The Secret Sky: A Novel of Forbidden Love in Afghanistan (10 page)

SAMIULLAH

I can’t look the men in their eyes. Not my father, not Fatima’s father and not even Karim. I have shamed us all, and I have humiliated Fatima the most. She is blissfully unaware of the hell that is about to hit her, and I feel so guilty because of it.

“I-I-I’m sorry for all of this,” I finally find the courage to say. My father and Karim turn to look at me, but Fatima’s father is still looking down with an expression that I cannot read. “I don’t know what to say. But you can’t believe Rashid. He is not right in the head.”

“What does he mean about my daughter?” Mohammad says. His voice is quiet, but there is no ignoring its forcefulness. He finally looks up at me. His stare sends a shiver down my spine. “What involves my daughter?” His anger seems to be building.

I’m frozen. All I can do is look into his stern eyes. I want to bring back the gentleness that I am so used to. I don’t know how to respond to this ferocity.

“Tell me!” he yells, making me jump. I think it makes all of us jump.

“Kaka—” I say before being interrupted.

“Don’t call me uncle,” he snaps.

“I’m sorry. I really am sorry. Rashid is just causing trouble,” I plead. “He wants you to be angry with me. He wants my family to be angry with me. And he wants to use my friendship with Fatima Jaan as a tool in doing just that. He wants to rip our relationship apart.”

“What do you mean by friendship and relationship? What relationship?” Fatima’s father retorts.

“Please don’t misunderstand me,” I say. “There is no relationship except that of mutual trust and admiration between our families. And Fatima has been my dearest friend since we were children. You all know that.” I look around for affirmation, but everyone stays quiet. “That is the relationship I speak of. I would never disrespect you, your family or my family. We are all one family. I grew up with you as much as I grew up with my father. You are like a
baba
to me. I listened to your advice and even to your scolding when I did something wrong. You knew me before I took my first steps or said my first words. You know me as well as my family does. Please don’t listen to the words of a raging lunatic. Something has happened to my cousin at that
madrassa.
He has become an unforgiving man. One who looks for trouble and wants to divide everyone even more.”

The men are perfectly still, all staring at me. I swallow hard.

“Why would he say all that?” my father says. “He seemed to know something that he wanted you to share.”

I look at both my father and Mohammad. I realize I need to say something about wanting to marry Fatima. I didn’t expect it to come so soon, and I should really talk to my father first, alone, and have him talk to Mohammad. But I don’t think there’s time for that now. My palms are sweaty. I know my request won’t be taken well, at least not in the beginning, but it is time to tell the truth. My throat is scratchy and dry. My breathing feels shallow, but I fight through it.

“I in no way mean to bring shame to you or to my family.” I direct my attention to Fatima’s father. “I love and respect you like my own father. I have seen your love and adoration for your children and your family.” I look at him, but I can’t see anything other than the words I am trying to string together. “You and my father have both been examples of the kind of man that I one day want to become. From your examples, I see the possibility of being a good person despite all the bad that surrounds us. I see it in you, and I see it in your children.”

I’m afraid to move on to the next part, but I know I have to. I can feel all their eyes on me as my head pounds and droplets of sweat stream down my back. “Ali and Fatima were as close to me as my own brothers and sisters growing up. We ran in these fields together.” Mohammad Aaka’s eyes shimmer with tears at the mention of his son. “I ate at your house; they ate at mine. We shared memories that only families share together. And I hold them, as I hold all of you, dear to my heart. I miss Ali every day, as I know you do. And my eyes brighten every time I get to see Fatima, as I know yours do. I care for all of you—including your daughters—and would protect them with my life.”

“What are you trying to say?” Mohammad asks.

“Yes, what
are
you trying to say?” my father adds more sternly.

“I didn’t want to do it like this—not this way and not at this time,” I say as I get down on both knees. I’m feeling a bigger knot in my stomach. “I promise you that Fatima has no idea what I am about to say, so please do not take this out on her, I beg of you. I am trying to say that I want to be a part of your family for a long time, if you will allow me. I know this is not the traditional route, but I have to say something, because I cannot lie to you.”

“Samiullah?” my father manages to say in what seems to be a state of confusion.

“I don’t think I understand you.” Fatima’s father interrupts my father. “It almost sounds as though you are asking for my daughter’s hand.”

