The Secret Sky: A Novel of Forbidden Love in Afghanistan (12 page)

FATIMA

I pray to God that this is all a dream. I can feel pain in my chest, like a bandage stuck to my breasts, wrapped tightly, suffocating my heart. I guess that’s appropriate, because right now my heart feels wounded and my body feels numb. It’s as if I’m a spectator, viewing my life from the outside. All that I’m experiencing can’t be real. I’ll wake up at any moment now and realize it’s just a bad dream and that none of this is true and that my father still loves me and that my life isn’t over.

•   •   •

Last night, after my father made his decree, my mother said that I was lucky they weren’t going to kill me because that was what I deserved. Her eyes ran through me like daggers and made me realize that if it were her choice, I would be dead. My father didn’t disagree with her; he just turned his head and went to bed.

I felt her eyes burning through me when I woke from my nightmares, as if she was planning something. She knows she can’t hurt me with my father around, but I’m afraid of being alone with her.

I decide to stay in our room when everyone leaves to go have breakfast. By now, my father must have gone out to the fields to meet Karim . . . my future husband. I still can’t believe it. There has to be a way to change my father’s mind. I’m piling all the sleeping mats on top of each other in the corner of the room when I hear footsteps marching toward me. My mother walks in with raging eyes, angry like a snake.

“
Salaam, Madar Ja—
” I try to get the words out before she makes her way to me and grabs me by the hair. I can feel the strands ripping off at the roots, and I start to scream. She drags me through the open doors and slams my head against the dirt walls, causing the world around me to spin.

“Shut up!” she yells at me as I desperately try not to fall to the ground, because I know it would rip my scalp even more. But she’s moving too fast, and my feet keep tripping over each other. We make it to the room with the
tandoor,
and she throws me to the floor.

“Do you like being a whore?” she shouts. I notice the kettle is at full boil. I can hear the bubbles hitting the inside of the hot metal, and the steam is billowing from the spout. She lets go of my hair, and I instinctively reach for the kettle to take it off the fire. She stops me by kicking me in the gut. The jolt knocks me back and steals the air right out of my lungs.

“Don’t touch that, you filthy slut,” she screams as she picks up the kettle and places it on the dirt. “Do you know how much you have shamed yourself? How much you have shamed this family? How much you have shamed
me
?”

“I’m sorry,” I manage to whisper but I know it doesn’t matter. Nothing I can say will make my mother despise me any less.

“You’re sorry?” she gets up and kicks my stomach again. This time her plastic sandal falls off her right foot.

“I had plans for you! For our family!” she yells as she begins to pace the room. “There was a good family. They were wealthy. But they won’t marry their son to a whore!” I don’t dare let out a sound. I know any noise from me will agitate her even more. The longer I leave her in her world, the longer she won’t violate mine. “You didn’t even think of your sister! We won’t be able to marry her either now!”

Could I have ruined Afo’s life too? In all likelihood, my mother may actually be right. Afo will always be attached to my disgrace. As I think about this I see that my mother has noticed my presence again.

“Pull your sleeves up and stick out your arms. Do it! Do it now!” she yells. I’m startled by her intensity and quickly push my sleeves up as I watch her walk to where she has placed the kettle. She picks it up. Her arms are shaking so much she is spilling some of the hot liquid on to the floor. She makes her way closer to me. Is she—this can’t be happening. I don’t believe it. No, she won’t do it. She can’t do it. I’ve heard stories of things like this happening to other girls in the villages, stories that made me cringe and count my blessings. But I never thought it would happen to me.

My eyes begin to blur with tears . . . I see her turning the kettle, preventing more water from spilling to the ground, but I still refuse to believe she’ll do it.

“I said stick out your arms!” she spits. My body is shaking uncontrollably, but I know I have to do as she says. I hold out my arms.

“Pull your sleeves up higher!”

I obey.

She starts to tilt the kettle, and the scorching water falls onto my bare arms. The pain is searing, and I start screaming.

“This is what whores deserve!” my mother says with a look of delight on her face. “This is what
you
deserve for shaming us!”

I can stop screaming from the pain, but I can no longer see or hear anything. My vision blurs. The world goes silent. I feel the screams curdling in my throat, but I have no idea if they make a sound. The only thing I can sense is the excruciating pain. I know now what it feels like to be in hell.

