Then I remember my lip. I can feel the scar where they stitched the open sides of it together.
Baba takes a step forward. “My dear, I never thought I’d see the day you would be whole.”
I clench my fists tightly to my sides so I don’t strike him. He touches my arm. “Come, let us sit down and talk this through.”
I can’t very well pull away. Not with Zeba watching. He leads me by the elbow through the courtyard, past the spot where that woman rubbed out my name in the dirt. We walk on all the floors I endlessly mopped and past all the cushions I beat the dust out of, and into the salon to sit on the tattered furniture.
Zeba nudges Soraya. “Please tell me what is happening.”
I speak up. “He is my father, and this...is my stepmother.”
It’s like I can see the thoughts turning in Zeba’s head. Everyone in the room knows Zeba has the power to disgrace our family even more. Does she remember the things Baba and that woman said about me at the nikah?
Is Zeba going to laugh? She’s always looked for ways to put me down. I brace myself. But the look she sends my way is full of pity. Pity from Zeba! I’d rather she had laughed.
Baba glances at Zeba and turns to Soraya, “Please, dear, bring our guests some tea.”
Etiquette demands that we refuse at least a few times. Zeba says that we need to get back to the orphanage. My father insists. Again we make an excuse to leave. Again he insists. This time Zeba glances at Soraya and says, “Maybe we can stay just for a little while. We don’t want to impose.”
That woman plants herself on the couch. Soraya leaves to make the tea. I wish I could go with her.
Baba sits down, too. His eyes aren’t as red. More glassy.
He glances at Zeba, clears his throat and turns to me with a big fake smile.
“Daughter, dear, it is so good to see you! Were you really staying all that time at the orphanage?”
I nod.
“They must be taking very good care of you.”
“Yes. They are.”
Zeba says, “This is such a nice house. You are so lucky! You and Soraya will be sisters now!”
For a moment we’re all frozen. Does she think I’m moving back here? Baba’s lips are parted. My stepmother is watching him. Within the awkwardness of their silence, I have my answer. He doesn’t need to say anything. I understand perfectly.
Zeba looks confused. She’s about to speak, but something makes me interrupt.
“It would be...nice to live here, but really, I couldn’t leave the orphanage! I’ve grown so fond of the children. Especially Arwa. With Soraya gone, she depends on me. I want to be a good role model for her, the way my mother was for me. May Allah have mercy on her soul.”
They all have the decency to say, “Ameen.”
We’re quiet for a while. The only sound is the rattle of cups and saucers coming from the kitchen. In a moment Soraya comes in with the tea things.
Zeba says, “But wouldn’t you want to stay here, with your family?”
Baba’s squirming. She’s looking at the floor like she might even be ashamed. I could make them look really bad if I wanted to.
“I couldn’t leave Khalaa Kareema,” I say.
Soraya turns to Baba and my stepmother. “Khalaa Kareema is one of the teachers. She says Jameela is the best student she’s ever had. She even thinks Jameela will be a teacher one day.”
My stepmother has stopped staring at the floor. She’s looking at me with pure hatred in her eyes.
Baba’s staring at me like he’s really seeing me for the first time.
Soraya continues, “I heard them talking. Khalaa Kareema said that they might even pay Jameela. I think around a hundred Afghanis a day.”
Baba says, “That’s half of what Masood makes!”
Zeba nods. “I heard them talking, too.”
Baba’s staring at me with a strange look on his face. Zeba runs her hand along the cushions of the sofa and sighs.
“I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to live here, but at least you can visit!”
My stepmother’s face has gone red. She can’t tell me not to visit. Not with Zeba here.
I take the cup of tea that Soraya hands me and say, “Oh, yes! I would love to visit! I would like that very much.”
She’s glaring at me. It feels so good.
The tea is thick with buffalo milk. My stepmother frowns. Maybe she’s thinking of the extravagance. There’s a bowl of sugar on the tray.
Something makes me take five heaping spoonfuls to stir into my tea.
21
I FEEL strange when it’s time to leave, stepping through that gate. The ladies come to their doors to watch us pass, covering their mouths with their flimsy poranis and staring at me like they can’t believe their eyes.
“Jameela, child? Is it really you?” says one of the old women.
I’m wearing my chadri so she can’t tell. I nod. She shakes her head, glancing at my stepmother’s house in disgust, and retreats back to her home.
I find myself getting excited when we get to the head of our street and I can see the orphanage. Nothing feels more like home. Not her house, not that first place, not even Agha Akram’s.
Alhamdu lillah, this is where I belong. Allah’s been very kind to me.
I don’t stop Zeba when she sees Khalaa Gul in the office and blurts out where we’ve been and what she learned.
Khalaa Gul turns to me, astonished.
“Jameela! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“My stepbrother is a good man. I didn’t want to ruin it for Soraya.”
Khalaa Gul is quiet. I wonder if she’s replaying all the things they said during the nikah and the visits.
Finally I say, “Khalaa, I’m tired. Is it okay if I go lie down?”
