Wanting Mor (Large Print 16pt)

by Rukhsana Khan

  She doesn’t say anything. She just licks her lips and glances at Zeba.

  When we’ve finished, Zeba starts saying bad things about their teacher and Soraya laughs. I try not to listen, using my last chunk of naan to wipe my bowl clean.

  Without warning, the door opens and Khalaa Gul leads a number of huge men inside. I’m the only one to grab my porani to cover my head and face.

  They’re foreigners, soldiers, wearing splotchy dull green uniforms. I wonder if they are American. I wonder if they are the ones who killed my family.

  They’re standing there in their huge black boots, so tall they practically touch the ceiling.

  Khalaa Gul gestures in our direction and says something in a strange language. Soraya nudges Zeba, and they both bend their heads and giggle.

  I nudge Soraya. “What?”

  “Khalaa Gul is at it again. You’ll see.”

  All the other girls are quiet. There’s a nervous silence in the air. Khalaa Gul comes right up to me and touches my chin to lift my face toward these strange men.

  What is she doing? What’s happening? She’s talking to them in that strange language. They’re staring at me. I want to hide. She grabs a corner of my porani and tries to pull it away. I yank it from her.

  Then she bends down and whispers in my ear, “These men could help you. You need to show them your face.”

  The whole room is staring at me, including Soraya and Zeba. I’ve got no choice.

  Khalaa Gul says, “It’s all right, Jameela. I’m right here.”

  So I let the porani fall away. But that’s not enough. Khalaa Gul grabs my chin and lifts my face right up so they can see my ugly lip.

  I might as well be standing there naked. That’s how I feel. I’m forced to stare right into their glassy blue eyes. They’re looking at me with pity on their faces.

  Khalaa Gul finally lets go of my chin and I can get away from their strange faces and piercing eyes. They say something, and Khalaa Gul looks happy. She nods vigorously. Some of her hair escapes from that flimsy porani she wears and swishes back and forth.

  They stand there for I don’t know how long, talking about us in this other language, like we don’t even exist.

  Then she goes down the room and points out a few more girls.

  Arwa touches my arm. “Are you all right?”

  My face is hot.

  Soraya nudges me. “Jameela?”

  “I’m all right.” I feel a bit better when I pull my knees up to my chest and hug them.

  Soraya says, “Don’t worry about it. It’s happened to all of us. You just have to get used to it. She brings all these foreigners through here and tells them our sad stories so they’ll give the place money. It’s how we survive.”

  Zeba nods. “And then she gets mad at them for something and kicks them out. She’s always going through new people. These men might actually be useful. I wonder if they’ll fix the toilets?”

  Arwa touches my hand again. “Don’t feel bad. I was scared, too, the first time it happened. I’m much bigger now.”

  Her words make me smile. Then she says, “I’m glad you’re in my class. Do you like my teacher?”

  I stiffen and turn away. She’s trying to trick me. Make me like her. She’s too clingy. There’s just something about her.

  After lunch we pray Zuhr. I’m shocked at the way the girls pray. Most of them don’t even bother to say the words. Soraya prays, but Zeba sits in a corner and chats with a friend.

  There are some books in here. I pick one up and look at the squiggles and dots and lines on the page. Some of them look a little familiar to me now. I’m sure I see jeems and a few has and even a kha.

  Khalaa Kareema sees me and comes over. “Please be careful with these books. They’re the only copies we have.”

  “I wouldn’t ruin them for the world.”

  She looks at me like I’ve said something strange.

  She says, “These are some Qurans and these are tafseers, translations and explanations of the Quran. Some are in Farsi and some are in Pushto. See the lettering?”

  I touch the spines of the books.

  “Will I learn to read these?”

  “Insha Allah. It won’t be too hard. Pushto and Farsi took the Arabic letters and just added a few extra. They are all very similar.”

  If I could learn to read these very books, Mor would be so proud of me!

  Khalaa Kareema closes the book and says, “I’m glad you joined our class. I think the little ones will pay better attention now that you’re here.”