Instinctively I try to pull my arms away, but my mother stops pouring only long enough to grab me by the hair again and spit in my face. A second of relief. The thick wet gob lands on my left cheek and eye, blurring my vision even more. The tugging pulls out more strands of hair that she throws to the ground, but I don’t feel them being wrenched from my skull. The pain scorching my forearms drowns even that out.

“Put your arms out, or I will pour it on your face!” I hear her voice through my daze. The look of Shayton in her eyes shows that she means it. I have no doubt she wants to kill me right now. The only thing saving me is how my father would respond. But she knows she can get away with this.

I find myself paralyzed in terror, squatting on the floor, with my knees pulled in and my arms still out in front me. I am afraid to move them. The pain is too intense, and any movement will add to the throbbing that still sears through my skin, muscles and bones. All I can do is cry as I wait for her to finish. I try not to sob too loudly, fearing I will agitate her more. I swallow in as much as I can.

But instead of feeling more water on my skin, I hear a clamoring bang. I open my eyes and see that she has thrown the kettle to the wall. The water drips on the mud, darkening the areas it has touched. It leaves a scar on the wall like it has on my arms.

“Now pull down your sleeves. If you show this to your father, I swear the next time I will kill you. You stupid whore!” she says, picking up the kettle only to throw it again, this time in my direction. I miss getting hit only by ducking my head. I close my eyes and hear her sandals crunching on the dirt floor as she leaves the room.

That is when I realize that my mother doesn’t love me anymore. Her children aren’t people to her. We are her accessories, like a new
payron
or bangle. She wanted me to marry the boy in the other village because it would have made her look good, not because she was looking out for my welfare. She sent Ali to Iran to make money for her, not so he could build a better life for himself.

If I am ever a mother, I will never be like her. Never! God protect my younger brothers and baby sister from her.

I wait awhile before I even attempt to move. I’m afraid that if I leave this room, my mother will attack me again.

An hour has passed by the time I finally stand and make my way out of the building. I see my mother from a distance washing the clothes in the stream. I quickly duck into the sleeping area to tend to my wounds. I find a bag of old medicine and slowly pour its contents to the ground. I see a cream my father received from the town clinic four years ago when the blisters on his hands were popping and oozing blood and pus. I don’t know if the cream will help, but since my arms seem to have the same symptoms, I feel like I should use it.

I lift my arms and try to slather some cream on the tattered skin and exposed muscle. I can’t keep myself from screaming and crying as I rub the lotion on as gently as possible. But still it feels like a rake scraping at my wounds. The coolness of the cream doesn’t do much to stop the burning.

I don’t know how long I have been at it when Afifa walks in. She takes one look at me and starts crying too.

My sweet baby sister doesn’t know what else to do but cry with me. Her compassion helps my broken heart remember that at least
she
still loves me. She’s too young to be ashamed, at least for now. She doesn’t yet know what I may have done to her future. Her heart is still as sensitive as the fine-winged butterflies that roam our land in the summer—a trait she did not receive from our mother.

As our tears begin to taper off, she pulls out a letter and gives it to me. She says it’s a secret letter from the sleeping boy with green eyes. I know she must mean Sami. My heart races, pulling my thoughts away from my throbbing arms.

“My
shadi gak,
you know I love you, right?” I say to her.

“Yes, I love you too!” she responds, her tears drying on her cheeks.

“I know it’s hard to keep secrets from our parents, but this time we have to. If you tell anyone, these burns on my arms will get deeper, and I’ll be in more pain. I’ll be punished even more,” I say, showing her my blistering skin. I hate doing this to her, but I can’t have my parents know about Sami sending me a letter. Although I’m glad he has.

“No! I don’t want you more hurt!” Afifa says, covering her eyes as she starts her sobbing again. “I’ll . . . keep . . . the secret,” she adds, taking deep breaths before each word. As much as it breaks my heart to see her cry, it makes me believe without any doubt that she won’t let the secret slip.

I hide the exact details of what happened when Afifa questions me on my injuries. And after a while, she falls asleep. Her head lies on my lap, and she drools on my legs as I open Sami’s note. It takes some time before I can finish reading it. It’s still tough for me to make out some of the letters when they’re connected to each other. But Sami kept it simple:

Forgive me.

As the sun sets, meet me at the well.

We need to talk.

