Ibrahim remained as still as a statue.
Sufyan cleared his throat and tugged on his thick beard, as if he wanted to pull it out.
“Before we think about jihad in Iraq and Syria,” Sufyan said in a calm voice, “we need to wage jihad in our own neighborhood. This just confirms that we have been right all along. And now you’ve seen, Ibrahim, with your own eyes, the state of your sister. And the nerve of that driver! Dropping her off like that in our neighborhood.”
“If that was my sister, I’d kill her,” said Driss, shaking with rage as he looked at Ibrahim.
Ibrahim said nothing. Despair and depression were written all over his pale face. How he wished for a cigarette right now, despite having quit years ago. His friends’ words felt like nails being hammered into his head, and he couldn’t change the subject this time. He opened his mouth to say something but Sufyan cut him off sternly, as if he had no right to speak.
“How many times did I warn you, Ibrahim, to keep an eye on your sister, to tell her to stop wearing makeup and force her to wear the veil?”
Ibrahim looked up, still unable to believe what had happened.
“Kandahar is one of the most virtuous neighborhoods in the city, and one of its women returns drunk and half naked at daybreak? By God, the All-Powerful, who will rid this neighborhood of its filth?” Sufyan kept repeating himself and pacing, beating his chest feverishly. Then he glared disapprovingly at Ibrahim. “Do you know what a diyouth
is, Ibrahim?”
“A diyouth is someone who sees evil in his own family and doesn’t do anything about it,” Driss jumped in, directing his scorn at Ibrahim.
Ibrahim raged inside. He wanted to respond to Driss, but couldn’t find his voice—it betrayed him. He was overcome by such intense rage that he started imagining himself beating his sister, kicking her, even stabbing her. He couldn’t handle any more blame from his friends, and thought that if he stuck around he might get in a fight with them. He said his goodbyes, lowered his head, and headed home. He walked with determination, ready to do something serious.
Ibrahim opened the door and gave a quick look toward his sister’s room, which appeared to be quiet and pitch black. He felt that something had happened before he arrived. His mother was sleeping, or pretending to be asleep, in her usual corner of the basement-level apartment. The only real room in the house was Nezha’s room, since the rest of the place more closely resembled a cellar: a few square feet without any windows or openings whatsoever. His mother, Ruqiya, repositioned herself, groaning painfully, as she battled intense pain. She was a worn-out soul and was extremely skinny. She looked like someone who had borne the brunt of an incredibly difficult life. Her husband’s passing four years ago coincided with the onset of kidney problems that flared up with the slightest aggravation. Everyone walked on eggshells around her, and luckily she had Nezha and Ibrahim to take care of her. Ibrahim would kiss her forehead and hand after waking, and before sleeping. He would jump to get her what she needed, sometimes before she even asked.
Ibrahim tried to compose himself as he listened to his mother’s moaning. He had no doubt that Nezha had told their mother what happened before she holed up in her room. Certainly his mother was aware of the humiliation Ibrahim suffered in front of his friends. Were his mother’s moans this time the result of kidney pain shooting through her side, or was she faking, fearful of Ibrahim’s reaction? She knew that the one thing Ibrahim wouldn’t do was agitate her and cause her even more pain. Her latest episode had passed only a few days ago, and she was still recovering.
Ibrahim slumped down in the corner and closed his eyes, denying himself an impulsive response. He was conflicted as to what to do. A dark cloud of depression overcame him as he recalled what his friends had said: “A diyouth is someone who sees evil in his own family and doesn’t do anything.”
He had believed, or at least let himself believe, that his sister worked nights at a clothing factory. It was no secret that she was the sole provider for the family, so he was in no position to ask questions. He pretended to sleep, even placing a pillow over his head, as if that would help him avoid reality. He remembered how he had been able to attend university for six months thanks to his “seamstress” sister. And then, when things got bad financially and he had to withdraw, he wanted to take up his father’s stall in the neighborhood market. The competitors kicked him out, insisting that his father had never had a permanent spot. He had been unemployed since then, a total waste of space. It was only in connecting with his religious friends that he restored some purpose to life, not to mention simply having something to do. He spent his day between the mosque and hanging about with other unemployed people in the neighborhood, and he always had a hot meal when he returned home. But now, how was he going to deal with this? How would he face his friends at the mosque tomorrow? Could he spend time with them after they called him a diyouth? If he didn’t take revenge on his sister to restore his honor then he wouldn’t be a man. A strong desire seized him to head straight to the kitchen, get out a knife, and cut her throat as she slept. But then he thought about his mother kneeling in front of him, trying to block his path, and reaching out, begging him to stop. This isn’t the time, he said to himself, and tried to go to sleep.
Nezha normally spent the morning hours asleep, and she didn’t wake until three or four in the afternoon. She would have a meal with her mother and then prep for another night out. She would shower, get dressed, tie her hair back, and leave the house looking like she was going to a normal job. She’d then head straight to Salwa’s Salon, which she considered a second home. It was there that she would get her hair done and put on makeup, in preparation for the evening. Most nights she would end her evening right after midnight, except for Fridays and Saturdays. When she returned home on weeknights she’d find the neighborhood empty. The taxi would drop her off right at her door, and with a couple of steps she’d be inside. No one would be up to greet her at that time. Her mother was either asleep, or trying to sleep. If Ibrahim was awake when he heard the taxi door shut, he’d hide his head under the covers. When she stayed out all night she usually didn’t return until the next day, around midday, when she could unassumingly disappear into the commotion of the neighborhood.
