Far From My Father's House

by Jill McGivering

  The young man was suddenly there beside her, his forehead creased with worry. ‘We must go,’ he said. ‘Please.’

  He thinks I’m crazy. He doesn’t understand. Layla was on her feet, being helped into the car. Ellen hesitated, standing there in the road surrounded by open fields. The land rose gently as it swept into foothills. I have no idea where he is. Twenty minutes’ drive from here or thirty. In the distance, the mountains made a sharp ridge against the early evening sky. He could be anywhere.

  She turned back to the young man. ‘What is the name of this place?’ She pointed to the ground. ‘We must write it down.’

  ‘Please.’ He lifted his hand and gestured to the car. Layla was already inside.

  They drove quickly. Ellen’s eyes were heavy but wouldn’t close. She stared at the close-cropped heads of the young men in the front seats, wondering exactly who they were and how all this had been arranged. She was too exhausted to ask. Layla sat beside her in the back, slumped in her seat, her head nodding. It was only a day ago that they’d driven out from the camp together, with Ibrahim squashed in the back alongside them and Frank tall in the front beside the driver. Since then, so much had changed. Ellen reached out to steady Layla as the car swayed. Outside the windows, the countryside thickened as fields gave way to large houses, set back from the road in walled plots, then, finally, to the busy outskirts of Peshawar.

  Layla woke up as they bounced along the final track over the mudflats to the camp. She sat, bleary-eyed, staring out into the gathering dusk, a small hunched figure. When they stopped at the camp gates, she looked suddenly frightened.

  ‘Come on.’ Ellen reached over and patted her shoulder. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No.’ Layla’s voice was defiant. She turned her face away.

  Ellen hesitated, watching her. ‘You’re safe here, Layla. It’s OK.’

  One of the young men got out of the front and opened the back door. Layla drew her chador close and climbed heavily out of the car. She didn’t look back, just limped wordlessly past the guards into the camp and disappeared down the shadowy path which led between the tents and shelters.

  The main entrance of The Swan was lit as they swung down the drive towards it. The doorman was on the steps. Beside him a tall, slight woman was pacing up and down, peering into the dusk. Her head was covered but strands of blonde hair spilt out from its folds. As the car drew to a halt, Britta ran forwards and tugged open the back door. Her face loomed large and pale as she reached inside to Ellen.

  ‘Thank God.’ She looked close to tears. ‘You’re OK? Thank God.’

  She helped Ellen out of the car and up the steps with exaggerated care, one arm round her back, as if she were an elderly woman. In the brightness of the foyer, she tipped back Ellen’s head and examined the gash on her forehead.

  ‘Any other injuries? Any pain?’

  Ellen shook her head.

  ‘I’ll dress it,’ she said, still looking at the gash. ‘We must prevent infection.’

  The man on reception looked up and nodded to Ellen as they passed. The marble ball was turning under its curtain of running water to the sound of the lobby’s tinkling piano music. It’s all, Ellen thought, as if Mohammed Bul Gourn didn’t exist. She felt herself shake.

  ‘Up to your room,’ Britta said. ‘Hot tea, washing and a good rest.’

  Ellen pulled at her arm. She wanted to weep with frustration. No one seemed to understand. ‘But, Britta,’ she said, ‘they’ve still got Frank.’

  Chapter 23

  The previous afternoon, Jamila had sat with her hands folded in her lap on the plank of wood that passed for a seat. She was worried. Ibrahim and Layla should be back by now. It was dangerous out there once darkness fell. The fighters were everywhere.

  The young Aunties were gathered in a corner of the yard, gossiping and twittering. Older children chased in circles. Small ones rolled in the dirt. Hamid and the Uncles stood close to the tents, looking out at the camp and the slow comings and goings of their neighbours. The soft furls of their cigarette smoke rose over their heads and dispersed in the creamy light.

  Jamila shook her head, fretting about Ibrahim. Her guts ached. The water here was rancid. It twisted her insides. She needed to go home to the village, to the sweet water of their well and food from their own land. This hot, dirty life was poisoning them. She looked out at the last red streaks of sun on the mountains which were fingering the ridges and throwing into relief the blackness of the gullies and clefts. She wondered what was left of their house, of her own room with its cot and furniture and whether she would ever see it again.