  I nod. “If I can help in any way, let me know.”

  She smiles, and for a moment she looks less tired.

  I’m scared to ask, but I know I shouldn’t be.

  “Khalaa, could you show me how to write my name? I saw it once very quickly, but I can’t remember all the letters.” I can’t help thinking of Masood and that woman.

  Her face lights up.

  “Of course! It’s Jameela, right?”

  “My grandfather brought the name back when he went for Hajj. My mother was just a little girl and he told her if she ever had a daughter, she should give her that name.”

  Khalaa Kareema nods. “Yes, you pronounce it the Arabic way. It means beautiful.”

  As she writes it, just like Masood did, she says each letter it contains out loud. “Jeem, meem, ya, lam, ha.”

  One continuous word, not broken up at all. It really is beautiful.

  12

  I HEAR footsteps coming so I hide the book Khalaa Kareema gave me and sit up.

  Soraya walks in.

  “Good news! The soldiers fixed the toilets. Now they’re working on the windows and heater. They might even be fixed before the real cold hits.” She motions at me to make room, and when I do she sits down beside me.

  “It will be nice to be warm,” I say.

  She snorts. “First the soldiers break our country. Now they want to fix it.”

  I nod. I don’t understand it either. These foreigners do what they please. They are powerful and we are not.

  She turns to look right at me.

  “What are you doing? You’re always in here lying around. Something wrong?”

  I think of the book that’s bulging under my right foot.

  “No, no. I’m okay. Just tired.” I make myself yawn.

  “When are you going to get out of Arwa’s class? I told the other girls about you and they keep asking.”

  How can I tell her that I could have left a month ago? I like Arwa’s class. I like Khalaa Kareema. I’m even taking the slower ones aside to help them learn, and in exchange, Khalaa Kareema keeps me after class and teaches me more things.

  The next day Khalaa Kareema says, “So have you finished with that book I lent you? My son will be needing it soon.”

  I hold out the book. My fingers cling to it a bit even as she’s taking it from my hand.

  “How did you like it?”

  “I didn’t know the Prophet (peace be upon him) was an orphan.”

  Khalaa Kareema nods. “Just imagine. What he was able to do. And in that society! He would have been at their mercy.”

  “The way they lived, it kind of sounded like my village.”

  She smiles. “Yes, things haven’t changed that much for some of us. Would you like me to teach you Arabic? There are more books in Arabic than in Farsi or Pushto. And the Arabic ones are more accurate. Some of the Farsi books get a bit...into fantasy.”

  “Fantasy?”

  “They start adding a lot of imaginative things to the facts. I think the facts are good enough on their own. They don’t need to dress them up.”

  I nod. Mor thought like that, too. Some of the mullaas in the village would say things about the Prophet (peace be upon him) that were impossible, like he didn’t have a shadow because that way no one could step on it and insult him. Mor would get mad at them. She said it was almost as if they were turning him into something more than human.

  Maybe that’s why I li
ke Khalaa Kareema so much. She reminds me of Mor.

  “I would love to learn Arabic,” I say.

  She hands me another book. It’s bound in red fabric. The edges are a bit worn and dusty. On the spine in gold lettering it says Ar-Raheeq al Makhtoum.

  Khalaa says, “That means ‘The Sealed Nectar.’ It’s supposed to be the best out of Arabia these days. The most accurate. All the ulema say so.”

  “Is it another biography?”

  “Yes. It’s good to read many different ones. Then you can compare the way they describe the life of the Prophet (peace be upon him) and what each of them chose to focus on. Some focus on the Meccan period, others on the Medina period. You can learn from many of them.” She adds, “This one’s a Farsi translation.”

  She takes out her papers and starts planning for tomorrow and I start reading. A peaceful silence settles over the two of us. And underneath it — you can almost feel it in the air — is friendship. I really like her, and I think she likes me.

  This is the best room in the orphanage. With all the peace and quiet it’s easy to concentrate.

  I should get ready for dinner. Soraya and Zeba will be waiting but I just want to read a bit more.

