‘No.’ It was too loud and I flinched. ‘We do not hate you,’ he said more gently. ‘But there are certain laws that need reforming.’
He glanced over my head, probably at Karam. Mr Khan was a lot like Mrs Jamal – I could imagine why they chose her for their family. He was fiery, passionate and strong. I couldn’t imagine anyone killing him, but what if they did? Another special person gone because he tried to fight injustice.
‘What is the matter, Aster?’
My eyes were brimming. Even hearing my name and not my number was undoing me. ‘I don’t want you to die because of me,’ I managed to say. My mouth quivered as I attempted to control myself.
He stared at me for so long it was unnerving. Then he said, ‘My son’s wife did not die because of you. She died while fighting injustice in this great nation, to gain rights for everyone. She died honourably, as a warrior does in battle. Already there has been a softening in the hearts of more imams. She has not died in vain, dear girl.’
He was kind and it made me weep properly. I could always control it for Mrs Jamal. I dashed the tears away.
‘You have been through more than most girls your age. My daughter-in-law always spoke of you as brave and pure. It is the highest commendation in our family.’
‘I don’t feel brave – much of the time I am scared.’
‘Only fools are fearless, Aster.’ He smiled at me then and I gave him a bleary one back.
‘Now, I have carried on with the preparations that my daughter-in-law began in appealing to the High Court in Lahore. ‘There is a petition on the web collecting many signatures for you. We will use that in the appeal. No doubt the appeal will take some time to be heard, and I will not visit you as she did. Just remember you are not alone. And you can call for me.’
He gave me a card with his phone number. I couldn’t imagine Karam letting me use the phone or phoning my lawyer on my behalf. ‘What will you give me?’ he’d ask. Could I ask Mr Khan for money to save myself? He’d ask why I needed it and I’d never be able to explain.
‘Aster?’
I blinked at him. ‘Do you feel safe in here?’
I touched my side. Was Karam watching, listening? I gave the tiniest shake of my head and Mr Khan frowned. Then he glanced at his watch. It was made of gold.
‘I have another appointment.’ He stood and so did I. He came close to me and put his hand on my head in blessing. It made my eyes fill again, he reminded me so much of the Colonel.
‘Keep strong, Aster, I do not know why God allows such things, but he is merciful. Remember this.’ He left the room and I blinked my eyes free of tears so Karam wouldn’t see them. I girded myself for the trip back to the cell as he chained me.
Letters came that afternoon, but they were from people I didn’t know. Should I open them? Would they be condemnations? Gazaalah’s comments were fresh in my head. Hafsah had never had a letter all the time I’d been there, so I gave her one to open. She had learned some words and could read a little now. Some letters were like form letters, typed, but still it was uplifting to read them; others were handwritten and weren’t as easy for her to read, so I helped.
Dear Aster,
My name is Fozia and I live in London. I am very sorry that you are in jail for believing something. It would make me not believe but your cousin says things like this can make belief stronger. A lot of work is being done to get your sentence revoked. I have also signed a petition to free you and have shared it on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and my blog. I hope you can keep strong. I don’t think I could. There are hundreds of thousands of people around the world who know about you and want you to be released.
Best wishes, Fozia
The next we picked was in English. Imagine if I’d never learned English in school and with Ijaz – how would I have read it? Would the genie have sat down with me and read it aloud? This made me grin and Hafsah wanted to know what was funny. We laughed and I couldn’t believe it.
‘We’re allowed to laugh,’ Hafsah said, wiping her eyes, and I caught a glimpse of Narjis in the next cell. She was laughing too, even though she couldn’t know what we found funny.
Dear Aster,
You don’t know me but I heard about you on the web. I’m so sorry you are in prison for what you believe, for I imagine that’s what it boils down to. I hope your appeal is successful and you are released. You could live with my family in Australia if the government would let you in, but they would make you do so much paperwork in Pakistan that you’d be in too much danger while you waited.
