage.

  ‘Run, not walk. I haven’t time to waste on you.’ But he undid the chains, and Hafsah and I linked arms and walked as briskly as we could around the little yard. And again, and yet again.

  She even smiled. I was more careful; I wasn’t sure if it was wise to show happiness to a guard. I i
magined how the genie wouldn’t think we deserved to feel joy and I had no doubt she’d smack the smile off our faces.

  I could hear the traffic and when I closed my eyes I could imagine I was near the main road outside our village. All I had to do was turn around and I’d pass the wheatfields, see the buffalo turning the water wheel, the kids playing cricket, hear Sammy calling for me to join him in a game.

  The genie arrived then, pulling Kamilah and Jani and two other women with children I hadn’t seen before.

  She saw Hafsah. ‘Next time, don’t bring 435 – bring this one and the child.’

  Our guard had had enough. ‘Ao, come.’ It sounded more like ‘Get over here’. Even though he was gruff I didn’t mind. I hugged that thirty minutes of freedom to myself to remember later. Was this Mrs Jamal’s doing? She was the real genie. What other magic did she have?

  More magic happened that night. Kamilah whispered to me through the bars. I moved closer and she passed me the ear buds.

  ‘Durrah was going to drop these down the hole but I said I wanted them.’

  ‘You’ll get in trouble with her.’

  ‘She doesn’t care about it. She just wanted to see what you’d do. I think she was impressed that you challenged her and didn’t back down.’

  I squeezed her hand.

  ‘Thank you.’ I climbed to my bed with the buds in my ears, lay under the shawl and listened to Dr Amal.

  Free Peacock Blue

  To see a world where freedom,

  peace and justice reign

  Sign petition here

  Target: 100,000

  Freedom of Speech – Is It Possible?

  It’s in our papers about an Aussie journalist being held in an Egyptian jail for what he broadcast. Does he have freedom of speech? He didn’t even say what he’s accused of, apparently. Is it possible to have total freedom of speech as people think of it in the west? Someone swore at me today at uni, called me a wog and said something derogatory about Islam – which would have been classed as blasphemy in a country like Pakistan or Saudi Arabia – and I’m not even Muslim. If he knew I was Christian he still would have said the same thing, just swapped the names of the prophets. So that person exercised his right to freedom of speech, but was he caring for me? Was he doing as he would like others do to him?