We seldom talk in the morning. Today we try hard not to say anything to one another, and that is a very different thing. The Chinese girls ignore us as always, so they don’t notice, not even the pale‑purple‑haired one. She’s giggling over a photo with a friend.
I eat my watery porridge. Wash my bowl. Climb back onto my bunk and unwrap the shrouding cloth. If I sit against the wall and lift my smock, I may be able to wind it around my body so no one will notice. It’s a very long piece of material. I stretch it out, find the middle, and place it against my back. Bringing the two ends forward, I cross the material under my breasts, around again to the back, then front, then back, until I am bound all the way down to my hips. I have no way to fasten the ends, so I tie them in a strong knot. I’ve wound myself so tightly I can hardly breathe. I don’t know if it’s from lack of air or because I feel like a half-dead mummy. Maybe it’s God’s punishment for my sacrilege.
And how will I carry the money? The directions? What if the door is locked and Ushi catches us?
I look at the clock. It’s time to go. The voice in my head is loud and clear. You will tie the money and directions in your scarf. You’ll hide it in your clothing. Remember how you and Mikray hid the naan when you snuck back into the hotel? The thought of Mikray fills me with courage. She would be proud of us now. Of me.
The clock is ticking down as I climb from my bunk. “Let’s split into groups of three,” I say. “Come last, Adile,” I whisper to her as I pass. “Make sure everyone comes.” I take Jemile and Nurbiya by their arms and pull them with me. Their fear is palpable. I wonder if they’ll make it down the stairs. We fall in step with the Chinese girls—everyone rushing now to be checked in to work on time.
Little bosses stand at the door with their pads and pencils. They’re half asleep. Jemile, Nurbiya, and I pass behind them unnoticed and head for the next flight of stairs. A few seconds later Gulnar, Rayida, and Nadia join us. When we’re halfway down the stairs to the bottom floor, we halt—our eyes glued to the top of the stairs. It’s grown too quiet. Then I see Adile, Patime, and Letipe creeping along the wall in the shadow. “Let’s go. Keep against the wall. Move quickly,” I say in more of a hiss than a whisper.
When I reach the bottom of the steps, I start running and hope everyone follows. The door’s in sight. No one is at the desk. I try the handle. It works, and I open the door just enough to squeeze through. “Go across the highway. Hide. We’ll regroup there,” I whisper as each one passes. Adile is the last to come.
The traffic on the street is heavy, but we all cross safely and huddle together on the other side, shielded from view of the factory by a street merchant’s wares.
“There’s a bus in fifteen minutes, four long blocks away. We’re too exposed if we walk along the highway. We have to find a parallel street,” I say, moving away, knowing how easy it is to get lost. Ushi may already have Quin Fong trying to follow us. Or Chen—I still have no idea whose side he’s on.
The townspeople stare at us, curiosities for sure—nine Uyghur girls rushing down the street. It’s lucky we have sweaters that we brought from home. We wear them in the factory against the November chill that settles into the building overnight. Now they partly conceal the blueness of our uniforms.
I don’t feel the chill in the air. The shroud that’s wrapped around my body makes me sweat. I wonder again if there will be any sacredness left in it at all.
We find the bus stop. I give each girl a yuan note for bus fare. We try to be inconspicuous. There are few shadowy places to hide.
The bus comes. It’s crowded to bursting, but I’m glad to be riding away from the factory, even for our sad mission. It seems forever before we get to the gate where we are to transfer to another bus, one that takes us into the countryside. I wasn’t told what time that bus would arrive, only that it will.
It does. We pay our fare. We each have a seat. Soon we leave big highways for narrow paved roads. Small towns, sometimes just a cluster of a few houses, line our way. I see few cars and trucks. Traffic is most often a bicycle, a motorcycle, or a person walking. It could almost be like home, except there’s too much water here—ponds and lakes, endless green fields. And too many thick poles holding up overhead wires.
According to the note in the package, the name of the town we’re going to will be on a white vertical sign attached to one of these poles. It will be at a crossroads where there is only one house. Someone will meet us there, and we’ll walk to the small town where Zuwida has been taken. I have shared the name with the driver, who assures me he knows where we’re going.