I’m learning how much danger there is for people in many countries. I never knew before. We don’t have war in Australia or cruel laws for our citizens, just for people who come without a visa (sorry).
I haven’t been through anything like you have but I know suffering produces perseverance which develops character and then hope. My father says we can get through anything with perseverance and hope. Here is one of my favourite verses: ‘May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.’
I am praying for you, I am your sister in Christ, Tamsin.
PS: Here is a peacock feather. A girl on your cousin’s blog suggested we wear a peacock feather to always remind us of you and if anyone asks why we wear it we can tell people about you.
I picked up the feather and the Rafiques’ garden swirled into my mind. I could even smell the flowers, see Neelum raising his beautiful tail for me. It made me weep. There were other letters, some from men and their families, even from children. There were more peacock feathers, and I had enough to fill a tin cup. This was the letter Hafsah liked best. It was written in Urdu.
Dear Aster,
I bring greetings from my family to yours. I am not Christian but I am Pakistani like you. I don’t believe what some ignorant people here are saying: that people need to be Muslim to be true Pakistani. I am fighting for you to be free, by sharing petitions and speaking at university events in Karachi. This situation is wrong. You shouldn’t be in prison.
In our nation Muslim, Christian, Hindu and other minorities have to stand together to keep a good life for us here. Be encouraged – there are thousands of Muslims, imams included, who think this also. Now we have to pray that the people in the justice system can be as brave as you, and release you. Allah is great.
Your Muslim sister, Affat.
CHAPTER
26
A friend of Mrs Jamal visited me. Her name was Zaib. For once I met someone in jail who was well named, as Zaib means beauty; she had the fair skin, light eyes and brown hair of a Bollywood actress. And she wore glasses like me, except she didn’t try to hide them. Hers had big rims and were the same colour as her outfit. I wondered how many pairs she had.
‘I am sorry to hear about Mrs Jamal,’ I said after we exchanged greetings in the interview room. My eyes prickled, as I remembered the image from the paper. ‘Her husband must hate me.’ I said it regardless of what Mr Khan had told me.
Zaib was quick. ‘It is not your fault. Her husband is a lawyer also and his father has a law firm interested in social justice and human rights. They will not give up.’
‘What can they do?’ I asked, without thinking how hopeless the words would sound.
Zaib didn’t deny it. In her eyes was the same sad pity I had seen in Rabia’s in Islamiyat class nearly two years ago. Instead, she took Mrs Jamal’s notebook from her bag.
‘I am a journalist and need you to write a story.’
The notebook was mesmerising. The last time I saw it Mrs Jamal was so full of life.
I blinked. ‘What story? Mine?’
Her head tilted in affirmation and she waited.
It was too big. I felt the wings of fear flapping all around me.
‘I understand your faith calls you to accept your circumstances and I’ve heard you are an intelligent girl. God has given you that gift, and strength, for a purpose.’
I raised m
y eyebrows; I knew this wasn’t polite, but I couldn’t help it.
She tried again. ‘Do you want to stay in here?’
‘Nay.’
‘Do you want others to be treated as you have been?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You can help make sure they’re not.’
‘How will my story do that?’
‘The more the world knows about prejudice and injustice, the less it can fester. Prejudice is a dung heap. It seethes with life when it is left alone. We need to dig this dung heap up, spread it over the ground for the world to see.’
I knew about dung. How many times as a child had I fashioned Gudiya’s dung into chapatti-sized pats and stuck them on the back wall of our mud house to dry, ready for burning in the winter?
‘Would people want to know?’
‘Some do, others won’t realise what is happening until we tell them.’
‘What can it achieve?’
She paused. ‘It’s true it could be too late for you. You’re waiting on the High Court, but since Mrs Jamal’s father-in-law Sarwari Khan is handling your case now, it is possible that Maryam’s petition will sway the court, show the world’s displeasure about your treatment.
