The Secret Sky: A Novel of Forbidden Love in Afghanistan (16 page)

“Our intention is to find your son so we can talk to him. We are here to help him . . . to help you,” he says as tries to regain his composure.

“We don’t want your help. Leave us alone and leave my son alone. Go!” She says turning around and throwing her hand up in the air. “Go now!”

Latif just looks at me as if I can fix this. And that’s when I realize this is my chance to make myself look strong in front of Latif and his men again. I can’t fix the way I’ve dishonored my family, but I can fix how I appear to Latif’s men. Besides, I am Qadir’s son, my aunt’s dear brother’s child. She will forgive me later.

“My dear auntie, let’s not drag this out. Let them quickly search the house and then they’ll leave.” My aunt turns around with bulging eyes and makes her way back to me. I hold my head high and try not to show fear. Preparing for more slaps, I tense every muscle in my body. She may be a little old lady, but her bony hands are like sharp knives when they strike.

“You are a shame to your dead parents!” she says with her deep green eyes flashing—eyes like Sami’s, like my father’s. I take a step back. It feels as though I’ve been hit, but she hasn’t laid a finger on me. “If your father knew what you would become—selling out your own family, spending time with thugs, giving your cousin to these dogs—he would have asked his murderers to kill you along with him!” All I can do is stare at her in silence as I try to catch my breath. She has never said a harsh word to me in my life. And now this. I want to respond, but I can’t. How can I speak if I’ve forgotten how to breathe?

I hear her call the families to come out of their rooms and into the courtyard. There is a steady stream of children and men who come out first. The women, in their colorful clothes, follow. Some are holding their scarves to their faces using both hands; others are holding their infants in one while covering themselves with the other. As they all make their way out, I can feel the stares, but I can’t focus. Their faces are blocked by flashes of my family’s murder. I hear my father’s screams, I see my mother lying on the ground, I see my baby sister’s lifeless body in my mother’s dead arms, and suddenly the scenery changes, and I see Mohammad with his baby Afifa.

I feel myself fall back onto the dirt floor. The world around me has turned hazy. I see bodies moving. I see men throwing pillows and sheets through windows and doors. I see plastic jugs falling from the roof as Latif’s men run up to the top of the house. I hear the children and the women crying. I hear the men in my family screaming. But I can’t move. The voices are all muffled; nothing is comprehensible. The only thing that’s as clear as freshly wiped glass is my father’s desperate voice screaming for his murderers to spare us, his son, his daughter, his wife.

“Rashid! Rashid!” I think it’s my father calling me, until I feel a slap on my face and I see Azizullah. “Come on, Rashid, we’re done here. Let’s go.” I’m unaware of how much time has passed and what has happened, but I’ve regained my vision and see what we have left behind. The house looks like it has been looted, with clothes and furniture scattered throughout the courtyard. Some of the window screens have been ripped from their frames to make way for everything Latif’s men were flinging out.

“I hope you don’t mind that we took some items for the cause.” Azizullah smirks as he shows me a bag full of batteries, a flashlight and a small radio—my family’s only radio. I don’t even look at them as I turn to leave, but I can hear my great-uncle Jaan Baba’s weak voice trying to yell.

“You are dead to us, dead!” His screams are shrill. “You have brought more shame to us than your cousin. Don’t ever come back.”

I hear women wailing in the background, and I turn to see their faces. And that’s when I find her. My beautiful cousin Nur, dressed in a ruby-red dress with a green head scarf to match her eyes, holding on to one of the children. She is stunning, even when her eyes are downcast, dripping tears.

I notice that tears are also streaming down my face. I wipe them away, turning my back on my family, and walk out of my home.

Sami will pay for ripping me away from my loved ones.

RASHID

I splash the river water on my face, feeling the icy burn on my parched skin. The day is hot, but my body cannot stop shivering. Just days ago, I was at the same river with one of Latif’s men, strapping my village’s water to the motorbike as we rode by, and today I’m wondering if I can ever show my face in this village again. My head races with thoughts of this morning’s events. First at the farmer’s house and then at my own. I hear my aunt’s words, and I hear Mohammad’s screams. Flashes of my own parents’ voices echo through my brain. I hold my hands to my ears, turning my head so the other men don’t see the struggle I’m having with myself, hoping if I squeeze my head hard enough, the sounds will stop.

I feel a push on my back and instinctively swing my hand around in order to hit whoever it is. But I miss.

“Calm down!” Zaman says, catching my hand. “Are you okay?” I barely know Zaman, but he seems different from the louder men in Latif’s gang. I noticed he was one of the few who wasn’t laughing when Latif killed Fatima’s sister.