I am far too scared to meet him. The excitement and joy I used to feel at the thought of seeing him has transformed into fear and despair. I don’t know who knows what happened and who doesn’t, but in a village like ours, word travels fast. If anyone sees me walking toward his family’s house, I will quickly be known as the town whore, if I’m not already.

But to know that Sami is thinking of me provides some comfort.
Forgive me.
I don’t even know what to forgive him for. This is my fault, too. I should never have gone to meet him. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I did it anyway. The desire to see him outweighed the consequences, or so I thought. I never figured we’d get caught—or maybe I knew we would eventually by someone, but I thought that whoever found out might want to help us. If I am honest with myself, I secretly hoped that by meeting him, we could force my family and his family to let us marry—that it would mean we were no longer eligible to marry someone else.

I knew other girls had died because of what I was doing, but for some stupid reason, I’d thought I was different. Our families didn’t really care that we played together when we were young. Our fathers interacted with each other often—and not as ethnic rivals, but as human beings. And my father was more open-minded than the rest. I’d thought that he would want me to be happy. But now I realize I was more naïve than I thought.

I want to see Sami, but I can’t. How would I carry the water jugs with my arms the way they are? Besides, I can’t do this again, not to my father and not to my family—they now bear the shame of my actions as well. But the more I think of not going, the more I think of Sami and his gentle smile and warm eyes. Eyes that see me for all I am. Eyes that make me feel protected and valued and loved.

I still hold on to the hope that this is all a bad dream, but the blisters on my arms and the stinging pain that shoots through the deadness every few seconds remind me that it is all very real.

FATIMA

Ironically, it’s my mother this time who throws me in Sami’s direction. She has ordered me to fetch water from the well. Even after the darkness of this morning, I can’t help but be amused by the situation and see it as a sign that I must go. I want to say my last good-bye to Sami.

My mother breathes a pleased sigh as I go to pick up the two empty jugs and wince in pain. We both know the wincing will turn to groaning and heavy tears when I have to carry them weighed down with the water. On a normal day, my mother and I or Zohra and I would work together, carrying only one jug each.

There is still some time left before the sun begins to set when I make it to the entrance of the well. My face is wet with tears from the pain of carrying the empty containers. All that blocks Sami’s home from my view are the pomegranate trees in bloom and an empty storeroom built of mud. The trees are dotted with crimson pomegranate flowers. In two more months, they will be fully transformed and ripened into my favorite fruit. It has always fascinated me how a little speck can blossom into a flower and then into a beautiful, juicy ball of fruit.

The decrepit storage hut next to the field isn’t as pleasing to the eyes. Like many of the homes in our village, it is molded of mud. But this hut has not been used for as long as I can remember. It’s just a neglected old building covered in cracks from the untended dried mud. Sami had told me it used to hold the feed for the horses. That’s when his family owned horses. There aren’t any more horses in our village. Now they seem like mythical creatures that exist only in pictures from the old days.

Zohra’s grandmother told us that once horses were a sign of wealth, like cars are today. They were what the powerful and elite would use to make their way from village to village and what the tribal leaders would use to visit the cities. But as the wealthy bought cars, they sold their horses. The only animals we see now are donkeys and sometimes camels. This room hasn’t been used since the day Kaka Ismail’s father sold his last horse, before Sami was even born. So it stands there empty and forgotten, an existence I fear I will share.

I drag the jugs to the hand-dug well and set them at my feet, wincing in pain as I bend my arms. I unhook the plastic bucket that holds a rock inside of it to help it sink in the water. I release the rope and steadily let the bucket make its way down until I can feel it hit the surface. I let it fall a little lower and then begin yanking on the rope to bring it back to me. My arms burn, and the dried lacerations break open. My skin rips slowly and deeply. My body heats up as the blood and pus flow out. I feel the tears dripping down my face. I try to ignore the stinging and burning as much as I can and pour the water into one of the jugs, all the while looking up and around for any signs of Sami. But I see nothing. I repeat this process over and over again until I have successfully filled both containers. As I tightly fasten the plastic lids onto the jugs, I notice the pus and blood have soaked through the fabric of my dress. I flick some water onto my arms and pull the material away from my skin slowly, knowing it will be more painful to pull it off later after the cloth dries into my arms.

After this excruciating process, I take another look around for Sami, and I still don’t see him. I peer through the trees, but all I see are the thin trunks spreading out their even skinnier branches. My stomach drops with disappointment; he’s abandoned me too. Why would he ask me to meet him if he couldn’t build up the courage to come himself? It’s not like Sami to be scared, but maybe he has decided that it isn’t worth the risk. That I’m not worth the risk . . .

