A House Without Windows (36 page)

ZEBA'S CLOTHES, A SMALL STACK THAT BARELY USED UP ONE
shelf of the metal locker in their cell, had been freshly washed and folded. The sheets of her bed were stiff with starch and neatly tucked under the corners of her mattress. There was a red silk carnation and a small prism keychain on her pillow. The prism had a red heart at its center and spread fractured light in every direction as Zeba turned it over in her palm.

She'd returned to Chil Mahtab two hours ago but was just getting to her room now. Swarmed by her fellow prisoners in the hallway, she sensed that this place had become a shrine unto itself. It unnerved her, the way the women smiled at her, the way they offered her trinkets, the way their fingertips touched her body as if she were some kind of mystic. And Asma was right. Several women had tattooed Zeba's name on their arms or backs either because she had saved them or because they hoped that she would. Some believed that the four letters of her name inked into their skin was a talisman in itself. The anticipation of what she could do thrived and spread like vines through the stifling hallways of Chil Mahtab.

Latifa had hugged her, an awkward pressing of her thick body against Zeba's gaunt frame.

“Oh God, you've wasted away to nothing! It must have been so awful. You should eat something. Nafisa, run down to the kitchen and get her some food!”

Nafisa had seen Zeba in the hallway but had patiently waited for the crowd to clear before she put her arms around her cellmate. She'd been spooked by the idea that Zeba had been deemed insane enough to be shackled to a shrine. In the cell, she'd kept her attention on the television. She was watching the news from Kabul: a young man and woman sitting behind a long desk reporting stories of suicide bombers and cricket game results. She was about to tell Latifa to get the food herself when she took a longer look at Zeba. Her jaw snapped shut before she could protest being bossed around.

“Oh, Zeba-
jan
!” Nafisa exclaimed. “I'll grab you something right away. You do look pretty terrible.”

“It's all right, Nafisa.” Zeba motioned for her to stay where she was. “I had some food on the way here. My stomach still feels bloated from it.”

“Hmph.” Latifa smirked, eyeing Zeba's thin frame skeptically. “You don't look the least bit bloated to me.”

Zeba did not know what to do with herself. She wanted to stand and stretch, because for nearly three weeks she hadn't been able to. She wanted to walk through the yard and put her legs to use again. She wanted to lie down on her mattress and sleep without worrying about scorpions or hearing the rattling of chains.

Zeba was relieved to be back in prison, a feeling that made her insides sour. She realized she did not have much to hope for. Yusuf was struggling with his defense, and although she had not meant to, Zeba had begun to think it might actually be possible to find a way out of this predicament and be returned to her children. There were moments when she considered telling Yusuf and the judge and the prosecutor the unfiltered truth of what happened on that day. She could tell them that she had not killed her husband. The truth, in its entirety, could not possibly hold her responsible.

Then again, Zeba knew that no one would believe the truth. Furthermore, she had silently and without ceremony sworn to herself that she would not hurt that little girl any more than Kamal already had. Was she forsaking her own children for a child she did not know?

Possibly. But she'd made the choice weeks ago and would not reconsider it. If she were released from prison and something more were to happen to that child, every day of freedom would be torture. One day, she would tell the girls the truth too. She did not want to hurt them either, but she needed for them to look at her as they once had.

The sooner she accepted Chil Mahtab, the sooner she could begin to survive. She had to build a new life for herself. She had to be stronger than she'd ever been before. There was nothing crazy about her, she'd realized at the shrine. Her thoughts streamed in clear lines. The only voice in her head was her own.

Her father, Mullah Habibullah, had spent hours and hours at her cell in those nineteen days. His voice, the soft rasp of it like a familiar song, soothed her. She forgave him for his many years of absence. Disappearing, she now knew, was not the worst thing a man could do to his family. And she did not want to lose him a second time.

“You're not insane, Zeba. If there's anything wrong with you, it's that you have too much of your mother's blood in your veins. Her blood is hot and vengeful. She says she believes in God, but she believes only in Gulnaz. I know her well. I loved her, too. Since you're an adult and almost a stranger to me, I can tell you that much. I loved her once.”

Zeba had not argued with him. She'd had the same string of bitter thoughts about Gulnaz for years.