Khalaa looks at me for a moment like she’s forgotten I was here. Then she nods.
“Of course.”
It doesn’t take long for the news to spread all over the orphanage, even to the brothers’ side. Somehow I manage to get through all the expressions of shock and concern.
The next day I’m back teaching the same math lesson when there’s another knock on the door.
It’s Khalaa Gul and she wants me to step into the hallway so we can talk in private.
She seems uncomfortable. She keeps opening her mouth, hesitating and then closing it again.
Finally she says, “You know, Jameela, we’ve become very fond of you here at the orphanage. Khalaa Kareema couldn’t manage her class without you.”
She couldn’t have interrupted my class just to tell me this.
She clears her throat.
“I know we’ve never talked about money. We really don’t have a lot, but one day I’m sure I could put something aside to pay you for some of what you do around here. It wouldn’t be much, you understand.”
I nod.
She clears her throat again.
“What I’m trying to tell you is that you’ll always be welcome here. I know that if the parents of any of our girls come for them, I’m obliged to turn them over, but if it’s really in the best interest of the girl to stay, then we can always find a way to work things out.”
“Khalaa, could we talk about this later? I’m in the middle of a lesson right now.”
Khalaa Gul frowns. “Well, no. I’m afraid we can’t. You see, you’ve got a visitor.”
What is she talking about?
“It’s your father. I can’t believe he has the nerve to show his face here after all that’s happened!”
That woman kicked him out! She must have. He never would have left on his own.
“Where is he?”
“He’s in the office. Before you see him, please do consider that you’re welcome here, and I’ll do whatever I can to make sure we can pay you...one day.”
“All right. Can I see him?”
She hesitates for a moment, then nods. She can’t very well refuse.
Baba looks like a tank ran over him. His clothe
s have dark stains all over them and a tear in the shoulder, his hair needs combing and his eyes are wild.
He jumps up when he sees me.
“Jameela! I’ve left her. That place wasn’t good for us. That wicked woman! I never should have married her.”
He glances at the other people in the office. Is he wondering if they believe him?
He takes me by the arm into the same small room we used for the nikah. He sits down on the corbacha and pulls me down to sit beside him.
“Take that thing off! I want to see your pretty face.”
The door is closed, so I remove my chadri. He grabs hold of my hand again, massaging it in his own.
“Oh, my dear girl. To see you whole is more than I ever wished for. I never should have married that awful woman. She could twist any man to evil. But that’s all behind us now. We’ll find some new place, you and I, and we’ll start a new life. Now that you can read and make some money teaching, we’ll be fine. I always meant to send you to school. You do know that, don’t you?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. Quickly he adds, “And with your lip fixed, who says we won’t find some rich man who’ll pay a nice dower to have you.”
His hands are shaking. He pats the breast pocket of his kurtha and I hear the sloshing of some liquid in a tiny bottle. Then he glances at me and moves his hand down to another pocket. He fumbles for a moment and manages to pull out a cigarette.
When did he start smoking? He tries to light a match but his hands are shaking too much.
I’m not going to light it for him.
He shoves the bent match and cigarette back into his pocket and turns to face me again.
“So what do you say, dear?”
“What do I say to what?”
“Come with me! We’ll go somewhere they don’t know us and start a new life. I’ll find you a nice husband. We’ll be rich. Never mind that awful woman and her treacherous son. I promise I’ll take good care of you!”
He just watches me for a moment, an impossible expression of hope on his face.
“Come on, daughter. It’s getting late. We should be going if we want to make good time out of this God-forsaken place!”
Asthaghfirullah!
I take a deep breath.
“I hope you find a good place, Baba, but I can’t go with you.”
“Yes, you can! That witch, she knows she can’t keep you. Not when your own father has come. We can leave right now. Nothing can stop us.”
He starts to get up, but this time I’m the one who grasps his arm to stop him.
“No, Baba. I didn’t say it right. It’s not that I can’t go with you. It’s that I won’t go with you. I’m staying here.”
For a long time Baba just stares at me. The expression on his face gradually changes from shock to rage. Then he glances at the door.
That’s right. He can’t do anything to me. Not with all those people in the other room. But still, I should get out of his reach.
I get to my feet and put on my chadri. “Assalaamu alaikum, Baba.” Peace be upon you. And I mean it.
He doesn’t reply. I’m glad he doesn’t beg. My last glimpse of him is sitting on the corbacha staring at his empty hands.
Whatever happens to him is not my responsibility. Men are supposed to be the caretakers of women, not the other way around. He’s on his own.
Still, it isn’t easy. I do wish him the best. And I do hope he is all right.
When I step through the doorway, Khalaa Gul grabs me around my neck.
“You’re staying!”
Was she listening? I shouldn’t be surprised.
“Yes, I’m staying.”
She’s so happy that she chatters on about class schedules and how she might find me my own classroom.
But one thing is still bothering me. I wasn’t exactly truthful yesterday at their house, when I told them about Arwa.