The thought makes me feel even more hollow than I did before. I don’t know if I will ever get used to this feeling of emptiness. And hopelessness.

I grab the jugs, letting out a groan as I begin my trek back.

But as I start to walk, I can’t shake off the feeling that I’m being watched. I look around, peering between the trees.

“Fatima, quickly, over here.” I hear Sami’s voice coming from the empty hut. “Hurry, please.” His voice has an edge, like he’s agitated. Not angry, but desperate. No matter the tone, his voice still comforts me.

I bring the jugs with me and quickly drop them as soon as I get into the room, trying to hide my pain and praying that my tears will dry fast. The sun’s setting rays pour into half of the abandoned space, providing light even to the shaded side—the side where Sami is waiting. There are dark circles under his eyes, as if he spent last night worrying instead of sleeping. The urge to reach out toward him is stronger than ever, but I stand still, keeping my blistered arms at my sides.

“I wasn’t sure if you would come,” he says, looking down. We are both silent before he looks back up, this time with eyes full of tears and a voice full of anguish. “Please forgive me, Fatima. I didn’t mean for it to happen this way! Please believe me. I was forced to tell them. I had to because of Rashid!” His voice begins to shake. “They were thinking horrible things, and I wanted to fix it, but I couldn’t. I don’t know what to do. What do you want me to do? Please tell me how I can make this right.”

Seeing his tears brings me to tears as well. I can no longer feel my scorched arms; I only feel that my heart is on fire, burning with the pain of losing him.

“It can’t be fixed,” I say through my whimpers. “Why would you tell Rashid? How could you do that? And why would he tell my father?”

“I swear to you, I didn’t tell him anything,” Sami says, pleading. “I swear on the Quran, I never said a word. He saw us in the woods. That day we heard a noise, it was him. And I don’t know why he would tell. I honestly don’t know what to think of him.”

I feel dizzy now, thinking of what Rashid made of that meeting. What did he tell people? The truth alone is enough to ruin me—to ruin my family. I went to the woods alone to meet a boy. To the world, I have sinned against God and my family. My father has every right to kill me for this; it’s the only way to regain our family’s honor. My mother would have done it. She would have burned me to death. But my father has chosen to save me.

“Sami, I’m betrothed. My father says I must marry. He says it’s the only way for me now.”

Sami’s eyes are fixed on mine. He looks confused and helpless. He walks to the corner of the room that is still bathed in the sun’s rays and squats down with his head between his knees. All I see is his hunched back bouncing up and down as he sobs quietly. I want to go and comfort him, but I am paralyzed. We stay like this—not speaking, just crying. It pains me to see him so destroyed, to know that he’s hurting too. This time I realize I’m crying for him, not myself.

I notice the sun’s light fading and realize it is time to go.

“Sami, I have to leave now,” I say softly as I wipe the tears from my face. “But I want you to know something. I want you to know that you are my best friend, and for the rest of my life, I will think of you just as I have always thought of you. There is goodness in you. Goodness I’m glad I had a chance to know. I’ve always felt happy when I’ve been with you. I’ve always felt special, and I’ve always felt important. Whenever I’m sad, I’ll look back at our memories, and I’ll smile. I’ll thank God for giving me those days.” I am unable to keep even the tiniest bit of composure and begin to stumble as I say my last good-bye. “But . . . pl-please kn-know, you will always be m-m-my dear, sweet, l-l-lov-loving Sami, and I will always hold you in my heart.”

By the time I’m finished, I realize that my face is wet again. With all the crying I have done today, I’m amazed there are still tears left to shed. I use the bottom of my
payron
to wipe it clean. And walk back to my jugs.

“Wait!” he turns quickly facing me again. That’s when I realize his face is swollen not just by tears, but by bruises as well. Those dark circles are not from exhaustion. He’s been beaten.

“Sami, your face. Are you okay?” I want to run to him but clench my hands behind my back.

“I’m fine. My grandfather found out. It would have been much worse if the ladies of the house hadn’t stepped in and begged him to stop,” he says as he hesitantly makes his way toward me.