“But I told the lawyers to leave you here because once I realized who you were . . . once I realized you were a part of me . . . I could not tear my eyes away from you. You looked troubled. Just as troubled as the other souls who are brought to the shrine. Sometimes it's hard to figure out if you're crazy or if it's the world around you that's insane. Sometimes if you don't lose your mind a little bit, there's no way to survive. You're not broken, my daughter. That's what you have to remember.”

ZEBA'S THOUGHTS WERE INTERRUPTED BY A KNOCKING AT THE
door. She saw faces she recognized. They pretended not to see her sitting on the bed and addressed Latifa. They bit their lower lips and cast sideways glances at one another.

“Malika Zeba is not sleeping, is she?”

Latifa looked to Zeba for direction.

“Come in,” Zeba said. After so many nights alone, she craved the company. “Come in, sisters.”

Their faces burst into broad smiles, and they clogged the doorway trying to get in. They sat, cross-legged, on the floor in front of Zeba with their head scarves hanging casually around their necks.

“I wanted to thank you for helping me,” began Bibi Shireen. She had been sentenced to twenty-seven years for murder after her son was killed for running off with a girl. Zeba felt embarrassed to be sitting above someone as gray haired as Bibi Shireen and slid off the bed to sit among the women on the floor. Zeba half stood and gestured for Bibi Shireen to take her seat, but the woman waved her off with a frown. “You saved my daughter. They were going to take her as a bride in vengeance. No amount of begging had changed their minds but you . . . I don't know what you did, but it's worked. They decided they didn't want her after all.”

“Really?” Zeba exclaimed. For a family to give up their claim on a girl was unusual, even if the government had outlawed the practice of
baad,
giving daughters to resolve disputes between families, in 2009. “That's wonderful news!”

“I'm not going to live another twenty-seven years, anyway. They'll never get that much time out of me. It's more important that my daughter's life not become a prison. She's the one with that many more years in her, God willing.”

The other women nodded and chirped in agreement.

“And we wanted to thank you, too.” It was the sister-wives, the two women imprisoned for the murder of their husband though he'd
actually been killed by his cousins. The younger woman spoke first, her voice as sweet as cream. She looked at the first wife who sat beside her, grinning. “Do you want to tell her or should I?”

“Go on. You tell her.”

“Well,” she said, smiling surreptitiously. “While you were gone we found out that one of the men who murdered our husband was killed.”

“Killed? By whom?” Latifa asked. She loomed over the circle of women sitting on the floor, more attentive than any prison guard.

“The cousins who came after our husband turned on each other. They started fighting about the land among themselves, and one shot his cousin in the chest. The family is in shambles. They're all about ready to kill each other now, and we're the only ones in prison. We are safe here. It's almost funny.”

“It's not funny at all, actually,” the older wife said with a chastising look. “But let them kill each other. Leaves us with fewer enemies out there. In the meantime, we're probably in the best place we could be.”

The younger wife nodded.

“You bet,” Latifa interjected. “I'm sure someone from the family would be ready to snatch both you widows up as wives since your husband is gone. That's what happened to my aunt.”

“You're right,” the older wife said, her face grim. “There was talk about that even during our trials. Better to stay here if that's the option.”

“Will you tell us what you did, Zeba-
jan
?” the younger wife asked. She was kneeling, her hands on her thighs and her head tilted. “What kind of curse did you put on them?”

Zeba was stunned. She remembered the day these prisoners had laid their problems at her feet. She'd had no answers for them. She'd managed only to say that she would think on their situations and she had—at the shrine. She'd prayed for each of these women, though only in vague terms, distilling her request to Allah down to one simple word. Mercy.

“I . . . I cannot say what I did. I prayed and thought about you all.” Zeba stumbled over an explanation.

“But what did you use for the spell? Fire? A chicken bone? I'm so curious!”

Latifa sensed Zeba's hesitation and filled the silence with her booming voice.

“She can't tell you, of course! This is dangerous stuff she deals with, don't you see?
Lethal
stuff.” Latifa's voice was a hoarse whisper as she leaned in for the last words. From where they sat on the floor, she appeared larger than life. “What Malika Zeba does is not a game. It is not for everyone. It stays in her capable hands.”

The women exchanged glances, Latifa's words sinking in. The young wife bit her cheek in regret, and Latifa returned to her bed to observe from a distance. Zeba struggled to maintain her composure.

“I don't need to know what you did,” declared Wahida. “I'm just thankful you did it.”

