MY NEW NOVEL PUBLISHED MAY 2012. READ THE EXCERPT/QUOTES
“No one could be—” I stopped when
I saw the Land Cruiser race into the courtyard in front of us. “Oh god.”
In the back lay a man and a
woman, their arms and legs bound. The woman wore her burka; the man had a sack
over his head. Two Talibs, along with two police officers who had guns, stood
above them. The vehicle stopped, the Talibs jumped down and pushed their
prisoners out onto the ground as if they were sacks of grain. When they fell we
heard their muffled cries.
The minister for the propagation
of virtue and the prevention of vice, Zorak Wahidi, the man who had summoned us
here, stepped out of the passenger seat and walked slowly back to the fallen
couple. I felt a shudder of recognition. His beard was whiter since I’d last
seen him four years ago. There was a stoop to his shoulders, as if a thousand
dead souls pressed down on him. He wore a black shalwar, a black lungee,
and new black sandals. He also carried a pistol and looked down at the
prisoners, and then across to us. I wanted to shield Jahan from what was about
to happen but he had moved to stand between Parwaaze and Qubad and watched with
the fascination of any teenager. He had never witnessed an execution before—
mother had forbidden him to accompany me and Parwaaze last November when
Zarmina was executed. “Look away, look away,” I whispered, but he didn’t hear
me. Wahidi pointed the pistol down toward the man and shot him in the head. The
man appeared to rise briefly before falling back. Wahidi moved to the crying
woman and shot her in the head too. The shots sounded flat and harmless in the
empty space surrounding us. He walked toward us holding his pistol, as casually
as a man crossing a drawing room to greet his guests. The two Talibs, and the policemen followed him. He turned to
give them an order, and then turned back to us.
“Do you know why they were
executed?” We remained silent. I felt his eyes penetrating my veil, trying to
remember the face he could not see. He angrily answered his own question. “They
were traitors to the Islamic Emirate of
Afghanistan. They were committing adultery, which is against our laws, and they
deserved to die. We will not tolerate such vices. The press too . . .” Here he
paused and surveyed us, noting each one present, focusing again on me. “. . . are responsible for
projecting in the foreign media a very bad image of our legitimate government.”
He paced in front of us, and shouted, his face snarling in fury. “From here on
out, you will write exactly what I tell you.” The men took out their notebooks
like obedient schoolboys . I hadn’t brought one.
“The ruling council of the
Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan, and I,
have decided to show the world that we’re a fair and just people. To that end,
our government has decided to promote cricket in Afghanistan
Like the others, I raised my head
in surprise.
“We wait to hear from them on
this. The Pakistan Cricket Board will support our application. Cricket will
show all those against us that we too can be sportsmen. As our young men have
much time to spare, we wish to occupy them to prevent any vices. We banned
cricket because it was a legacy of the evil British. But we studied all sports
and cricket is modest in its clothing. The uniform covers the player from his
neck to his feet and covers his head as well. Therefore, we will encourage the
sport, strictly according to Islamic rules of dress, and we will hold a
tournament in three weeks. We will welcome an official from the International
Cricket Council to observe the matches and know that we are genuine in our
interest in promoting the sport, openly and fairly. The tournament is open to
all Afghans and we will send the winning team to Pakistan
“What do you think?” I asked
Yasir.
“I write what they tell me, and I
do not think. But let’s see how many Afghans turn up for the matches when they
read about this. A free pass to leave the country—I wonder how many will
return. Are you going to write this up?”
“Yasir—I don’t write anymore.”
When I moved to leave with the
others, the two policemen grabbed me. Jahan tried to stop them but one Talib
hit him in the stomach with his gun butt. Yasir moved to help, but the second
Talib pointed his gun at Yasir’s chest. I struggled, trying to get a last
glimpse of Jahan, but the men dragged me out of the courtyard and into a small,
bare room and forced me to kneel. They pressed their gun barrels down on my
shoulders so I could not move. We waited in oppressive silence. Finally, I
sensed someone entering the room. I couldn’t see through the mesh and tried to
lift my head, but a hand pressed it back down to supplication. I smelled perfume,
a cloying, sweet odor. I glimpsed dusty feet slyly circling me, and then he and
his cologne walked out of the door. Minutes later, Wahidi walked into the room
in his black sandals. I heard the rustle of a paper, and he held a newspaper
before my eyes. The English headline read “Taliban Execute Mother of Five
Children.” It was my story and I felt my heart miss a beat, then another. This
was why I had been summoned here and he was about to kill me. But I also knew
he had no proof I had written it—it was filed under my pseudonym. He is only
trying to frighten you, I told myself, and tried to stay calm. I did not speak;
thankfully I wasn’t expected to. He crushed the paper deliberately into a small
ball and dropped it on the floor. Then he lowered a pistol to my line of
vision, and I smelled cigarette smoke. Through the mesh, I saw his finger
around the trigger, the gun like a natural extension of his hand. Its black barrel
was worn gray, the butt chipped along the edges. His finger curled and uncurled
as if it had a mind of its own, and was thinking over a decision. The finger
was surprisingly long, almost delicate, and manicured. Then the hand lifted the
gun out of my small window of vision; it was somewhere above my head. I shut my
eyes and waited. I tried prayers, but I couldn’t form the words or sentences
that would accompany me into the next life. I opened my eyes when the
cigarette’s smoke stung my nostrils. The cigarette lay on the floor, a serpent
of smoke curling up. The ball of paper began to burn. He let it come to a small
flame then crushed it with his sandal. He lowered to squat in front of me, his
eyes almost level with mine. I shut mine tight and yet I felt his eyes piercing
the mesh, as if searching the contours of my face. Then, with a decisive grunt,
he stood up. The police lifted the gun barrels off my shoulders and followed
him out.
