The Truth About Peacock Blue

by Rosanne Hawke

  CHAPTER

  22

  Men in black rush to burn the village. They see me and drag me with them. I am the only one left alive and I scream as they push me into a cage on wheels to take me away. They chant as if they are part of a drama, ‘We will hang you, hang you, hang you!’

  The dreams didn’t leave me alone, yet I knew there was nothing I could do about them. Hafsah showed me this. All the women, even Muneerah, had a kind of silent despair clinging to them and the longer they’d been in prison the more resigned they became. They didn’t ‘wait’ for anything as there was nothing to wait for.

  At least I had Mrs Jamal. She and my faith helped me get up each morning. And now I had Malala to think about. I kept the article about her, and the creases became worn from reading it so many times. Malala stood up to the Taliban because she knew girls should be free to go to school, whatever anyone said. I knew I should also be free to have my own faith.

  But I wasn’t like Malala. Sammy called me loud, and I could sing in front of a congregation, but I didn’t feel confident anymore.

  Could I do what Malala did? Not the girl I was becoming.

  One good thing came from having the article. I started a calendar in an exercise book and crossed off each day. Hafsah said it would make me go mad, but I didn’t agree. It was autumn – the tree in the courtyard had lost its leaves.

  Hafsah told me about Muneerah one night. ‘She had a secret love marriage, for she knew her parents wouldn’t accept the boy she loved. When she fell pregnant her father had her arrested for zina. The family didn’t recognise the marriage and one of her uncles killed her young husband. When she had the baby in here last year the family took him away.’

  I could hear the screams in my head as Hafsah said softly, ‘She doesn’t know if they killed him or let him live. It’s unhinged her, like Narjis, just in a different way. Everyone goes mad in here sooner or later.’

  No wonder Muneerah had no visitors. Her family thought of her as dead.

  The weather grew colder. Bara Din, Christmas Day, was coming. Cards with drawings came from my little cousins. I had no envelopes but I wrote letters back for Mrs Jamal to send.

  My parents sent me a new shalwar qameez through Mrs Jamal. It looked like one of Juli Rafique’s, for it was made of woollen cloth. It was good I was in a cell with Hafsah and we went to the washroom at a different time from the next cell, or I might not have been able to keep the outfit from Durrah. I saw her eyes gleam through the bars as I drew it from the package.

  Finally Mrs Jamal told me my court case would be heard in a week’s time. On the day, I carefully washed and dressed in the woollen outfit. I plaited my hair three times to get it neat and sat in Ammi’s warm shawl until the genie came to take me to the police van. If they found me innocent, surely I wouldn’t be returning, so I had the fountain pen and Sammy’s letters in my pocket.

  ‘Don’t know why you’re all dressed up,’ the genie sneered. ‘You’ll be back soon.’

  I tried not to show how her words affected me.

  Police officers guarded me as we went in the back door of the courthouse. Mrs Jamal was already there.

  ‘We’ll wait here,’ she said crisply. ‘The case before us is taking a long time.’

  We went over the questions that would be asked.

  ‘Remember, you won’t speak,’ she said.

  I nodded nervously. Would they decide I was innocent? What if someone outside decided I was guilty?

  Mrs Jamal looked at her watch and disappeared into another room, her high heels tapping. Two guards stayed with me but they said nothing. Mrs Jamal brought back two cups of tea and biscuits. We each had one biscuit and then I ate the rest of them. I hadn’t seen one in the six months I’d been in jail. I felt guilty but Mrs Jamal was distracted and didn’t seem to notice.

  A court official called to her from the door. When she returned she was angry. ‘They miscalculated the time. Your case won’t be heard today after all.’ Her voice softened when she saw my face. ‘I’m very sorry, but sometimes this happens.’

  I cried in the van on the way back to the prison. In a little corner of my mind I had hoped I’d be freed and I wouldn’t need to return, that my parents would be there to receive me and we’d all live with Hadassah.

  ‘So you didn’t get heard,’ Gazaalah said as I was let into my cell. She didn’t sound sorry about it, as if she’d known all the time. I ignored her and Hafsah left me alone to lie on my bed.