When Arwa comes running up the hall to greet me, her face is clean, her clothes are clean and even her nose is clean. I don’t hesitate to hug her.
I watch her so she makes wudu properly, and I don’t even yell when she makes the same mistake three times. When I’ve tucked the last few strands of her hair in around her porani, and she’s all ready for prayer, I give her a hug like she’s the very best and I wouldn’t exchange her for all the money in the world.
For a long time she hugs me back, really tightly for one so small. It feels strange.
Finally she lets go.
I pat her on her shoulder and say, “You know, Arwa. I’m going to tell you something my mother always told me. I want you to really pay attention and try to follow it.”
Arwa’s eyes are huge, the expression on her face solemn.
“What is it?” she whispers.
“If you can’t be beautiful, you should at least be good. People will appreciate that.”
She repeats the words to herself as she makes her way into the prayer hall.
Insha Allah, she’ll be all right.
Author’s Note
JAMEELA’S story is set shortly after the American invasion of Afghanistan in 2001. It is fiction, but it is based on a true incident.
Some years ago I read a report on children in crisis that was issued by Afghanistan’s department of orphanages. Buried in the report was one paragraph that broke my heart. It was the story of a girl named Sameela. Her mother had died during the war, her father had remarried and the new stepmother didn’t want her, so the father took her to the marketplace and left her there. She ended up living in one of the largest orphanages in Kabul.
There are no accurate statistics on the number of civilian and especially child casualties in Afghanistan due to the war.
When countries go to war, it is always civilians, especially children, who suffer the most.
Rukhsana Khan
Acknowledgments
I’D LIKE to acknowledge the help of my sister-in-law Sarah Alli, who is from Kabul, for her insights into culture and everyday life.
And many thanks to Najibah and Karima Yousufi, who are from Kandahar and were kind enough to vet the manuscript for accuracy.
Glossary
Afghani — The name of the currency in Afghanistan (the people are called Afghan).
Agha — Uncle in Pushto; a term of respect applied to any older male.
Alhamdu lillah — Arabic phrase meaning “all praise for God.” Allah — Muslim name for God.
Alaihi salam — Arabic phrase meaning “peace be on him.” Ameen — Said like “amen” after a prayer.
Assalaamu alaikum — Muslim greeting meaning “peace be upon you.”
Asthaghfirullah — Arabic phrase meaning “God forgive me.” Baba — Pushto word for father.
Banjaan — Pushto word for eggplant; a Pushto dish containing eggplant, potatoes, onions, tomato sauce and yogurt.
Baraka — Literally means blessing. “Each child brings their own baraka” means that God provides for each child He creates. Burka — Another word for chadri.
Chador — Literally a shawl, but can also refer to outer garments. Chadri — Farsi name for a long veil that covers from head to below the knees, often with a mesh for the eyes to see through. Also called a burka.
Charpaee — A cot made of wood and jute string.
Chitral hat — A beret-like hat, flat on the top with a rolled-up cuff. Corbacha — Long flat cushions placed on the floor and used instead of sofas.
Dhikr — A counting off of praise for God — 33 times Subhanallah
(glory be to God), 33 times Alhamdu lillah (all praise for God) and 33 times Allahu Akbar (God is great).
Dua — A small prayer.
Dusterkhan — A type of tablecloth laid on the ground to place food on.
Eid — An Arabic word meaning celebration. There are two Eid festivals in Islam — one after Ramadan, the month of fasting, and the other on the tenth day of Dhul Hijjah, the culmination of the pilgrimage in Mecca.
Fajr — Early morning prayer, from dawn un
til sunrise. Fard — Obligatory prayers.
Farsi — The Persian language.
Gelabis — Sticky fried orange sweets.
Ghusl — The ritual bath that purifies one after a major impurity such as menstruation. Also performed on dead bodies before burial.
Hadith — Saying of the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him). Hajj — The annual pilgrimage to Mecca that each Muslim is required to perform once in their lifetime, if they have the means.
Haram — Forbidden.
Hasbiyallahu wa ni’mal wakeel — Arabic phrase meaning “God is enough for me and He is the best disposer of affairs.” Hijab — The headscarf worn by Muslim women to cover their hair. Imam — Leader of prayer (Arabic word that literally means “in front of”).
Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi rajioon — Arabic phrase spoken when
someone dies, meaning “From God we come and to Him is our return.”
Insha Allah — Arabic phrase meaning “If God wills.” Iqama — Second call to prayer (right before prayer is about to begin).
Isha — Last prayer of the day, prayed before bed, when night becomes fully dark until around midnight. Jamat — Congregation.
Janaza — Muslim funeral prayer.
Jumaa — Literally Friday, the Muslim holy day of the week, when a special Jumaa or Friday prayer is said.
Kaaba — The most sacred shrine in Islam, situated in Mecca. Kameez — Dress.
Khalaa — Aunt in Pushto; also a term of respect for any older female.
Khutba — A sermon given on Fridays and at weddings and Eid occasions.
Kofta — Meatball.
Kufi — Small hat.
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