“Yes, this is a good one.” Latifa chuckled. She was happier now that order had been restored in the cell. “Tell Zeba what happened in your case.”

Zeba looked at Wahida, a young woman who looked much more polished than any of the others at Chil Mahtab. She had finished high school and she had one brother living in Iran who sent her gifts. She sidled up next to Zeba and put a hand on her knee.

“It is a good thing. Latifa-
jan
is right. The boy I'd run off with begged his family to allow us to marry, but it wasn't until Zeba came along that they finally agreed. At last, we're going to be together!”

“Lucky girl! Are they planning a wedding for you?” the older sister-wife asked, leaning backward to see past the younger sister-wife.

“No,” Wahida answered wistfully. “But they've pooled some money together to get us both freed. Just a few more days, they tell me.”

Latifa clapped her hands together.

“It's just incredible. I've been here for years,” she said with a moan.
“I've never seen anything like this. I've never seen so many women getting a break. Malika Zeba is a miracle maker!”

“Don't say that,” Zeba said sharply. “I'm not a miracle worker at all. I prayed for you all while I was at the shrine. I didn't do . . . I mean, you shouldn't think of me as . . . some kind of miracle maker. I'm a prisoner just like you.”

“Not a chance. No other prisoner has been able to do what you've done. I've been here long enough to know that.”

“She's right,” the older sister-wife confirmed. “And if you ever need anything, we are here for you. The women have been gathering in the beauty salon, in the classroom, in the prison yard. Everywhere the chatter is about what you've done to help us. For the first time in a long time, we feel like something can be done. You've lit this place like a full moon!”

“And the children are happier, too, those poor things,” clucked Bibi Shireen. “They sense their mother's nerves, you know.”

Zeba felt her eyes mist. She wasn't responsible for any of this—was she?

“That's why you've earned the name Malika Zeba,” Nafisa said, tweaking the volume up on the television. It was time for the singing competition again, and she did not want to miss the finals. “You're the most famous woman in this prison. There's even a reporter who's been here, asking around. She heard about your case and wants to interview you. I wouldn't be surprised to see your story make the news. Your face on the television—wouldn't that be something!”

Zeba did not answer. Notoriety within the confines of Chil Mahtab was one thing, but Zeba was certain that the rest of the country would not view her through the same rosy lenses as her fellow prisoners.

THE RAIN CAME DOWN IN SHEETS, DESCENDING FROM THICK,
nimbus clouds that looked like unspun lambswool. Yusuf had dashed into the office moments before it started. The rain fell upon the glass windows of the office in a soothing, staccato rhythm. He would appreciate none of this later, he knew, when he plodded his way home on a muddied road. The rain was much needed though, as the town hadn't seen a drop of precipitation in over a month. Brittle tree branches snapped as easily as peapods, and dust floated through the air without any moisture to weigh it down.

It was a welcome break from the heat, and Yusuf felt his eyes drawn to the window often, as if he'd never seen rain before.

When he heard the ringing, Yusuf reached into his jacket pocket. This time, he recognized the string of numbers on his cell phone. He took a deep breath before pressing his thumb against the talk button.

“Hello?” he said, purposefully icing his voice a bit to sound preoccupied.

“Yes, it's Sultana again from
Dawn,
” she said as if he'd not abruptly cut off their last conversation. “I wanted to follow up on the conversation we had the other day regarding the case of Khanum Zeba.”

Yusuf looked at the stack of papers on his desk, thinking to himself that all his preparation for the case of Khanum Zeba was a great big pile of nothing in the end. The insanity defense had looked viable
when outlined on his yellow notepad, but in reality, it had choked pretty badly. The rumors about her husband, Kamal, had won her more sympathy from the judge and prosecutor than any argument Yusuf had put forth. All he had left was the truth, the horrible truth about what Zeba had seen Kamal doing that day, but Yusuf had been instructed by his client not to mention the girl. She was afraid for the girl's well-being and rightfully so.
A child had been sexually violated,
he thought,
but the world would only see her as damaged goods.
There would not be pity or rage for her, and even if there were, it would scarcely be enough.