We’re growing restless. The villages are farther and farther apart, and it feels as though we will never reach our destination.
We’re the only passengers on the bus now.
“Roshen.” Adile slides into the seat beside me. “It seems too far.” She whispers in Uyghur, but everyone hears. They wait for my answer.
“It’s okay, I’m sure,” I say, even though I’m not certain it is. “Someone at the factory has respect for the dead and made it possible for us to come. We must believe that.” I say these words to reassure myself, for it has crossed my mind that the driver might have been told to dump us at the crossroads and no one will be waiting there. “We have return bus fare,” I add. “We’re expected to come back.”
“Hey, you girls speak a funny language.” Our Chinese driver turns his head to take a quick look at us, smiles, chuckles. “Why are all of you pretty girls coming out here to the middle of nowhere anyway?” He keeps talking, even though his eyes are back on the road. “I have a lot of friends who would like to meet you if you’re going to be staying a while,” he says. “I live not too far away.”
He seems innocent, flirting with us, not like someone Ushi has paid to deliver us to a detention center—a possibility that has been more and more on my mind. We’ve been a disappointment to Ushi by running away, by dying . . . by being a favorite of Big Boss.
The driver turns toward us again. Leers.
“We, ah, we’re only here for the day. Thank you,” I stammer. He shrugs. Keeps driving. I won’t ask him how much farther we have to go or if he really knows the road we want. And we can’t be sure the place we’re going to is safe.
With hand signals and whispers the driver can’t possibly hear, we divide into two groups. We no longer look at the countryside. Five of us scan the electric and phone line poles on the right-hand side of the road, and four look for a sign of any kind on the left-hand side.
Even before we see the road sign, the driver is screeching his brakes to a stop. “This is it,” he says. He opens the door and we pile out.
The cook who was fired for helping Zuwida is standing by the roadway. She is wearing a white headscarf. There is a soft sadness in her eyes as her arms open to welcome us.
I go to her. I find no words; my throat is choked. My hands cross my heart and I bow my head. I want her to take me in her arms, as she must have taken Zuwida, and tell me that everything will be all right.
One by one the girls follow my gesture, and we all stand before her with tears streaming down our faces.
“Come,” she says in Mandarin. “We have much to do.”
Twenty-Eight
WALKING DOWN THE mud-puddled road through the harvested fields, I almost feel at home. The sounds, the rhythms of life here are familiar. I hear the hum of insects, not the noisy drone of sewing machines or the roar of traffic. I hear birdcalls, not earsplitting horns.
The dirt road becomes a narrow path. A farmer bends over a small vegetable garden, picking what is ready for today’s use, taking it to his handcart at the side of the path. A woman in a distant plot tills the earth with her hoe, preparing the ground for winter planting.
We come to a small cluster of houses. The cook leads us to the back of one. It’s a stone house with a slanted, tiled roof. Much of the white plaster that once covered the house has washed away, leaving earth-colored stones exposed. With thick walls, it’s a s
turdy house that blends in an ageless way into the landscape.
“Please come inside. We will have tea and then I will tell you of the journey Zuwida made.”
It is dark inside. The stone walls block out the sunlight, but a small fire burns in the hearth, bringing comforting warmth to the room and to the tiled floor, which we now walk upon in bare feet since we have left our shoes at the door. The room is sparsely furnished, and we’re invited to sit on pillows. While the cook prepares tea, we take out the white scarves we’ve been hiding and tie them around our heads. It is safe now to mourn our friend openly. The paper and the precious yuan I carried hidden go into my pocket.
The cook appears in the doorway with tea and rice cakes and smiles at the sight of us in our scarves. She sits on the floor and ceremoniously offers tea. She fills a bowl, offers it to Adile, looks at her in a way no one has since we arrived at the factory, and bows her head. She does this for each of us. Then she pours her own tea, and we drink together. Rice cakes are passed, and we try to take them without too much greediness.