“I’m fine,” I say, looking away, not wanting to make eye contact with any of them. Partly out of anger and partly out of embarrassment.

“You’re not okay. But you need to act stronger, or they will bother you too,” Zaman says.

“What’s it to you?” I snap. I don’t know this guy, and I don’t like that he is poking his nose in my business.

“I don’t care what happens to you!” Zaman says through gritted teeth. “I just don’t want to deal with any more crazy nonsense today. So get up and act like a man so they don’t find a reason to treat you like a boy!”

I get up from my squatting position and look over to the men farther down the river. Some are lounging on the rocks, soaking in the sun’s rays, others are drinking and bathing their feet in the ice-cold water. Latif is one of the men lying on the rocks and laughing. I can feel my hands start to clench into tight fists, and I dig my nails into my skin. He violated my family!

“Let it go,” Zaman says as if he had just read my mind. “There is nothing you can do to fix it now. Just let it go.”

I look at Zaman puzzled. “What do you mean, ‘let it go’? I have nothing now!”

“Going after him isn’t going to change anything.” Zaman glances at Latif.

“I suppose you would kill me if I went after him?” I now have the strongest urge to tackle Zaman but I just stare at him.

“I couldn’t care less if he were killed,” Zaman says.

I am stunned.

“Stick your eyes back into your head.” Zaman shakes his head at me. “You can’t be surprised that not everyone is impressed by that fraud.”

“But . . . then . . . why . . .” I try to get a sentence out, but I’m too confused by Zaman’s words to complete it.

“Look, the scoundrel helps me earn some money that I can give back to my family,” he says before I can finish my sentence. “I don’t like what I do, but at least I can give my parents and siblings enough money to keep them fed. I have no choice.”

“And you’re okay with destroying families and killing children?” I feel the bile come up in my throat as I remember the death of that little baby girl today.

“No, I’m not. But I would rather have someone else’s family destroyed than my own. It’s survival,” Zaman says without any shame. “What did you think would happen when you complained about your family to a thug like that?” His words make my insides sink. We both look at Latif, who is now laughing at one of the men who can’t last ten seconds with his feet in the water because of the cold.

“But . . . I thought it would be . . . I thought . . .” I struggle to get my words out as Zaman grabs a cigarette and sticks it in his mouth. “I thought it would be done according to proper Islamic law.” My words send him into grunts of laughter.

“Do you really think that man knows anything about Islamic law?” Latif has grown bored of the jackass in the water and is now fixing his hair in the reflection of his sunglasses. Zaman pulls out a match and lights his cigarette. “The only reason he has authority in our villages is because his uncle is a big-time warlord in the capital of our province. He has ties with some crooks in Kabul and some Afghans hiding across the border in Pakistan. They’re all scum, but they’re the scum that keeps me fed—even if they are stealing it from someone else’s plate.” Zaman blows out smoke and looks down again. “They talk about Pashtun
this
and Pashtun
that
—did you know we have Tajiks and Uzbeks in this group? Rumor has it Latif’s mother was from Panjshir. Anyone who is hungry for money or blood, or both.
This
is our Afghanistan,” he says, shaking his head. “How did you get stuck with us, anyway? It didn’t look like your family needed the money.”

I wonder why Zaman is telling me all of this. It doesn’t seem like he’s the slightest bit scared of Latif. “The mullah at my
madrassa
told me that it would be good for me to meet with Latif and join his men. He said they were Taliban fighters who will help rid our country of the infidels and bring back an Islamic state. So I started spending time with them in the last few months with permission of our mullah.”

“It wasn’t Mullah Rafi, was it?” Zaman snorts again, this time letting out smoke from his nose and mouth.

“Yes, do you know him?” I ask.

“That’s Latif’s brother. They’re both jackasses,” Zaman says, coughing out a chuckle. “They’re all donkeys with power—I don’t think the real Taliban would even accept them.”

“But Mullah Rafi was a wise man who taught us so much about what’s ailing our country!” I feel heated by the fact that he would call a religious scholar a donkey.

“He is a hypocrite, and so are you if you believe in Islam and believe in him at the same time.” Zaman blows smoke in my direction.

“How dare you—” I start, but he interrupts me.

“I dare to say this because he rapes children, sends them off on suicide missions and tells them they will survive all because they are wearing a talisman,” Zaman says with fierce eyes. “And if you think they are great men, you should be prepared to be their next mule.” Zaman takes a drag from his cigarette. “Looks like he didn’t play with you. You should be thanking God for that every day. Maybe he thought you were too ugly.” Zaman snorts before taking another drag.

Could he be telling the truth? Did Mullah Rafi violate his power with children? No, it can’t be true. But why would Zaman lie to me?

