The Secret Sky: A Novel of Forbidden Love in Afghanistan (17 page)

RASHID

We zigzag along the dirt road and make it to town. The sight of our motorbikes scares the shopkeepers; some shut their doors, and fathers pull their children in closer. The fear in their eyes is empowering. I know I shouldn’t enjoy it, but I do. As much as I can’t stand Latif, I realize being next to him gives me the authority I have always known I was destined for. Which is why I told him. Why I decided that he should be the one to punish Samiullah.

The late-afternoon sun is beginning to paint the sky orange. We pull into the street where Mullah Sarwar’s
masjid
stands and park our bikes outside. I’ve never seen men put on their sandals so fast to leave an area. Over by the wall, the old mullah is whispering something to a boy. The teenager gets on his bicycle and leaves. The mullah looks at us and walks into the
masjid,
making us follow him.

We have reached the door of the building when he finally speaks.

“
Asalaam aleykum,
” he greets us. “Please take your shoes off before entering.” Mullah Sarwar smiles as he lifts his hand to stop the men from entering with their dirty sandals and boots. “Thank you.”

Latif and his men just stare at each other. Stupid fools think they have authority even in a
masjid.

“Why don’t you guys wait out here?” I say to Latif. “I’ll talk to the old man and see if he knows anything.” I don’t want these morons in here. It makes me feel dirty to see them even in the vicinity of the
masjid.

“Fine. I need a cigarette anyway,” Latif says before they walk back to their bikes.

“
Walaykum asalaam,
” I respond to the mullah’s greeting as I take my sandals off.

“Would you like to pray with me?” the mullah asks. And I suddenly remember I haven’t prayed since morning.

“Umm . . . yes, please.” I walk out of the
masjid
and make my way to the fountain in the courtyard to perform my ablution. As I walk out, I can see the men at their bikes, and most of them start rolling their eyes. Those infidels! They should be joining me! They’re the worst excuses for Muslims I have ever seen. I can’t believe they are all that I have left in this world.

After my ritual cleaning, I head back into the
masjid
and pray side by side with the mullah. After my recitations, I ask God to take care of my parents and sister and grant them heaven as I always have. I then find myself begging God for forgiveness for how I treated my family today. And for causing the Hazara family the same pain that I lived through. I feel uncomfortable praying for them, but I can’t shake off the feeling of horror when I think of that little body falling to the ground. She was a child, like my sister.

By the time I spread my hands on my face to end my prayers, I notice my face is wet. I quickly wipe the tears before the mullah can see my weakness.

“May God grant you your prayers,” I hear the mullah say.

“Thank you, and yours too,” I mumble, still wiping my face.

“Are you okay, my son?” The mullah’s eyes glimmer with sincerity.

“Yes, I just have some dirt in my eyes from the trip,” I say as I rub my eyes to play along with my lie. I turn to him. “I’m here looking for my cousin. And I think that you know him.”

“Oh? What’s his name?” the mullah asks with his eyebrows raised.

“Samiullah Ismailzai,” I say. I look at the mullah’s eyes for recognition, but his eyes are still soft. “I believe he stayed with you after disgracefully leaving the
madrassa
we were attending.”

“Yes, I know Sami Jaan very well. You must be Rashid Jaana,” he says. God knows what Sami has said about me to this old man. “Sami spoke very highly of you. He cares for you a lot.” I don’t believe him for a second. It looks like I have found another lying mullah!

“Well, we are here to arrest him for breaking the laws of God,” I say, ignoring his words.

“What kind of law did he break?” The old man looks at me with curiosity.

“He has fornicated with a girl he is not married to, and she is a Hazara at that.” I now agree with Latif’s logic that they must have done more. They had to have, or else why have we been going through all of this?

“Are there witnesses to this supposed crime?” he asks, pulling out his wooden prayer beads and flicking them one by one.

“Yes, I saw them together in the woods talking, and they ran off like criminals,” I say with authority.

“But they were talking?” He continues to flick his beads calmly.

“Yes. Alone.” Is this guy listening to me? They were alone in the woods! That should have set him off immediately. But still it’s
flick, flick, flick
!

“I’m sorry, my son, but that doesn’t prove anything.”

“Are you defending such lewd acts?” I hit my hand on the floor that we just prayed on. What kind of religious man is this? What kind of
Afghan
man?

“I’m just saying that there could be more to their meeting,” he says to me. “Maybe they were having a friendly conversation. And I don’t want innocence falsely punished. God would not want that. God is the judge, not us.”

I know God is the only judge, but as a religious scholar, he should understand. He should be enforcing God’s law! We are here to help God!

“I am worried about what may happen to this young man and woman for something as innocent at talking,” he continues. “Do you trust those men out there?” His eyes glance up to the entrance. “Do you want them to hurt your cousin?”

“He is a disgrace! He is not my family anymore,” I snap. “And she is a whore for meeting with him! Whether they were talking or doing more, they have violated Islam!”

“Be careful, my son,” he says to me. “There is only one God. And it is God who knows best. Not us.” He looks at me. His eyes aren’t condescending. They actually look concerned. “And there doesn’t seem to be enough evidence to accuse these two for violating Islam.”

“Who are you to tell me about Islam?” I retort. I don’t care if he is a mullah and can play tricks with his eyes. I won’t be a fooled by another fake
holy
man! “Sami deserves to die for what he has done to me and my family! I don’t even have them anymore because of his sins!” I can hear my voice crack with the sadness of my loss. This enrages me even more. “I have to make sure Sami receives his punishment!” I feel my eyes filling with tears, and I look up in hopes that they’ll dry before anything falls.