  I feel a touch on my shoulder and look to see Khalaa Kareema smiling down at me.

  She says, “I’ve never seen such an eager student. You make my job easier.”

  Sudden tears blur my eyes. What’s wrong with me? She said something nice. I should be happy instead of dripping like a tap.

  She rubs my shoulder and bends closer.

  “Are you all right?”

  My face is hot. I must stop.

  I take a big gulp and wipe my eyes hard. I will stop this nonsense.

  “I’m all right.”

  The door bursts open and Khalaa Gul is there with one of the soldiers. Khalaa Kareema and I rush to cover ourselves, but Khalaa Gul brings the soldier right up to me and orders me to show my face. I have no choice.

  This time the man actually touches me. He’s rather ugly, but not because there’s anything wrong with him. He’s got hardly any hair, his skin is gray like paste, and he has a stubbly beard.

  He holds my chin and moves my head up to see my lip, then he pushes his grubby finger against my lip.

  “Open your mouth,” says Khalaa Gul.

  So I do.

  He takes out a flashlight and shines it up to the roof of my mouth.

  He says something over his shoulder to Khalaa Gul, and she looks pleased. They talk back and forth in that foreign language and then the soldier stands up straight. He says something more. It’s so strange the way they can say things to each other that mean nothing to me.

  I wish I could speak all the languages. Maybe if I watch and listen closely enough I can pick up what they’re saying, but at the end of their conversation I still feel completely muddled.

  He says a few more things, nods twice at Khalaa Gul, nods at Khalaa Kareema and leaves the room, his boots sounding loud in the hallway.

  Khalaa Gul rushes over to me.

  “Oh, Jameela, such good news! That was an army surgeon! He’s going to fix your lip. He says it’s just cleft, a small problem, easy to fix.”

  My lip can be fixed?

  I don’t know what to say.

  Khalaa Gul pulls back a little and watches my face.

  “Is everything all right? Don’t you want your lip to be fixed?”

  Something in me wakes up.

  “Oh, yes! I’ve never wanted anything more.” My words shock me. They just burst out of me.

  Khalaa Gul nods. “Good. They’re going to come for you tomorrow. I’m going with you so no need to fear.”

  She turns on her heel and walks out the door.

  Khalaa Kareema steps forward, her eyes shining and all crinkled up.

  “I’m so happy for you! It couldn’t happen to a nicer person.” She pulls my porani from my face and says, “Oh my, you’ll look so nice with it done.”

  I give her a hug. She has to get home to her family so she packs up her things and goes, and I’m left alone to think about what I said.

  I’ve never wanted anything more? Really?

  What about wanting to stay with Agha Akram’s family? What about wanting Mor to get well?

  What a selfish thing to say. Will I become like Soraya’s friends who huddle around the mirror in the bathroom trying to catch a glimpse of their faces?

  It’s starting to get dark outside. I can see my reflection in the window. I go up close and pinch the two open sides of my lip together. If they were sewn up, my face would be perfect. I feel myself getting excited.

  When I tell Soraya she says, “What?! Are you crazy?”

  Zeba nods. “How can you trust those soldiers? They kill for a living.”

  “Don’t you have any dignity?” Soraya says. “I hate how we go begging to these foreigners for every little thing. I had an aunt who was operated on and she died even while they were cutting her. It’s very dangerous. Much better to live with something like that than take a chance. It doesn’t even look that bad.”

  Zeba agrees.

  Why are they saying these things? If they had a chance like this wouldn’t they grab it?

  “Khalaa Gul said it was easy to fix. I don’t think it’s risky at all. These foreigners know about these kinds of things.”

  Soraya shakes her head. “You’re making a big mistake. It’s a trap. He could just want to get you alone so he can do what he wants to you.”

  Zeba adds, “A deadly mistake.”

  He didn’t seem wicked and Khalaa Gul sounded so positive when she said it was a small problem.

  I try to sound as confident as I can. “It will be fine, insha Allah. You’ll see.”