I remained kneeling, waiting to
open my eyes until I heard no further movement. The door was partially open and
I was free to leave. Involuntarily, I laughed in relief. I struggled to stand,
my foot caught in the edge of the burka, and I fell. I stood up, swaying, and
moved to the door. I stepped out into an empty corridor. To my left, men were
loading the executed couple into the back of an old Land Cruiser. For once, I
was thankful for the burka. I had wet myself. My legs were rubbery and I leaned
against the wall for strength. I moved cautiously out of the building, back into
sunlight. Yasir waited by the entrance, while Jahan, Parwaaze, and Qubad were
sitting on the low wall, across the street, along the river. They jumped up and
hurried over when they saw me. I was more concerned for the abuse Jahan had
suffered, and though he walked carefully, he appeared to be all right. He
lifted his arms to embrace me but dropped them quickly in embarrassment,
looking around to see if such an intimate gesture was noticed by the religious
police. When Yasir saw my companions, he said, “Be careful,” and hurried away.
“Are you okay?” they chorused.
“Yes. Jahan, are you all right?”
“Just a stomachache. It’ll pass.”
“We didn’t think we’d see you
again,” Parwaaze said, leading us away, our feet leaden on the broken pavement.
“Did they hurt you?” he asked me, checking back over his shoulder.
“No, and they didn’t say a word.”
“Then why did they take you
inside? What did they want?”
“I don’t know. Wahidi came into
the room, smoked a cigarette, and left.” I didn’t mention the gun barrels on my
shoulders, the article, or the pistol. I was frightened and I didn’t want to
frighten them more.
“I didn’t want you to see . . . that,”
I said to Jahan.
He was almost in tears, as he was
remembering the impact of the bullets. “I didn’t want to watch, but it was so
sudden and I couldn’t move my eyes, I couldn’t even shut them.
“It’s better to cry for them than
just look away.” I looked at the other two. They too had moist eyes, flickering
with horror at what they had witnessed, and their faces were a shade paler. “Are
you both okay?” I asked them, wishing I could take back everything they had
seen.
“Another execution. How many more
will I see before I can get out of this country?” Parwaaze asked aloud.
“Rukhsana, next time we’ll be
carrying out your co-corpse,” Qubad said, “You must leave Kabul America
“I can’t—there’s just no way. I’m
not going to leave Maadar while . . .” I didn’t want Mother to die. Somehow, I
had to survive and see my mother through her illness, and then escape. I prayed
hard. “Please let me make it safely through Maadar’s death and I will leave an
instant later. Please protect me until then—just a little more time before I
join my bethrothed.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Jahan
said.
We hurried toward home. My
shoulders still burned from the gun barrels and I felt Wahidi’s breath on my
face. Why had he called me? Was he setting a trap to see if I’d report today’s
executions and write about the cricket announcement? If he was certain I’d
written those other stories, I wouldn’t be walking home. I’d be in prison.
In my preocupation, I wasn’t
listening to the boys until Parwaaze’s excited voice broke through my thoughts.
“. . . in three weeks and the
winning team will go to Pakistan Australia . . .
America . . . to university . . . finish our studies . . . work . . . wasting
our lives here . . .”
“Then we’ll have to come back
here to teach the others,” Jahan said.
“I’ll keep going and going,” Parwaaze
said.
“But we have one small pr-problem
with that brilliant idea,” Qubad said.
“We don’t know how to play
cricket,” Parwaaze admitted, crestfallen.
“We don’t,” Jahan said. “But
Rukhsana does.”