  Shouting interrupted her thoughts. She sat up. It was coming from the direction of the camp entrance. Hamid raised his head, his expression strained. A riot, she thought, and more destruction. May Allah protect us. She waited as the noise came steadily nearer. Neighbouring women poked their heads out of shelters to look and men emerged to stand in groups in the dusk.

  A group of men came into sight, fringed by running boys. They carried something heavy and awkward in their arms, and were heading towards them. Hamid ran out and pushed through to the centre of the group. His cry was wrenching: ‘My brother.’ He launched himself at the body in their arms and the men lowered it to the ground.

  ‘Get help,’ said one of the Uncles.

  Another shouted, ‘Who did this?’

  Jamila started to shake. Somehow she got to her feet and staggered out of the compound to the crowd. The men drew apart and let her through. Ibrahim, my husband. She fell onto her knees beside Hamid, grabbing at his arm to steady herself. His eyes were anguished as he shifted and gave her space.

  My Ibrahim. His face was distorted. His eyes were puffed balls of flesh, their lids pressed closed. His lips were swollen. Trails of dried blood ran from his nostrils, forming crusts across his upper lip and cheek. The contours of his cheeks and nose were pulled out of shape by lumps of bruised bone. My husband . . . how could God allow this?

  Beside her, Hamid was bent double and wailing. He rocked back and forth in convulsions, his arms clutching his stomach.

  She gathered Ibrahim’s head and shoulders into her arms and pressed him to her chest. She buried her face in the slack, cold skin of his neck and kissed it, inhaled it. You were my husband first. Why have you gone, left me all alone? She started to keen, clasping him tightly to her, as the Aunties gathered in a circle around them and raised their voices in weeping and mourning.

  The following afternoon, Jamila sat lifelessly in the yard and stared across the bustle of the camp towards the mountains. Her mind was numb. She had slept little in the night, her face buried in her chador, shaking and crying. Ibrahim was gone.

  Already, that morning, the imam had led the procession to the grave. Hamid and the Uncles had lowered Ibrahim into the unfriendly earth, far from the village and the mountains. Jamila remembered the funeral as a blur of shapes and movements. The faces, the weeping, the prayers, the falling soil. It was all unreal.

  Now she sat in silence. The Aunties brought her food but she couldn’t eat. Soon she must start her life, this new life without him, as a childless widow. Even if the family returned to the village, the best she could hope was that Hamid found a corner in his house for her. Ibrahim’s home, their home, would be handed to one of the younger Aunties with children.

  And Layla was gone too. Ibrahim’s body had been found alone. Layla had been abducted or killed. All day, no one had dared to speak of her. Jamila blinked hard and spangles of light jumped and swam in front of her face. She always pushed me away, she thought. I tried to teach Layla when she was a child, to share the traditions her mother didn’t seem to respect. I showed her how to cook, how to knead dough and shape rotis, the way my mother taught me. She never cared. Jamila closed her eyes. Now the only one left is Marva, the crippled girl, who will never marry and never bear children. Hamid will have to care for her too.

  Finally it became quiet in the yard. The Aunties took their pails and went to
fetch water so they could wash down the children before the sun set. Jamila drew her chador round her shoulders and sat, staring into nothingness. A rat darted across the yard, paused in its path and lifted its head, rigid with attention. It ducked its nose and ran across the ground to disappear between the rows of tents. The light grew dull. The white canvas of the tents shimmered with haze.

  A girl was walking towards her, her head bowed, throwing a deep shadow on the path. Jamila stared. It was a spirit, back from the grave. Layla was coming directly towards her. Her clothes were filthy and her hands too. Her face was pale. As she approached, she pulled at her scarf, shielding herself.

  ‘Auntie.’ Her voice was weak. ‘The fighters stole me. Now I am back.’

  Jamila couldn’t speak. She sat, frozen, watching the girl, stunned by her return. Layla stood at the entrance to the yard. She looked exhausted.

  ‘Baba is dead. They killed my baba.’

  ‘I know.’ Jamila nodded. ‘We buried him today.’