She awoke to the sound of her phone ringing out a familiar tune. She looked at the clock. It was four thirty in the afternoon. She felt exhausted and didn’t want to get out of bed. She closed her eyes and thought about what had happened yesterday. Everything flashed in front of her like a scene from a horror movie. She cursed the police, who ruined everything. She hadn’t been paid because of them, and that had thwarted her plans to solve her financial issues with Farqash. What she feared even more, though, was him sending the glue-sniffing street kids after her. She put her hands to her face and coiled into a fetal position, starting to tear up at the thought. The anguish involved in just thinking about what Farqash would do to her made her forget about the nasty slap she’d received the day before from the policeman, not to mention her ear, and the feeling that it had nearly been ripped off. All of this pain for nothing! She didn’t even have cash to buy a pack of cigarettes, or to leave money for her mother before heading out again.
She felt, for the first time, that the burden she carried was too heavy to bear alone. Why had her father died when he did? If he were still alive she might be in university now. She was filled with sadness as she remembered her time in school. She had been a devoted and outstanding student in her humanities classes. She always scored the highest grade on compositions. Her Arabic teacher even told her she had a promising future in writing. He encouraged her to try to write her own stories. She enjoyed writing short stories and creating her own characters, but mostly she enjoyed the attention from her teacher.
Her Arabic teacher was close to fifty and lived alone. One day, he invited her to stop by his home to give her some novels. At the time, she hadn’t even considered the fact that he didn’t have a wife or children, but after he opened the do
or, it was clear that he was not quite so clean-cut as she had thought. There were wine bottles everywhere, the ashtrays were jam-packed with cigarette butts, and newspapers and books were strewn all around, in every nook and cranny. She thought he might throw himself on her at the first opportunity, but he sat there facing her, opened a novel, and began to read to her: “She met him under the trees that evening. Rain began falling when he kissed her for the first time. He drew her in, and their bodies joined . . .” She didn’t even remember how he shifted from reading to kissing her.
She remembered fondly this first love affair with her teacher. She was just shy of sixteen at the time. She was poor, but had dreams: her major aspiration was to obtain a bachelor’s degree and then travel far away from where she lived—from this neighborhood riddled with violence and conflict. All the young men smoked cheap hash, took the hallucinogen called qarqubi, and drank spoiled wine, after which they drew their swords and knives and fought like dogs. Sufyan, the most dangerous one, was infatuated with her. Each night, after the qarqubi took effect, he’d lose control, strip off his shirt, and wave his sword around, spreading fear through the neighborhood. No one dared challenge or resist him, fearing his retribution. Nezha was the only one who knew the real secret behind all of his antics. She knew that he was head over heels for her. He used to send her love letters that were filled with grammatical errors and didn’t make any sense. But Sufyan never assailed her or even made a move on her. He was well aware that the repercussions of a romantic relationship between a boy and girl from Kandahar could ruin the girl’s family.
While it seemed like ages ago to Nezha, it had only been a few years since a wave of religious radicalization had taken over the youth. The young men turned away from drugs and toward strict religious observance and extreme views. They exchanged one form of violence for another—observing prayer was vigorously enforced, girls were coerced to don the veil, and men were forced to wear Afghani clothing and grow beards. Outsiders rarely entered the neighborhood. If they got lost and somehow ended up there, they would be interrogated and, in some cases, attacked. The youth liked to think of Kandahar as one of the “free zones” of the city—free from outsiders and the intrusion of the government. Nezha thought about all of this as she contemplated the agony she had put her brother through that morning. She already knew that most of their neighbors had their doubts about her supposed job, and were just waiting for her to slip up. She figured that her mother and brother also had their doubts.
She lay there and listened closely, unable to leave the bed. A strange silence filled the house. Usually when she slept this late into the afternoon her mother would knock on the door and ask, in a soft voice, “Aren’t you going to get up?” and Nezha would reply, “I’m awake, Mom.”
Where had her mother gone? Why such utter silence? Nezha reached out and turned on the lamp. There wasn’t a window in the room, and only a hole above the doorway leading to the living room allowed for a bit of air circulation. Despite this, her room was the nicest in the house—if one could call it a house. Her room had a real bed, a small dresser with a mirror on top, and a makeup counter. Nezha sat on the edge of the bed, put her head between her hands, and thought about what she had done. What had happened yesterday would have consequences. Fear gripped her as she thought about what might happen now. She clutched her cell phone, and after a brief hesitation punched in Salwa’s number.
“Hello . . . Salwa, are you at the salon?” she whispered.
“Yeah. Are you still at home?”
“Yup, I’m at home. Do you have anyone right now?”
“I have a customer, but I’ll be done in about fifteen minutes. I can barely hear you. How was last night? Everything okay?”