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

“Forget about this. These bruises and cuts will heal. But I won’t.
We
won’t. Not unless we do something,” he says with a look of determination. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but it is the only thing I can think of. And I know you will likely say no. But we do have one option. It’s a dangerous option, and it will rip us away from our families and our lives here forever, but it’s our only choice if we want to be together.”

I’m afraid of what Sami will say. I’m scared of the unrealistic hope he will give me.

“We have no options, Sami. My father has decided to marry me off to save us from more shame. Before you know it, you’ll be married too, and you’ll move on and forget about your silly neighbor girl.” The thought of it makes me nauseous. But I have to accept it.

Sami shakes his head in disagreement.

“I will never marry another woman. Never. Do you understand me? Fatima, I don’t want to forget about you. I don’t want to move on and pretend this never happened. I don’t want to live a life that is based around pleasing others. We have done nothing wrong! At least not in the eyes of God.”

He slowly makes his way closer to where I’m standing and reaches out for my fingers. But I can’t bring myself to touch him, as much as I want to. I let him pick up my hand, but the stinging makes me cringe.

“What’s wrong? Fatima, what’s wrong?” He looks in my eyes, as if he’s searching my soul. Without a word, I pull up my sleeves and show him my bloody pus-filled arms. “Fatima . . .” He stops talking and stands there openmouthed, examining my mutilation, his fingers gently holding up my elbows, avoiding the burns on my arms.

“My mother seems to share your grandfather’s sentiments,” I say, pulling my arms back and letting my sleeves down again.

“Fatima.” He pauses, and I can tell he wants to choose his words carefully. “Fatima, you have to listen to me. Now more than ever, you have to hear me out. This marriage may save your family, but it doesn’t mean you will be saving yourself. There will be people who won’t forget and those who will want to keep punishing you . . .”

Like my mother.

“I deserve to be punished. I’ve hurt my father, and I can’t hurt him more. I can deal with the pain. I’ll learn to deal with it. No matter how much I’m tortured, it won’t hurt as much as losing my father and losing you.” I can no longer look him in the eyes. I’ve always been honest with Sami; he’s always known my deepest secrets. But today is the first day I have shared my biggest secret, one that I even hid from myself for as long as I could: just how much I really care about him.

“Fatima, you don’t seem to understand. There are people here who may want to do more than just hurt you.”

I do understand, though. I look down at the blisters on my arms.

“Do you mean there are those who want to kill me? I already know this. My mother has made it very clear that she’d rather I were dead.”

I see Sami wince at my words, but he doesn’t refute them.

“There are people more dangerous than your mother who will want to punish us. Those are the ones I am afraid of. You are in the most danger.”

The sun has almost set now, and the room we are in is dark.

“What do you mean?” I’m thinking of Rashid. I’m thinking of the familiar voice Sami and I heard when we were crouched behind the rock. Is Rashid more than just a village troublemaker now?

“I just have a really bad feeling. And we need to get away from here.” Sami looks at me with determined eyes. “What I’m about to say will sound insane, but just listen. Okay?”

I don’t respond fast enough, so he asks again, “Okay?”

“Okay . . .” I wonder what he’s thinking, what he’s been planning all day.

“We can start a new life somewhere else, together. We can get married. I’ll take care of you, and I’ll be a good husband to you. I promise I won’t let anyone harm you. I’ll make you happy again, or I’ll die trying. Please let me.”

I’m at a loss for words, which is fine because he continues.

“There are so many people in Kabul, they’ll never notice two more entering the city. They won’t know who we are. We can get lost in the crowds and start our lives—together. We can be happy.”

Listening to these words, it feels like my dreams have become nightmares. This is all I’ve ever wanted, for Sami to care for me, to live in Kabul, maybe even to attend the university there. Now, all those dreams are Sami’s dreams too, but I still can’t make them come true. I can’t believe how cruel life truly is.

For the last week I’ve been imagining a life with Sami. In those dreams, we had children. Our parents supported us and were happy for us. My mother was still bitter because I married a Pashtun, but she softened at the sight of her grandchildren.

I now start to create a new fantasy. Sami and I are still together, alone without our families, but still happy. Raising children in a capital city I have never seen before but have always pictured as crowded and magical. We grow old together, me side by side with
my Sami.
But that’s when I force myself to snap back to the present. This is an impossible dream. The words he says are based in desire, not reality. I can’t leave my father, my little brothers and my Afifa. And he can’t leave his parents, siblings and tribe.