We’re all silent, and I look at the dirt next to his sandal, afraid to face them. I’m prepared for fists and anger, I just want to brace myself before they arrive.

“Did you know about this?” I hear Mohammad yelling.

“My dear friend, I have no idea what is going on!” my father responds. I look up and see the rage in Mohammad Aaka’s face and the confusion on my father’s.

“He is speaking of my daughter!” Mohammad yells at my father. “
My
daughter!”

“Calm down, brother.” Karim goes to hold Mohammad back. “Calm down.”

“Calm down?” Mohammad looks at Karim in a state of shock. “How would you feel if he was talking about Zohra in this manner? Would you not feel disrespected? This is my daughter! They are shaming my daughter!” His voice cracks in a mixture of sadness, anger and shame.

“Please, that is the opposite of what I am trying to do,” I interrupt, jumping back in. “I never want to shame her or you. I am just trying to tell you that I will take care of her. I will treat her the way you would want her to be treated.”

“Stop talking now!” my father yells at me. “This is enough! You don’t know what you are saying. What kind of disgrace is this? You keep disgracing us and them.”

I should have spoken to my father about this. Convinced him about my feelings. Had him go to Fatima’s house and meet with her family and ask for her hand. That would have been the proper way, the way Kaka Mohammad would respect. But that would have taken time, a luxury I don’t have.

“But, Fath—” I try to speak.

“I said shut up!” my father roars.

“But—”

“Enough!” he yells. The rage in his eyes is piercing. When he turns to Mohammad, he looks more apologetic. “My dear friend, I-I-I don’t know what to say about what just happened. I’m very sorry. Can we please talk about this when we have all calmed down and have had time to think about it? I don’t want us to say anything that will damage our friendship. Let us just wait until our blood is no longer boiling. You have every right to be angry, but I beg of you, let’s wait and let it simmer down. I too am shocked. But let’s allow our rage to settle before we speak again.”

Mohammad looks at my father and just nods, his eyes still burning. He turns around without looking at me. He and Karim take hold of their
karachee
and prepare to leave. I try to take a step toward them, but before I do, I catch my father’s eye. He doesn’t move a muscle, but I can tell I am forbidden to move. So I wait, and I watch as Mohammad and Karim fade away from the horizon. Once they have disappeared from our view, I turn my face to my father but stay quiet. I know him well enough to see that this is not the time for me to speak first. I feel like a child again, waiting for my punishment for disobeying my father, but this is much worse.

“What is wrong with you!” my father shouts. He picks up his hand, and I brace myself, but he doesn’t hit me. “Who do you think you are? Who raised you? Do you not think anymore?” My father puts his hand down. “You have dishonored us in so many ways. How could you not think of your father, your family and your tribe before saying those words? How could you not think of the women in our family? Our honor has been violated.” He sits down on the dirt-ridden white plastic chair outside of our shop, shaking his head as he stares at the ground.

“But, Father,” I try to speak but stop at the sight of his finger pointed in my direction signaling me to stay quiet. He’s still not looking at me.

“What would you have done if someone asked for your sister Nur’s hand in this way? Did you think of that? What would you have done?” he asks. This time he looks at me, and I know he wants a response.

“This is different, Father,” I say, hoping that I can end it there, because I know how I would react if anyone spoke about my sister the way I spoke about Fatima. The thought of it makes my insides churn.

“But how would you react if this were about Nur?” he asks again.

“I wouldn’t be happy,” I say as I look down. “I would be enraged.” The thought of any man looking at my sister or thinking about her in a sexual way makes my head spin. I wish Mohammad and my father would realize what I feel for Fatima is not lust but love.

“If you would be that upset about your sister, think about how upset Mohammad is right now after you spoke about his
daughter
in that way. I know,” he says as he hits his chest. “I’m a father of several daughters, and I would kill anyone who tried to dishonor any of them! I would shed blood for their honor and our family’s honor. You don’t understand this, and you won’t until you have your own children. What you have done is shameful.”

“Father, I understand what you are trying to say.” I tread carefully. “But I want you to also understand what I was trying to express. I know I failed in conveying my intentions clearly and in a respectful manner, but I care for Fatima. I want to marry her.” I pause to look at my father’s face, and I am unable to gauge it. He is just staring at me. I was expecting anger, shouting, even a strike—but all I have is silence. “Father, do you understand? I want to marry Fatima. I’m sorry for not approaching you first and going about this in an unsuitable way, but I want to marry her; I want her to be your daughter-in-law.”