  Dr Amal came the next day. I didn’t know if he was in contact with Mrs Jamal but his timing was perfect. And he had batteries for me.

  ‘How did you know the ones you sent went missing?’ I asked.

  ‘I didn’t. But my mother told me it was stupid to send things like that through the mail.’

  ‘Why do they get confiscated?’

  ‘There must be a list of things you’re not supposed to have, or maybe the officer checking the mail that day needed some.’

  I imagined the genie taking them. I couldn’t seem to manage a smile and there was silence. I hoped he wouldn’t ask how I was, for I knew I’d weep.

  So before he could speak I said, ‘My court hearing has been postponed.’

  I said it firmly and he nodded at me.

  ‘It happens a lot,’ he said. ‘Some people wait years. Asia Bibi’s appeal to the High Court has also been postponed again.’

  Tears sprang to my eyes. I knew there were many worse off than me, but still I’d hoped.

  ‘There are many people praying for you, Aster, even outside of Pakistan.’

  I glanced up at him and tried to smile.

  ‘I have written a song for you.’

  Now that was surprising. ‘Truly?’

  He tilted his head. ‘I was thinking of Job and Hannah in the Bible, how the fulfilment of their hope was delayed. Then I thought of you.’

  His eyes were full of empathy. Not pity, at least, even though he must have known I may never get out of prison. It was what I tried not to think about.

  ‘It’s about waiting for the Lord, however long it takes. Even if we are in the next world before our hope is realised, he will be faithful.’

  Looking at him I realised something: I did want God to get me out of here. Isn’t that what hope is? Wanting something good to happen? Or is hope giving up the right to have things the way we want and letting God do what he thinks best?

  If I asked Hafsah she’d say he wasn’t interested in us.

  I existed from day to day, night to night. Weeks became months, and I wondered why it was so difficult to get another hearing in court. Did they make us wait on purpose? Or were there too many cases and not enough judges?

  Finally in late February it was time to get ready for court again. This time Mrs Jamal hopped from heel to toe in the waiting room. When she was called to the corridor like last time, she frowned. I watched her back as she spoke with a person, then returned to me.

  I held my breath, then asked, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Your teacher hasn’t turned up.’

  ‘Mrs Abdul?’ I said in sudden hope. ‘Has she changed her mind? Will she withdraw the accusation?’

  Mrs Jamal shook her head. ‘It’s too late for that – the damage has been done. No, this is called mind games, or maybe she’s stubbed her toe.’

  I stared at her, appalled. ‘She just didn’t arrive? No reason?’

  ‘No reason. I’m sorry, Aster. It’s been postponed until next month.’

  I couldn’t help the tears. That was what they’d said last time but it had taken more than one month. And then what? The lawyer mightn’t turn up. The judge might have a bilious attack, all while I waited and waited and waited. In prison.

  Back in the cell I took the article about Malala from under my blanket. She wouldn’t give up. Even in Britain she was gaining an education and doing speeches. She must be waiting for when she could return. In a way she was in captivity too, in exile. I prayed for strength like hers to endure the waiting.
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  Dreams were with me constantly but they’d changed. Now they weren’t all bad. They were a place where I could disappear, to be happier. I dreamed I was in a boat. At first the waves were gentle. Fish jumped over the waves. One landed in the boat. Then the waves rose higher until the boat was as high as a mountain and I knew it would crash. I screamed and suddenly someone appeared in the boat with me. He used a pole and the boat didn’t capsize as we rode down the wave with white curling foam circling us. I saw his face before the next wave came. He was enjoying the exhilaration of the ride. It was Yesu Masih. I was not alone.

  When I woke I tried to catch the feeling of joy the dream had given me, but it slipped like sand through my fingers. I wished I was still asleep. After breakfast the genie came to get me.

  ‘Visitors for you.’ She sounded annoyed, as if I was receiving too many privileges. She chained me as usual and escorted me to the interview room. With my meagre exercise I didn’t walk as well as I used to and she pulled me down the last corridor. She had no time to move slower for me.