“Do you have a specific question?” Yusuf asked. He was sitting at his desk in their main office. Aneesa was at her desk on the opposite side of the room, a phone cradled between her tilted head and shoulder. She adjusted her glasses with her free hand and then rubbed at her forehead and temples. She was busy working on a brief for a new client, a young woman who had been sold into servitude after she'd lost both her parents. She'd been taken from a village to Kabul, and after the family she worked for discovered both of their adolescent boys had been sexually assaulting her, she was passed on as a bride to a man in his seventies. The old man had turned her out two weeks after their marriage because she'd not been a virgin. Now the client had been arrested for
zina
and was to arrive in Chil Mahtab in the morning. Aneesa might need his help on that case, and he didn't want to waste time on a reporter.

“I realize you don't want to give me specific details on this Zeba case,” she explained. “So maybe we can talk about the imprisoned women more generally. I've been to Chil Mahtab a few times and the stories in that place range from tragic to absurd, but no one seems to be paying any attention to how easy it is to cry ‘immorality' at the sight of a woman doing anything.”

“How did you get interested in this topic?”

Sultana's voice relaxed noticeably when Yusuf asked the question, as if she were afraid he might have hung up on her.

“There was a report that circulated in the NGO world. It talked about the crimes women were accused of and the sentences they received. I read the report and, at first, I was so bothered that a foreign organization would come in to our country and judge us by their standards, but then I took a step back. I realized it wasn't useful to be annoyed if I didn't do anything about it, so I decided to investigate for myself. Afghans aren't going to read the NGO's report, but they will listen to our news service.”

“I suppose there isn't much faith in the foreign NGOs.”

“There's either too much faith in them or too little faith. Some people want them to do everything for our country, and others see them as spies or missionaries. Either way, we've got to pull our own weight too.”

“Not many people see it that way.”

“You're here with a legal aid organization. You might be hearing only one side of the story. Speaking of your organization, what do you think of the representation women are getting once they are arrested? Do you think it's fair or adequate?”

Yusuf's head dropped. He struggled for an answer. He knew Sultana was asking him about the general defense women received and the counselors appointed to them. But the words changed as they met his ear, turning into the same question that breathed uncomfortably down his neck each night as he tossed and turned his way to sleep each night.

Are you doing a good job defending Zeba?

“Are you still there?”

“Yes, I'm here,” Yusuf muttered. He sat up and noticed Aneesa was off the phone. She shot him a look of concern, her arched eyebrows raised. He nodded back at her in reassurance then returned to Sultana's question. “Look, some of the women are getting a reasonable defense, but others aren't. A lot of the lawyers are putting together cases that make me wonder what kind of training they've received. Their defense arguments are actually pleas for mercy and
almost sound like confession statements of their own. It's an injustice, especially for women who are arrested on trumped-up charges in the first place. That being said, I don't know if anyone in Afghanistan is getting a fair trial. Those murderers in Kabul who were tried and sentenced in a week . . . that wasn't really a fair trial either. That was an abomination in the opposite direction.”

Was Sultana taking notes? There was a faint crackle on the line. He listened for the sound of her breathing.

“Did you do all your schooling in the United States?”

“I did,” Yusuf answered.

“What made you want to be a lawyer?”

“I have an unquenchable need to be right at all times,” Yusuf joked. He heard Sultana laugh lightly.

“And you? Did you study journalism abroad?”

“No, I graduated from Kabul University.”

“Really?” Yusuf was surprised. He'd half expected Sultana to be like him, an expat who had returned to the homeland with a foreign education. He wondered why he'd made that assumption. Maybe it was her forwardness or the way she asked questions that didn't skirt the topic.

“Yes, really,” she said sharply. She'd detected his surprise and was unimpressed by it. She switched into English to make her point. “We do have an educational system here, you know. You don't have to go to the United States to learn something.”

“I didn't mean that. Tell me, then, why did you become a journalist?”

“Because I like to know the truth,” she replied without hesitation. “I have always asked a lot of questions, even when I was a child. My family tolerated it so well that I decided to make it my work.”

“Good thinking.”

“Thank you,” she said brightly. “I'm planning on going to the prison later this afternoon to do a few more interviews. I'm hoping to catch the warden as well. She's been pretending to be busy, but I'm going to corner her today. Any chance you'll be there?”

“I'm at the office this morning.” And he was, but as the words left his mouth, Yusuf felt a tug to change his plans. “I'll probably be at the prison in the afternoon though.”

“Great, I'll be there at two o'clock. Maybe I'll see you then.”

Yusuf hung up the phone and tapped his pencil against his notepad. The afternoon was looking less dreary than the morning.