“Zuwida was finally taken to the hospital on the back of a motorcycle,” the cook tells us. “She died two days later. Hawa was able to get in touch with her relatives, but they could do nothing. They are too poor. Perhaps not caring.” She stops. Brushes tears away with her fingers. “We are fortunate that Chen has a loving heart. He let Hawa know Zuwida was ill, and he rescued Zuwida’s body. She was brought here late last evening. This time she was tied to the back of the motorcycle in an old rice sack.”
The binding cloth seems to tighten around me. I gulp air. Swallow. I try to purge the awful image that flashes through my head with thoughts of Chen’s kindness.
“Her body is here in your home?” I ask, my voice making unnatural, squeaky sounds. “She is finally at rest?”
“Zuwida is here. Her journey was not pleasant, but she was kept from a far worse fate.”
For a moment our host closes her eyes. Her lips move as if in prayer. “My name is Yan Zhi. I am Hui Muslim. I am Chinese, but we are all one under the commands of Allah. I will help you in the bathing and shrouding of the body. The nu ahong who lives in a neighboring village has agreed to come to lead us in the prayers for the dead. We are fortunate to have a female imam nearby.”
My hands go to my heart and I bow my head, overwhelmed by the kindness, the gentleness of this woman who seems not to notice or care that we are Uyghur.
My hands still touch my heart as I lift my head. “Thank you,” I say, and I hear these words echoed by those around me. Yan Zhi’s hands go to her heart as she nods in acknowledgment.
“Let’s begin,” she says.
“I carry the shroud that was given to us on my body. I—I had to,” I stammer. “There was no other way to hide it. Will it be all right to use?”
“I believe it will be all the more sacred because it has had your protection. Come, my daughters,” Yan Zhi says, rising from the floor. “We will perform our ablutions in the room where I have laid Zuwida’s body.”
We walk through a door into a dimly lit room. Zuwida’s body is on a table. She still wears a hospital gown. Ushi called her Mouse, and she does look tiny lying there, pale, emaciated. There seems so little left of her.
Yan Zhi takes my arm and leads me to a dark corner. Together we unwind the long length of cotton. Yan Zhi folds it into five equal pieces, each long enough to cover Zuwida’s body, and cuts the pieces apart. She sprinkles a few drops of flower-scented perfume on the prepared kafan and lays it aside.
“Roshen,” she says, “will you be first to perform the ritual? The water in the sink is pure. It comes from a deep well.”
I’m surprised she knows my name. It pleases me. I go to the sink.
“Wash your hands three times,” Yan Zhi says.
I turn the handle on the faucet, and the coolest, most delicious-smelling water flows over my hands. I rub my palms, entwine my fingers. I would gladly wash my hands five times. More. But Yan Zhi is counting. “Now cup your hands. Fill them with water and wash your face, again three times.”
The cool water on my face restores my whole body. It is better than a full night’s sleep.
“Now take the basin that’s on the shelf beside you and fill it with water. Wash your arms up to the elbows, three times, beginning with your right hand. Your feet will be next. Place the basin on the floor and wash each foot up to the ankle, three times.”
The joy of cleansing my body with pure water is joined by another awareness: a peacefulness I have not felt in so long. I have finished my ablutions, and Yan Zhi now recites a prayer in Arabic. Somehow I understand the words: “I bear witness that there is no god but Allah alone, without any partner, and I bear witness that Muhammad (peace be upon him) is his servant and messenger.” These words bring peace. Perhaps I was taught the prayer when I was a young child.
I squat on the floor and rest as Yan Zhi leads the others, one by one, through their ablutions.
All of us prepare Zuwida’s body for burial. Gulnar helps Yan Zhi remove Zuwida’s clothes, carefully covering her private parts with small cloths to preserve her modesty. She is turned onto her left side so that the right side of her body can be washed. Three girls help, using soft cloths with soap and water for the first two washes and pure water with scent for the third wash.
Zuwida is turned onto her right side, and three other girls perform the ritual washes. Adile is chosen to wash and braid Zuwida’s hair, something she has done for her friend many times before. She also takes a cloth and dries her body.