‘On the other hand, it could help someone else. Reform could come.’
I thought of Asia Bibi still on death row after six years and the hordes of people who hadn’t been accused yet.
‘Aster, do you know that people all over the world are sending each other peacock feathers to show that freedom is important? One voice can start change, but other voices need to be raised also.’
I stared at her in shock. All over the world?
She nodded at my expression. ‘The whole world knows about Peacock Blue.’
‘Why are you interested?’
‘I am a journalist. I love my country, my religion, my culture, but we need to do some house-cleaning.’ She gave me a smile, but it was grim. ‘We have mice in the cupboards. You know about that, I expect.’
I inclined my head, thinking of the mice that got into our sack of flour one winter. How I cooked rice with mice dirt in it without noticing.
‘There is danger – not from the government, but from extremist groups if they realise you are writing about blasphemy.’
‘The Taliban?’
She bit her lip. ‘Such a pity that a group which began in order to bring justice is now acting unjustly themselves. They are calling for your execution as an example even though you are innocent.’
‘In their eyes I am guilty.’
‘A Christian will always be guilty in the eyes of an extremist. This is religious intolerance. Mr Khan knows the danger you are in and he will ask for you to be put into solitary confinement.’
I felt a sudden clutch in my middle. How strange that any change in my life felt dangerous. ‘Why?’
‘To keep you safe. From guards, other prisoners, anyone who would ask for visiting rights with the purpose to harm you. A female guard here also suggested it.’
The genie?
Zaib paused. ‘When you are in solitary you will not be able to come to the interview room. I will see you at your cell but I will not be allowed to enter.’
My mouth gaped in horror and she tilted her head. ‘I’m ashamed to say that some people who call themselves Muslims think it is doing God a favour to eliminate you. I’m sorry to speak so plainly but you do need to know the risk.’
‘I don’t understand why they hate us.’
‘Not all, Aster. Please don’t tar every Muslim with this same brush. Have you heard of the Klu Klux Klan in the southern states of America?’
‘Ji, we read To Kill a Mockingbird in school. Our teacher told us about the prejudice that lingered after slavery was abolished.’
‘What did you think of the Klu Klux Klan?’
‘They were evil.’
‘Did you know they called themselves Christians?’
I stared at her, aghast.
‘In your opinion, did they act in a Christian manner?’
‘Not at all. Khuda says to love one another, not kill.’
She sighed. ‘I fear we have the same problem.’
We sat silently for some time until finally I burst out, ‘Where would I start? What would I write?’
‘Start at the beginning – your life before you were accused.’
‘The village? School?’
‘Tell me about it. What do you remember before you were accused?’
I paused. It wasn’t so hard to remember. ‘The village. I was so happy, then something happened that showed me life wasn’t a cornfield.’
‘What was it?’
‘My cousin was attacked by the landlord’s sons.’
‘Did your family get justice?’
‘Nothing was done. They could have burned the whole village. It’s happened in other parts of the country.’
Zaib was silent, then said, ‘This is for the world, Aster. You will be surprised who is interested in you.’
‘The world speaks English – I won’t be able to write it well enough.’
I thought of Maryam and how she grew up in an English-speaking country and now she could write blogs for the world to read.
‘Write it just the way you can, in Urdu if you like. I will translate it into English.’
‘But my grammar . . . My English teacher said I got my words in the wrong order. People would laugh.’
‘I will be your ghostwriter.’
I frowned at her. Ghosts?
She smiled and patted my hand. ‘It means I will fix everything so it sounds fine. No one will see me, and no one will laugh at you.’ She took an iPhone from her bag.
‘Let me show you something, Peacock Blue.’
She pressed Safari and a page appeared. The peacock painting from my Facebook page filled the screen. She scrolled down.
‘Look.’
I leaned over.
Free Peacock Blue. A fourteen-year-old schoolgirl has been given the death sentence when world child rights rule that this is not permissible. Sign here to free Peacock Blue and save her from a death sentence.