  Neither of them moved. Behind Layla, the young Aunties trailed back from the well. Their voices came first, loud with laughter. They rounded the corner from the path through to the clear space in front of the yard. They walked in twos, heaving pails of water between them. The water sloshed gently at the rims, splattering the dust.

  They stopped when they saw the girl and stared. The Aunties at the front set down their pail, making a spreading wet ring. They looked at Layla, then at Jamila and finally at each other. The children, skipping in circles, drunk with tiredness, sensed the tension and stopped.

  The girl seemed close to collapse. She stepped into the yard.

  ‘The family won’t just take you back.’ Jamila spoke softly. ‘You have been away with those men. You are dishonoured.’

  The girl didn’t look at her and didn’t reply. She set her face and walked past Jamila and into the tent where she used to sleep. The Aunties watched this and whispered to each other. They seemed uncertain what to do. The girl didn’t come out of the tent again. Jamila did not move.

  After some time, the Aunties picked up their pails again and took them to the back of the yard. Jamila sat quietly, listening to the splashing water and the children’s voices. She thought about Layla. You are too young to understand, she thought. The men will think you are disgraced and despise you for it. What can I do to shield you from their rage? Without Ibrahim, we have no one left to protect us.

  Within an hour, Hamid and the Uncles and the older male cousins gathered, their faces grave, and sat in council in the dirt. The Aunties kept away, busying themselves with settling the children and draping damp clothes around the shelters to dry. Only Jamila sat close enough to the men to listen.

  Hamid, the head of the family, invited the men to speak.

  ‘We must disown her,’ one Uncle was saying. He had daughters of his own whose reputations must be protected. No one would marry the cousin of a girl who had disgraced her family. ‘Ibrahim’s death is tragic. But she was away from us for a whole night. These men have shamed her.’

  A young cousin agreed. ‘She is not my blood now,’ he said. ‘She is not part of my family.’

  Hamid pulled at his beard. His eyes were sunken in his skull.

  ‘Ibrahim was a good man,’ another Uncle said. ‘But he ruined the girl. He softened her into a ball of dough on which any man could stamp his mark. We must drive her out and protect our family name.’

  The men looked to Hamid, waiting for him to give judgement.

  ‘By rights,’ the first Uncle put in, ‘she should be thrown in jail for illegal sex. That’s what men of honour would insist on.’

  The young cousin nodded. ‘It’s the law. We should think about that.’

  Hamid sat quietly, his head lowered. He had followed the men’s arguments, turning from one face to the next as they spoke. Now he seemed to hesitate.

  ‘She may be disgraced,’ Jamila’s voice pushed into their circle from outside; the men looked round in surprise, ‘but maybe she can still be married. Many men want a young wife.’

  Jamila bent her head in submission, knowing she might be scolded. She was a woman. No one expected her to interrupt.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Hamid.

  ‘Do you have to cast her out to restore the family’s honour? Punishment may be enough, then marriage.’

  ‘Who’d marry her now?’ The young cousin sounded enraged.

  Jamila shrugged. ‘There may still be a match.’

  Hamid fingered his beard and considered this. He turned back to the men. ‘I will beat her with my own hand,’ he said. ‘Praise be to God.’

  News of the flogging spread through the camp. Jamila led the Aunties in washing and dressing Layla inside the tent. Her body was filthy and pale and she didn’t resist them. None of the women spoke.

  They brought her out, Jamila holding one of Layla’s arms and an Auntie taking the other. A blanket had been spread on the mud and they forced her to kneel on it, then to lie on her stomach. They lowered themselves to the ground beside her, each holding one of her wrists. Layla’s body stretched on the ground in a cross, her arms wide.

  Jamila rested her hand for a moment on the girl’s head. ‘Close your eyes,’ she whispered. ‘It’s better.’ She sat back, one hand pinning Layla’s wrist and the other clasping the thin fingers of her hand.

  The crowd pressed forwards, craning to see over the fence. Excited young men pushed and shoved each other. Children clawed at the plastic, trying to make spyholes. At the back, women of all ages stood with fathers and brothers.

  Layla trembled. Jamila stroked her hot face and leant in to whisper. ‘Don’t be afraid. Hamid is a decent man.’

  Layla didn’t respond.