It is Yan Zhi and I who place the shroud. Five times we cover Zuwida with the pieces of white cotton. Yan Zhi cuts strips of cloth from the top and bottom of the material, and we use them to bind the kafan at Zuwida’s head and at her feet, careful to tie it in such a way that her head and feet are clearly differentiated. It is important that she is laid in the earth with her face turned right toward the Ka’ba, the House of God at Mecca.
“The nu ahong will be here shortly to lead us in prayer. Let’s leave for a moment and refresh ourselves with tea.” We sit silently. Drink our tea and eat more rice cakes.
A middle-aged woman arrives with three younger women. They are attired in dark dresses. Large white headscarves cover their hair and their necks. They greet us in the traditional Arabic way.
“At peace?”
“At peace!” we answer. “And you?”
“At peace,” they say, finishing the greeting.
“Let us begin our prayers for the deceased,” the nu ahong says. “It is important that her body be laid to rest this day before sunset.”
The nu ahong stands close to Zuwida’s body. Yan Zhi arranges us behind her.
“I am offering prayers for this dead body in compliance with the commands of Allah,” the nu ahong says. “Please join me in reciting the supplications.”
She recites her prayers in a loud voice. Yan Zhi and the nu ahong’s followers join her in softer, lower voices. Five times the prayers are stopped and they say the takbir. I know these words. “Allahu akbar,” I say with them. “God is most great.”
And then it is over. Yan Zhi brings a wide board into the room. The nu ahong and her companions transfer Zuwida’s body from the table to the board and cover it with a white sheet.
“The nu ahong has arranged for the burial. Zuwida will be carried to the road, where a car awaits,” Yan Zhi says. “She will be taken to their village. The imam there will say the prayers and see that she is properly laid to rest.” Yan Zhi turns her eyes away from us. “It is best that your presence in the area is not known.”
We stand solemnly by the door as Zuwida’s body is carried away. “Shie-shie,” we say over and over again to the women. “Thank you.”
“Hosh,” we whisper in Uyghur to Zuwida. “Goodbye.”
We step outside to watch the slow procession. We watch long after they have disappeared from our sight.
My mind fills with questions. Will the authorities allow a Uyghur person to
be buried in a Hui burial ground? Won’t they have to fill out papers saying who she is? I know I can’t ask these questions, that I must not doubt the goodwill and courage of Yan Zhi. And I don’t really want to know the answers. I want to think only of Zuwida’s peaceful transition into the afterlife.
When we go back inside, Yan Zhi invites us into her kitchen. “You must have at least one good meal while you are away from your homes,” she says. And she puts us to work washing and scraping vegetables, cutting fruit. We gladly obey. Soon we’re sitting on pillows, eating from her bowls. We do not have to sniff for traces of pork or pick out rotten potatoes.
Toward the end of the meal, Yan Zhi goes to her kitchen ledge. She comes back with a platter full of large red dates and then returns to the ledge for a bowl of walnuts. “These gifts,” she says, “were brought to me by the same young man who brought Zuwida to me. They are from a friend, he said.”
Gulnar and I exchange glances. We know where they are from. We may never know who sent them. But as I fill my mouth with the luscious sweet taste of the date, Mikray is with us. Hawa is too. We are all together once again as we mourn our dear sister.
Twenty-Nine
IT IS LATE AFTERNOON by the time we follow Yan Zhi down the path to the road, where we catch the last bus of the day that will take us to the city gates. I’m not pleased to see the same driver. But his interest in us has passed, and he’s annoyed at the time it takes to collect nine fares. He speeds off before we find seats, sending us lurching down the aisle, rudely jarring us into the reality of our return.
I was the last to get on the bus. The others have paired off, leaving me to sit by myself. I study the landscape, the many lakes and streams we drive by. I think of the abundance of water that for weeks saturated the ground. So different from home, where every precious drop of water seems a miracle.
It’s not good to think of soil and water. This is the earth in which Zuwida’s body has been buried. By now her grave has been dug, her body laid in the ground. However kindly it has been done, her body will be devoured by this earth when it should be preserved by the hot, dry sand of our homeland.
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