  They keep trying to convince me not to do it, but soon we’re let in to eat and they’re too busy with their food to keep insisting. But right after supper they start back again.

  Finally I turn to Soraya and say, “Thanks for being so worried about me, but I think I’m just going to go ahead and do this.”

  Soraya and Zeba glance at each other.

  Zeba says, “Okay. I guess she just thinks she knows everything. We should just leave her alone to do what she wants.”

  “Yes. I can’t believe we even bothered.”

  They turn and start walking away. I run after them.

  “No, please. Soraya, Zeba. You don’t understand.”

  Soraya turns then, “What do you mean I don’t understand? I understand a lot more than you! I’m older and I’ve been around longer! I know exactly what happens around here. I make it my business to know what’s going on, and I’m telling you, you’re making a big mistake. You’re walking into a trap!”

  She and Zeba stand there for a moment waiting. If I don’t listen to them things will never be the same between us. I just know it.

  What would Mor want me to do? That’s easy. She would tell me to have the operation.

  “I really appreciate your worrying about me, but I’ll be all right, Soraya. You’ll see.”

  Soraya makes a face. They turn, leaving me standing there in the hallway.

  All that night Soraya won’t talk to me. She goes to sleep without replying when I say good night. I never realized how comfortable her chatter made me feel. I guess I should be feeling bad, but a little part of me is getting stubborn about it.

  Why should she make such a fuss just because I’ve made up my mind to do something and she doesn’t approve? What’s it to her?

  The darkness feels very lonely.

  Thoughts of the surgery and Soraya and Zeba and the new biography of the Prophet (peace be upon him) I’m reading keep winding around in my head all night. Every few minutes I wake up and listen to the sounds of the orphanage, trying to figure out if it’s Fajr time.

  Finally I wake up to that gray dimness and I know it’s time to get up. I feel like I never slept.

  I pray Fajr with all my heart, asking Allah to watch over me.

  Khalaa Gul comes
for me before breakfast. I’m not allowed to eat because of the surgery. A different soldier arrives to take me. He looks tired. I wonder if he had a bad night, too.

  We walk out to the courtyard, where there’s a dirty green army vehicle waiting. This time I sit in a chair with a belt fastened across my lap. The soldier clicks it into place for me. I look at the buckle. Such a tiny machine, with only one job, to keep you in place. These foreigners have all kinds of gadgets I’ve never seen before.

  Khalaa Gul is in the front, chattering away to the man. Fawning over him like a beggar. I see what Soraya means. And the worst thing is, she flutters her hands while she talks, pulling her flimsy porani up every time it slips off her hair and giggling whenever she answers a question.

  Isn’t she married? Why is she talking to this man in such a shameless way?

  It’s different driving in an army car. People look at you strangely. They rush out of the way like chickens afraid of being run over.

  We drive for quite a bit until we get to a high-walled camp. There is a guard with the same splotchy green uniform and helmet. In his arms is a massive rifle. It’s black and coated with dust from the street. He sees the man who’s driving and waves us through.

  Inside there are more white people walking around in short-sleeved shirts and army uniforms. They hardly look at us.

  Then I’m taken into an area with different tents. On the front there’s a big red mark on a white background. It looks a bit like an alif with a line across it. A lady presses a round black thing to my chest that has tubes that go into her ears. I think she’s listening. Then she puts a black thing around my arm. She pumps it up and it squeezes me tight, then it slowly loosens. She also puts a white glass stick in my mouth. Khalaa Gul tells me not to bite it but it’s hard. Somehow I want to. They place it under my tongue and I have to keep it there for a while. I still haven’t seen that man from yesterday.

  I have to lie down on a strange narrow bed and uncover my face. The lady’s face is inches away from me, but she’s not looking into my eyes. She’s concentrating on my lip. She’s wearing glasses and I can see myself reflected in them. I look small and scared. Behind the shine of the glass, her eyes are a brownish green.

  Then she puts a black kind of mask thing on my face and Khalaa Gul tells me to breathe deeply and count to ten.