  Hamid stepped forwards. A murmuring passed through the crowd. Everyone knew what had happened, that the girl had been disgraced, away from her family amongst strange men. Hamid shifted the split cane from hand to hand, testing its weight. The tip of his tongue flicked across his lips. Then he bent low over Layla, threw back his arm and brought it down hard across her back.

  The thwack resounded. A woman at the front gasped. Jamila felt the shock pass through Layla’s body and grasped her hand more tightly. Hamid’s face was intent. He drew back his arm, gathered his strength and struck her a second time. Layla let out a cry. Her back was taut and her legs drummed the ground. Jamila bit her lip.

  The blows came more steadily as Hamid found a rhythm. After the fourth or fifth, Layla seemed to slacken. She was whimpering but quietly and without hope. Her hand was limp. In the crowd, no one spoke.

  On the girl’s back, the cloth of the kameez danced. The fabric lifted with the downward breeze of his arm, then reeled as the cane whistled.

  Hamid gave ten strokes. Jamila counted them off. Afterwards, he set the cane on the ground and walked out of the compound without a word. The crowd parted to let him pass.

  Layla lay motionless on the blanket. The kameez was shredded on her back, the threads of light cloth blotting the blood. Jamila squeezed her hand. She reached out and touched her head.

  ‘It’s over,’ she whispered. ‘Finished.’

  Layla didn’t answer. Jamila lifted her head and gestured to the young cousins who were standing watching. She directed them to lift the four corners of the blanket and carry Layla, sagging between them, into the tent.

  The young men lining the fence turned and wandered away. The crowd began to thin. Only the most ardent hung around the compound for some time, pointing to the spot where the blanket had been, gossiping about the beating and the young girl’s shame.

  In the tent, Layla lay on her stomach, moaning. The skin on her back was a latticework of cuts and bruising. Jamila crooned to her in a low voice, lifting strands of damp hair away from her face. Maybe, she thought, now honour was restored, Layla could marry one of the cousins and live nearby in the village. Maybe, after all, she could still be taught. I could help with the children, she thought. She might have a girl like Syma. She wet a cloth a
nd stroked it over Layla’s skin, cooling it. The girl wouldn’t speak to her. Her pride was broken. But, in time, it would heal.

  Later, as night closed in, Hamid called for Jamila to come out to him. He was pacing up and down the mud yard.

  ‘A man has approached me,’ he said. ‘About taking Layla in marriage.’

  Jamila looked up. ‘What man?’

  Hamid spoke in a low voice. ‘He is the second brother in a family in the valley. They don’t own land. They are weavers. They need girls.’ He paddled his fingers on an invisible loom in the air.

  Jamila nodded. Layla was young and strong and this man knew he could have her cheaply because of her disgrace. ‘What kind of man is he?’

  ‘Not educated,’ said Hamid. ‘He’s of my age. She would be a second wife. The first has three children.’

  Jamila sighed. Layla needed a husband to protect her, it was true. Maybe this man would be kind. But the valley was a long way from Mutaire, a long way from home.

  ‘Your brother is watching in Paradise,’ she said. ‘He will bless you if you care for the girl. If you find her a good marriage.’

  He looked down at his hands. ‘If my son had not been taken by the police—’

  Jamila nodded. If Adnan had not been imprisoned, Ibrahim and the girl would never have left to see him. She too had thought that.

  ‘It is the will of Allah,’ she said simply. ‘It is not for us to question and not for us to understand.’

  He left her alone in the yard. The camp was settling for the night. The air was peppered with grunting and snoring. An aircraft flew fast and low overhead and she tipped her head to watch it. The boom of the engines followed afterwards, echoing across the plain. She stared until it disappeared. It was heading for the mountains, for Mutaire, perhaps.

  Ibrahim, I did my best to protect Layla, did you see? She laced her hands around her knees. I pray to God this weaving husband is a good man, as kind and gentle as you.

  When she closed her eyes, she could imagine him there beside her, his warm, pale eyes glinting behind his glasses, his long fingers holding a book. She opened her eyes but there was only dirt, ridged and baked hard after two days without rain, and, beyond the camp, the black silhouette of the mountains against the night sky. She shook herself and crept inside the tent to sleep.