  I saw Mrs Jamal first and there were two other people. One was a woman in a burqa, but something about the way she stood was familiar. I hardly dared hope as they turned around. The lady lifted the burqa veil.

  I gave a gasp and fell into Ammi’s arms. I thought I’d be happy, I’d dreamed of this moment, but I couldn’t stop the sobs. I sensed Abba standing beside me, before he put his arms around both of us. He prayed for me to be released, and gave thanks for our family, our love, and it calmed me a little.

  ‘We’ve wanted to come,’ Ammi said, ‘but it’s been too dangerous on the bus. Mrs Jamal brought us in her car.’

  No doubt that was why she was wearing the burqa; she’d never worn one before.

  I drank them in, looking at one and then the other, in between my tears.

  ‘You’ve lost so much weight,’ my mother said before she could stop herself. ‘Good thing we brought food for you.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve caused so much trouble, for you, the village . . .’ I wanted them to take me now, back home to my old life.

  ‘What if they find me guilty? I can’t do this without you,’ I gabbled, ‘not without Sammy, Hadassah, Ijaz . . .’ My voice trailed away as Abba took my face between his hands.

  ‘Aster,’ he murmured, ‘my beautiful beti, it is not your fault. What makes our life different wherever we are, even in a prison, is the presence of Khuda and his love. He is in control whether we feel it or not. Just trust him and he will help you persevere. Then hope will come.’

  His eyes teared up and I knew he wanted to grab me and take me home. He hugged me to himself so tightly I could hardly breathe.

  ‘My beti—’ His voice broke and Ammi took me from him.

  ‘Chup, chup, quiet,’ she said like she had when I couldn’t sleep at night as a little child.

  She didn’t say everything would be fine, she just swayed me from side to side like a baby.

  ‘I’m sorry your case hasn’t been heard but we hope it happens soon. They will see you are a good girl.’

  I hoped she was right.

  Then she said, ‘Love is stronger than death, Aster.’

  She stood back to look at me and I saw in her face the effort she made to be strong for me.

  ‘We have a gift from Hadassah.’

  It was a cushion, and embroidered on it was my painting of the peacock that I’d put on my Facebook page. My eyes watered. It was a reminder I was cared for and not to give up, a reminder of my real life and of Maryam’s blog.

  My parents gave me a book of promises for my birthday. We never made much of birthdays in the village, but I would be fifteen soon. Inside was fifty rupees in ten-rupee notes.

  ‘You may need that,’ Abba said when he saw my surprise. ‘Keep it hidden and remember to read the Holy Word and it will comfort you. Everyone is praying.’

  We all knew prayers weren’t always answered the way we think they will be. What if Khuda allowed me to stay in here like Job, who had to go through his suffering? Yusef was in prison for years before he became the governor of Egypt. But Danyal was saved from the lion’s den.

  Would I be too?

  CHAPTER

  23

  Time had travelled slower through the winter and early spring. Seeing my parents helped me settle more but at times I didn’t hear Hafsah when she spoke. Some days she didn’t hear me either. There were days I felt I was standing on the edge of a roof and I became dizzy, like I’d fall.

  Little Jani could pull me back. ‘Tell me a story, Aster.’ Or ‘Draw with me, Aster.’

  I did things mechanically – I drew through the bars or held her hand as I told a story. Often I forgot where I was up to, and she prompted me. I caught Kamilah watching me with a worried frown. I thought of Abba and tried to hold all of me together, I didn’t want any pieces slipping away, I didn’t want to be like Narjis.

  Why was waiting so hard?

  Finally, at the end of March not long after Pakistan Day, when the leaves had begun growing on the courtyard tree, the time came. I hoped that this was the day and I wouldn’t have to return again, without knowing what my fate would be.

  Mrs Jamal had said to dress as a schoolgirl this time, so I dressed carefully in my school uniform. It was a year since I had dressed as carefully as this when I began high school.