“Rashid Jaana, no matter how far you go in this world, you leave your heart with your loved ones,” the old man says to me. “But when you take those you love out of your heart, you fall into a dangerous insanity that you may not be able to come out of.”

His words ring in my head, but I try to silence them.

“But what if you are torn from your loved ones? Or what if they are torn from you?” I ask, still avoiding his eyes.

“My son, even if you never see your family again, they have filled you with enough love to survive. But you have to hold on to it. When we receive this kind of love, we have to make sure that we keep it locked safe inside our hearts, where no one can touch it, because it is the one thing that belongs to us and us alone.”

I try to understand what the old man is saying. Does this mean I haven’t lost my family’s love? “But what if we have done horrible things and have pushed them away? Or hurt them?” I ask, wanting to hear more.

“Sometimes in life,” he continues, “whether with good or bad intentions, we commit acts that we later regret. They are actions that will require forgiveness from others, from ourselves and, most importantly, God. If you are truly remorseful, God will forgive you. God is most merciful and most compassionate. To know that God can forgive us makes it easier to forgive ourselves. And if we are lucky, our loved ones will forgive us too. But we have to mean it, and we have to prove our sincerity.”

“But what if they are already dead?” I feel a lump in my throat as I think about the day that I lay on the floor faking death, unable to help my family as they were massacred around me. All I could think about was my own survival. A trait I can’t seem to let go of.

“You can still talk to them in your prayers,” the mullah says, without hesitation. “It helps to cleanse your soul.”

I have tried talking to them in my dreams, but the words always get stuck in my throat. I feel more and more unworthy as the days and years pass.

I clear my throat and shake these thoughts out of my head. I look at him and realize this man is tricking me. He’s fooling me into forgetting about my cousin and his sins. It won’t work. I won’t be tricked!

“I need to find Sami. Do you know where he is?” I look at Mullah Sarwar as sternly as I can.

“Do you really want to find him with men like that by your side?” he asks, motioning his head in the direction of the motorbikes.

“I need to make sure he is punished and that other people learn from his sins!” I raise my voice. And I need to show my family that I am the good one. They will see. I know they will.

“What you want to do to your cousin and that poor girl will not make you a hero,” the mullah says. “It will send you deeper into the darkness. It will make this another tragic story in our desolate country.”

“You’re wrong,” I correct the old man. “It will make our country stronger and our people wiser. I’m helping them learn what’s wrong and what’s right.” If my family doesn’t see it now, one day they will, and they’ll be proud of me again. “If you don’t tell us where they are, I can’t guarantee your safety or your family’s.” I feel powerful with my words, and a little dirty. At least it will make the old man respect me more. But his eyes don’t show fear; they show pity.

“It is getting late,” he responds. “Why don’t you and your men stay at the
masjid
tonight? We can talk more in the morning and see if anything has changed.” He looks away and lets out a breath.

“What? I said if you don’t tell us where he is, these men may . . . they will . . . kill you,” I say. This time it feels less powerful, more shameful. And I am scared that my words are not a threat but a reality.

“I heard what you said, my son.” Mullah Sarwar doesn’t even blink an eye. He seems as calm and gentle as before. And for once, he stops flicking his beads and looks at me. “I understand you are very angry. But you should know that your rage is not because of Sami or that poor girl. The anger is a part of the darkness you are holding inside yourself. It’s a darkness you must let go. No one can fix your heart but you. Not the men out there and not even your family. If you don’t fix it, your suffering will only increase as your sins grow in number.” I find myself staring at him, taking in all he has just said.

“I . . .” I try to speak, but I don’t know what to say. I continue to stare at him, but thoughts of the little girl dying this morning fill my head. Her family’s wails fill my ears again. My anger toward my cousin led to that. Even if it wasn’t these hands that twisted her neck, I am still responsible for her death. Her murder. It was me. I am the killer. I am the sinner.

“What’s going on?” Latif’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “We’ve been waiting so long the sky has turned black!” He walks in with his dusty boots, leaving prints on the lime-colored carpet. He points his finger at Mullah Sarwar. “Does he know where they are?”

“I . . . uh . . . no. He doesn’t know,” I finally say, trying to protect the mullah from any more trouble. I’ve done enough harm to him by bringing these men here.

“Then what has taken so long?” Latif sputters out with increased agitation. He turns to the mullah. “Old man, do you know where the two lovers are?”

“Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you,” Mullah Sarwar says. I turn my head and stare at him in shock. What is he doing? Latif is crazy. He doesn’t take well to being spoken to like that.

“Oh . . . really? Is that true?” Latif comes closer. “So you do know, or you don’t know? It’s better for you to tell me.” He pulls out his handgun and starts to wave it around near his waist.

“He doesn’t know.” I get up and turn to Latif. “Let’s just go. I have another idea of where they may be.” I attempt to walk out, in hopes that he will follow me.

“I want to talk to this old man a little bit longer,” Latif says and swings his gun, slapping me in the face. The pressure throws me to the ground again.

“What are you doing?” Mullah Sarwar yells at Latif as he rushes to me. “Are you okay, my son?” he asks. I nod.

“This is so cute! The old man cares about you,” Latif says mockingly. “But does he care about his own life?” The look of the devil is back on Latif’s face. The same demented eyes from this morning. He takes his gun and hits Mullah Sarwar in the face, making him fall to the ground. I can see blood dripping from the mullah’s mouth. In the gush of red, there is a white chip that looks like a tooth. Latif grabs Mullah Sarwar by his long white hair, exposing his blood-soaked beard. The crimson color looks almost electric against the white hairs. “Tell me where they are!” Latif spits those words in the mullah’s face, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he starts reciting a prayer from the Quran-e-sharif:

In the name of God, the most Gracious and most Merciful.