Nezha was desperate to tell her friend what had happened at the hotel last night and then what had happened that morning, but she held back.
“I’m all right. We’ll talk when I get there,” she said quickly.
She hung up without waiting for a reply. She opened the door to the living room, which was also pitch black. Why hadn’t her mother opened the door and opened the drapes yet? Nezha felt depressed, as if she were seeing for the very first time the prison cell she called home. She went to the bathroom and then got dressed quickly. She desperately wanted a cigarette. At this point, she didn’t even care where her mother was or about her brother’s reaction. But as she was putting on her shoes, the door opened and her mother and brother came in. Nezha stood up and put her hands out in front of her face, fearing that her brother was going to slap her. He had hit her a couple of times because he didn’t think her clothes were conservative enough, or because she refused to wear a veil.
“Where were you yesterday?” he snarled at her, pulsing with anger.
Her mother groaned and collapsed on the bed. Nezha looked at her, but her mother averted her eyes and continued groaning, leaving Nezha feeling deserted.
“What type of job do you come home from looking like a whore?”
These words rang out painfully, and a look of utter astonishment spread over Nezha’s face. Had they really believed that she was working at a factory? Had they only just discovered her real job? She was so surprised that she didn’t know how to reply.
“Who was the guy who dropped you off?” asked Ibrahim, getting angrier by the moment.
“He’s the owner of the factory I work at. There weren’t any other options at that time.”
Their mother sat up and looked at Ibrahim.
“This is what I told you, son. We need to hear her out first.”
“Do you believe her?”
Their mother went back to groaning. Pain shot through her as though someone were hammering on her spine, and she placed her hands on her lower back. Ibrahim looked over at her as his frustration welled up. On the one hand, his anger at his sister was burning him up inside; on the other hand, he didn’t want to cause his mother further pain and have to take her back to the hospital.
Their mother slumped down again and Nezha tended to her, helping her stretch her legs out.
“Are you all right, Mom?”
“What am I supposed to do? Yesterday I thought I was going to die. . . . If only I had. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I kept hearing your brother toss and turn. God save us from the youth in this neighborhood. Their sole occupation is to make up lies about people.”
She looked at her son to see what effect her words had on him. His expression frightened her—he was pale, his lips were cracked, and his face was taut. He gave her a blank stare, indicating his absolute refusal to participate in this charade. For the first time, his mother felt like she didn’t know her son. He seemed to her to be completely distraught and unaware of what he was saying. Nezha sensed the same thing. Then, suddenly, he fell silent, as if he had come up with a new way to deal with this situation. And from the grim look on his face, it didn’t seem like a good thing. Without saying a word, he shook his head threateningly, retreated toward the door, and left the house.
Nezha and her mother exchanged perplexed looks.
“Mom, I didn’t get paid yesterday,” she said, to change the subject.
“Why, Nezha? We’re drowning in debts—the pharmacy, groceries, rent. We have nothing to eat tonight. Your brother and I had to walk home from the hospital because we couldn’t even pay for a bus ticket.”
“I’m doing my best!” Nezha exploded. “Why doesn’t he work? He’s the man! He spends all day with that group of jobless losers at the top of the street telling us what’s halal and what’s haram. Is that what being religious means? If he was actually concerned about my honor and dignity then he’d roll up his sleeves and look for a job.”
Her mother fell silent and didn’t offer a reply. Nezha continued to get herself ready to leave.
“Maybe I’ll get paid tonight,” she said wearily. She bent over to kiss her mother on the forehead as she always did before leaving. Her mother was infuriated, and closed her eyes, not even saying her usual “May God guide you.”
Nezha headed out feeling like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. She walked hurriedly, with her head down. She felt like the whole neighborhood was watching her from windows, doorways, and around corners. She mustered the courage to look up, and in the distance saw her brother standing by the lamppost with Driss, who she really hated. She knew that Sufyan was also watching her from the roof of his family’s house. She feared that someone would attack her. She wouldn’t feel safe until she made it out of the neighborhood and could be swallowed up by the busy thoroughfare. She picked up her pace and was now nearly running toward Salwa’s Salon.
The salon was tiny, like a small convenience store, and had a cozy atmosphere. It was located about two blocks from Kandahar, in an area that the religious zealots didn’t control. It occupied the first floor of a two-story building and had a tinted glass façade. The sign said “closed,” even though it was open. On the walls were large posters of women with different hairstyles. Inside, there was just one chair in front of a mirror, a tattered sofa, and a table with old magazines on it.
Salwa was thirty-five and sported brash, bleached-blonde hair that she tied back. Her makeup wasn’t able to cover up her extremely pale complexion. She was divorced and supported her two children and her half-blind grandmother. A few years ago her salon was the most popular one in the area. But then salons started getting a bad reputation. Men began prohibiting their wives from going to them, and rumors spread about hairstylists colluding with pimps to encourage pretty young women to go into prostitution.
Salwa was waiting impatiently for Nezha. She kissed her on both cheeks as she walked in the door and then grabbed her hand and pulled her inside, locking the glass door behind them. Nezha sat on the couch and Salwa plunked herself down in the styling chair.
“Can you order me a coffee and give me a cigarette?”
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