  Ammi was right, the uniform was loose on me, and I could feel my hipbones through my shalwar. I plaited my hair, placed my scarf on my head and covered myself with the shawl. I was nervous, but also tired of not knowing my fate. Wouldn’t knowing be better than this feeling of an impending monsoon that never gave rain?

  Hafsah didn’t know what would happen to her and it made her listless. When someone remembered she was here, would they finally hear her case? If it weren’t for Mrs Jamal I’d be in the same situation.

  Again, I was taken in a black police van, handcuffed to an officer. I was whisked into the building under my shawl through a back door with riot police standing guard. Yet again we waited in a small room and I thought, This is going to be the same. How many times will I be brought and nothing will happen?

  After two hours Mrs Jamal met with me. ‘I’ve changed my mind about you not speaking,’ she said. ‘With the Colonel as a witness, the judge may feel sympathy for your plight. Keep it short, just say how old you are, what it’s like in prison as a child. And most importantly, that you are innocent of the charge. You won’t be cross-examined – they would make you blaspheme just by asking you a simple question about your faith.’

  I must have looked as panicked as I felt, for she said, ‘There will be time to get it straight in your head. The case being heard is taking longer again, but I have been assured your case will be heard this afternoon.’

  The waiting was even worse than in the prison. What if I get sent back again?

  But Mrs Jamal was right. After a few more hours we were called to the courtroom, which gave me confidence that she would be right about the defence as well. She was my Atticus Finch.

  The court was already filled with people when we entered. I saw a bench up the front, the judge with a gold sash around his neck. I bowed my head in his direction as I entered. I had to stand chained to two officers on either side of me. Mrs Jamal sat at a table in front of us. Her assistant turned to give me a smile, but my mouth wouldn’t work to return it.

  The other lawyer walked in and Mrs Jamal exclaimed. She and her assistant exchanged words. Something was wrong and she glanced worriedly at me. She stood and asked to approach the bench but the judge refused, and ordered her to begin.

  She called her best witness to the stand, Colonel Rafique. He was a character witness to show I would never have intentionally blasphemed. He said I was a good girl and studied hard. There was more I couldn’t remember later. The prosecutor questioned him then.

  ‘Colonel Rafique Ali Khan, you’ve known this girl, Aster Suleiman Masih, all her life, I understand.’ The lawyer drew out my family name slowly for
the court to digest.

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘You are Muslim?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘But she is not. Why haven’t you shown her the true path?’

  The Colonel frowned. ‘Your questioning isn’t in line with the case.’

  The lawyer looked down his multifocal glasses at the Colonel. ‘Let the court decide what is in line, Colonel.’

  I could see what the lawyer was doing and it made me feel tired. There was no way the Colonel could answer to please them unless he made it worse for me.

  ‘Sustained,’ the judge said.

  ‘Answer the question.’ The lawyer stared at the Colonel.

  ‘If God wanted her to change religions he would have put it in her heart to do so.’ Then he said, ‘You are an educated man, why are you taking this ridiculous stance? Look at that girl,’ and he pointed at me. ‘You can see she’s innocent.’

  ‘Education of your sort draws people away from God.’

  ‘I haven’t left the faith even though I’m educated.’

  ‘That is not the evidence I have before me.’

  The Colonel thumped the stand. ‘How dare you make a subjective judgement about my faith? This is outrageous, it’s nothing short of an inquisition.’

  The judge called him to order and more was said to goad the Colonel to put me in a bad light. Tears ran down my face and I closed my eyes; I couldn’t bear to see him so humiliated.

  Anyone else would have said, ‘Yes, I tried to convert her but she didn’t listen’ to show how deserving of the sentence I was, but the Colonel wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.

  Mrs Abdul did. ‘Time and time again in class this apostate had chances to join the true faith, but she stubbornly refused, clinging to her idol worship of three gods.’

  It was Rabia, poor Rabia who tried to convert me, and it wasn’t even for my spiritual welfare.

  Mrs Jamal took Mrs Abdul to task over the missing exam and why she didn’t show it to anyone else. Her argument should have worked, but Mrs Abdul appealed to the judge and a line of bearded clerics in dark shalwar qameezes in the front row.