Maryam’s name appeared at the bottom. It was over eighteen months ago. I was nearly sixteen now.
‘She’s my cousin.’
‘A very brave one.’ Zaib regarded me. I knew what she was thinking: could I be as brave? ‘Maryam will post your story if you write it.’
‘How? We have no internet here.’ I shouldn’t even have been able to see Zaib’s phone.
‘You will give the story to me. I will type it and check it, and when you have finished I’ll send it to Maryam, then publish it as a book.’
I wasn’t sure I had the energy. ‘Won’t someone wonder why I gave you pages?’
She leaned forward. ‘Yes, they would, but I am now your English tutor. You are supposed to be getting training in here. Do you receive training?’
I shook my head.
‘Now you will.’
She was a quieter version of Mrs Jamal. Both of them were intelligent, enthusiastic young women who cared about me, cared about people – from whichever culture or faith – who weren’t getting a fair hearing.
I nodded at her, my eyes stinging at her kindness, making them heavy. ‘I will think about it.’
Zaib handed me an A4 notebook. It had ‘Exercises’ written on the front. ‘You will need to do an English exercise each day.’
She turned the book over. On the back was written ‘Free Writing’. I opened it as I would an Urdu notebook and saw the blank pages. ‘In here you will write your story. When I come next you will give it to me to mark,’ she gave me a significant glance, ‘and I will give you another exercise book to write in until I come again. In this way we will get your story out to the world.’
Still I resisted. ‘It won’t have a happy ending. There’ll be no fine climax my English teacher used to talk about.’
‘It still needs to be told.’ Then she added, ‘This is your life, just tell how it s
tarted, but write it for the world – they won’t understand our culture unless you show them.’
‘It will take a long time.’
I was surprised at how negative I sounded. Sammy would tell me to lighten up. He’d never let me get away with this complaining.
She pursed her lips.
‘I don’t mean to be flippant but you have nothing else to do. This may help.’
I wondered in what way she meant: to help get me out or to help me persevere?
When I returned to the cell, Hafsah was resting and so was Jani, and I thought for a long time. If Mrs Jamal were the sun, Zaib was the moon, a lesser light, but just as strong. It is the moon that keeps the whole earth on a steady path.
I opened the exercise book and picked up the pen.
I am a simple village girl, studying, helping at home, helping with harvest.
I crossed the first line out. What started it all? Mrs Jamal asked me that. She didn’t believe it was Ijaz, but he was the bright star of my life – he showed me how to believe, not just to be a Masihi in name only, but a loving follower of Yesu Masih. When Ijaz died I felt like an orphan. But when Hadassah was attacked I first learned how precarious our lives were. If I wrote the story I could begin with Ijaz, for his death had changed my life the most, and then Hadassah.
School and Mrs Abdul could come later. I would never know if she just hated me for myself or because of my faith, or whether she truly believed the only way to force me to convert was to accuse me.
But I didn’t want to convert – I had a relationship with Khuda through belief in Yesu Masih. If I told anyone that I’d be accused of blasphemy all over again. So perhaps I was guilty after all.
Yet Yesu loves Mrs Abdul and I have to forgive her whether I feel like it or not. Yusef forgave his eleven brothers for selling him into slavery and he turned his suffering into faith. Abba said if we waited to forgive until we felt like it no one ever would.
I turned the exercise book over and did an exercise, writing sentences instead. I still wasn’t sure if it was worth writing my story. How could my words change anything? Every day I faced death, wondering if this was the day they would carry out the sentence – how would my story make a difference to that? Facing death did make me appreciate the people in my life. I looked over at Jani; she was napping in the next cell, her arm flung over the edge of the top charpai. ‘You shouldn’t be in here,’ I whispered. No child should grow up in prison. What if this happened to my little cousins, or they were accused like me? They would be innocent but no one would believe them.
The Truth About Peacock Blue Page 17