“Hey! You two! Come here!” Our conversation is interrupted by a goon waving us over to Latif. Zaman throws his cigarette to the ground and steps on it before walking over.

“What were you guys doing over there? Giving each other some ass?” Latif says. His followers laugh. That sick son of a bitch! I’m about to give him a piece of my mind, but Zaman answers first.

“We were taking a leak. We wanted to piss upstream so it went in all of your mouths.”

The men stop laughing and start wiping their mouths and smelling their hands. Latif laughs at the retort and looks back at me. “So, where are they?” he asks.

“Sami and the girl?” I look at him. “I don’t know. They must have run away together.” I feel my anger boiling again at the thought of my snake of a cousin, whom my family has chosen over me.

“Yes, I know that,” Latif says, “but we need to figure out where they are. Who would they go to for help? Where do they have more family? What members of your tribe would take them in? Do they have friends who would shelter them?”

Family. Tribe. Friends. Is this animal serious? Does he think I would give him the locations of more of the people I know so I can be shamed even further than I already have been?

“I don’t think he would be able to take a girl to any family members or tribesmen. They wouldn’t allow it,” I say quickly.

“Then where else?” Latif’s voice sounds agitated. “Has he lived anywhere else besides this village and the
madrassa
? Does he know other places?”

“He traveled a lot with his father before we became students at the
madrassa,
but the people he saw were all people who knew his father. They would never help him,” I say. They would turn him away, if not shoot him on the spot for disgracing our people. I consider our friends at the
madrassa,
wondering if any of them would help him, but I can’t think of one person who would even dare. Then I remember that when Sami left the school, he didn’t come straight home. He spent a month with that old mullah a few villages over before making his way back to our tribe. Mullah Sarwar! That’s his name!

I look at Latif, who is still staring at me. And I wonder if I should share this information with the animal who is intent on killing my cousin and his whore or if I should keep it to myself and figure out my own punishment for them.

Oh, Samiullah, your life is not in God’s hands now. It’s in mine.

FATIMA

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Mullah Sarwar asks.

“Yes,” Sami responds immediately.

“I was actually asking Fatima.” Mullah Sarwar looks at him and then back at me. “My child, I want to make sure that this is what you want. I don’t want you to feel forced into doing anything. I know you think there’s no turning back, and you might be right. But there are different options moving forward, and this is just one of them. No matter what you choose, I’ll help you.”

I look at Sami, who is staring at me with the eyes of a worried cat, waiting for my response. We just spent the last hour explaining to Mullah Sarwar why we felt justified in running away together. He listened with kind eyes and patient ears. Without judgment. I first avoided the mullah’s eyes, afraid of disapproving stares, but not once did this gentle old man make me feel like the whore my mother must be calling me right now. Instead, the mullah has been trying to hear my intent through my quiet, short answers. When he found out about my burns, he left the room, only to come back with medication. I find myself avoiding his eyes again, now afraid to see the sympathy in them because I know it will bring me to tears.

“Don’t listen to what people may have told you growing up,” Mullah Sarwar continues. “Our culture and tradition is not our religion. As a Muslim woman, you have the right not to be forced into marriage. And I can’t marry two people without knowing they have both come to me of their own free will. Do you understand? I wish your families were here to accept this union, but I understand that in this case, they will not. Still, this is your choice—not mine and not theirs.”

I nod and look at Sami, who seems nervous. His gaze has fallen to the carpet. The man I ran away with now looks like the little boy I once knew. The boy who has always taken care of me. The boy who always made me happy. And the man I can’t imagine a life without. I am more sure than I have ever been.

“I want this,” I finally whisper.

Sami’s head pops up, and he looks at me, a smile on his face. I can’t help but return it as I turn my face away in embarrassment.

“There is nothing to be ashamed of, my dear,” Mullah Sarwar says to me. “Love is a gift. And this gift will give you the strength for what lies ahead. It won’t be easy. There won’t be a day that you won’t miss your family.” I feel my eyes begin to fill with tears again, thinking of my parents, my brothers and my baby sister. “But you have both made your choice. And until we can make sure you are both safe, you will stay with us.”

“Thank you, Mullah Saib.” Sami goes to kiss his hand. Mullah Sarwar pulls his hand away and taps Sami’s head.

“My son, you don’t have to thank me.” He looks at Sami with a smile so powerful that it lifts my heart. “The family will get you both situated.”

“I’m sorry,” I find myself saying. “I’m sorry for the trouble we’re causing you.”

The mullah looks at me with his sympathetic eyes again. I feel my emotions swell as a teardrop falls from each of my eyes. “I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to help. I know Sami is a good boy. And I can see the love that you both share.” I am embarrassed at hearing the word
love.
Sami and I have never used that word or words like it, even though I feel it in my heart. “But you both must know that even when we make this right in the way of Islam, there will be those in our society who will never approve. And you have to be ready for that.”

I look at Sami, and I know that I am.

•   •   •

Mullah Sarwar asks his grandson Walid and an older son named Ahmad to be our two witnesses. Usually the bride’s and groom’s family members perform that role, but in our case, he says Sami is already like his own son and now I am like his daughter, making us family. I’m still in disbelief that this is really happening. I’m about to marry Sami. This is not how I imagined it. I had dreamed that our families would be with us. At least showing us their support, if not happiness. But today we are with three men I have just met, only the five of us. Despite the circumstances, I don’t feel sad or alone like I did so many nights in my own home.

“This
nikah
will join your lives together. After the agreement of marriage, no longer will you have two separate lives, you will become one,” Mullah Sarwar says. I can’t stop a smile from spreading across my face. I’m going to marry Sami, and we will start our new life together. I’ll never feel alone again.

“I know you do not have something to offer Fatima for her
mahr,
but as my son, you may have this.” The Mullah pulls off his own wedding band and then reaches into a small leather pouch and brings out a ring decorated with small beads of emeralds and rubies. I can’t believe my eyes. I have never owned jewelry before, except for the bangles I had around my wrists when I was Afifa’s age—as my arms grew, the bangles popped off one by one.

“Mullah Saib, I can’t . . . we . . .” Sami starts to talk but can’t finish his sentence.

“Please accept this, my children. My wife and I wore our rings every moment of our lives together.” Mullah Sarwar examines the sparkling band and takes a deep breath. “I hope that the bond you feel with each other is even stronger than the bond Aziza and I shared. May God bless you both a thousand times over.” He puts the rings down on the carpet and pushes them over to Sami.

“Thank you, Mullah Saib, but we can’t take those from you,” Sami says. “They hold your memories.”

“Don’t be silly, my boy. The memories are here,” the mullah says as he taps his heart. “These will now be tokens of our love passed down to you. And maybe one day you will pass them down to your children. Besides, there needs to be a
mahr
; this can’t happen without a marriage settlement from the groom to the bride. And since you are my son, this is our gift to Fatima.” Mullah Sarwar smiles at me.

“But Mullah Saib—” I finally have the courage to say, but the mullah holds up his hand to stop me.

“Fatima, my dear, please don’t refuse. You will hurt me if you do.” His eyes look so sincere that I no longer resist and instead thank him.

“Okay, let’s get started,” he says, smiling at the both of us.

I brace myself to feel anxious, but the nerves don’t come. I am relaxed and confident—feelings that have felt so foreign to me in the last several days.

“
Bismillah Rahman al Rahim,
” he says.

“In the name of God, most Gracious, and most Merciful,” Sami and I repeat.

“Do you both come here willingly wanting to marry each other?” he asks.

“We do,” Sami and I say together. I smile and notice he is smiling as well.

“No one has forced your hand into this marriage?” Mullah Sarwar looks at us for our response.

“No,” we say in unison again.

“Fatima, do you accept Samiullah as your husband?” he asks me.

Before answering I look over to Sami, who suddenly seems nervous.

“I accept,” I answer, watching the relief on Sami’s face.

“Samiullah, do you accept Fatima as your wife?”

“I accept,” Sami says without flinching. I can feel his love for me in this moment even more than before.

This question and our acceptance is repeated two more times.

Mullah Sarwar then pulls out a piece of paper and a pen.

“This is your
nikah khat.
Fatima, sign here,” he says, handing me the pen and marriage contract. I sign above my name before handing the pen to a grinning Sami. My grin matches his.

“In the name of God, the Beneficent, the most Merciful, please bestow on Samiullah and Fatima’s marriage your greatest blessings of love, happiness and piety. We trust in only you and believe in only you.” Mullah Sarwar finishes this prayer by covering his face with his hands.

“Congratulations,” he says, smiling. “May God bless you and may His blessing descend upon you and unite you in goodness.”

“That’s it?” Sami asks.

“Yes, that is it.” Mullah Sarwar, his son and grandson all grin at us. “You are married now.”

“But I thought there was more to it?” Sami says the words that I’m thinking.

“Like what? Is there something more you would like us to do?” Mullah Sarwar asks, laughing.

“No, I just . . .” Sami looks at me. “I mean, we’re . . . married?”

“Yes, my son and daughter, you are married,” the mullah says while Walid and Ahmad throw sugar-covered almonds over our heads.

Like Sami, I am in disbelief. And just like him, I can feel my cheeks flushing. We did it. He’s my husband. I’m his wife. And now God will bless whatever comes next.