“Stop it,” my father says softly as he rubs his head. “Please, stop.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out and looks at me again. “Impossible. There is no way this can happen, no way. You are a child! You are only seventeen years old. And even if you were of age, you are my son! The
khan
’s son! You will marry the girl we feel you should marry. Not the daughter of a farmer . . . a Hazara girl! You haven’t just insulted Mohammad, you’ve insulted us.”

“But, Father . . .” I try to speak, but I can’t find the words.

“
Zoya,
this is not a world where you can do whatever you want,” he says. You cannot dream of something and think you can have that in reality. You have a life, a family and responsibilities. You can’t just change everything in your life and lineage because you
want
something. My son, you must grow up.” My father stares at me with what seems like pity before he looks back down to the ground. “Now we need to fix this. Do you understand?”

I stay quiet, taking it all in before I respond.

“Yes, Father. I understand, it needs to be fixed.”

FATIMA

I haven’t been able to concentrate on anything Zohra has been saying all day. My mind has been on Sami. He didn’t come to meet me in the woods this morning or yesterday. I know he was scared when we heard those footsteps—I was too—but it could have been an animal. Likely a deer or maybe even a leopard—we spotted one here when we were kids. Instead I’ve been meeting Zohra; her
bibi
is still sick but feeling a little better. She pops her head in every now and then to see if we have our books out. “If you don’t learn this now, you will never learn it!” she barks at us when she sees us lying around not reading. “When I was your age we were excited to learn!”

Zohra still doesn’t know if she will be engaged for certain, but seems to jump from being excited to sad at every turn in our conversation. “I wonder if he will be handsome” will turn to tears followed by “Will I ever see my family again? Will I ever see you again?” And as much as I feel for her, I wonder about Sami. Is he staying away to protect me, or is he already tired of me? My mother always told me about boys who trick girls into thinking they like them so they can use them, ruin them and then marry someone else. But Sami isn’t like that. Is he?

Suddenly we hear Zohra’s father. “Where is she?” Karim is yelling. And he’s home much earlier than usual. “What? Where?” He then comes into the room where Zohra and I are sitting. We both jump up.

“
Salaam, Baba Jaan,
” Zohra says.

“
Salaam, Kaka Karim,
” I follow.

“Go to your home . . . now!” he yells at me. He looks more agitated than angry. But I don’t dare stay a second longer. I’ve never seen Kaka Karim this way. His wife and mother come running into the room as I scurry to gather my supplies.

“What’s going on?” Zohra’s mother, Zainab, says.

“Nothing, but Fatima needs to go home,” he says loudly.

“Is my family okay?” I find the courage to ask as quietly as possible. Why else would he be here so early and look so frantic? I’m feeling more frightened than before. “Is it my
baba
? Is he okay?”

“No one is injured, but you need to go home!” Karim yells again. We all jump at his ferocity, and I run out of the room. I can still hear him yelling at Zohra when I get outside. “Do you know about her and Sami?” I can hear the women gasp, and my stomach drops as I fall behind the back wall outside of the room.

“What? No . . . ,” Zohra says. I hear a slap that makes me flinch, and it’s followed by the sound of Zohra crying. He hit her because of me. I crawl on the dirt so I am sitting under the window and can hear better. How does he know? Does this mean my father knows?

“I’m going to ask you again, do you know about Fatima and Sami?” Karim says.

“I swear on the Quran-e-sharif, I don’t know what you are talking about,” Zohra manages to say through tears. I can hear the sound of him slapping her again, followed by her wails.

“Karim!” Zainab screams for mercy. “Why are you hitting her, and what are you talking about?”

“Mohammad and I went to town today to drop off supplies to Agha Ismail, and Sami came by, and he ended up saying he wanted to marry Fatima!” Karim responds with anger. “I felt sorry for my dear friend—he was humiliated!”

The women gasp again.

Sami asked to marry me? I can’t believe it. Can this be true?

“Why are you hitting Zohra?” Zainab pleads, breaking me from my thoughts.

“Fatima is her friend. She must have said something to her!” Karim barks.

“I swear, Baba Jaan, I don’t know anything about this,” Zohra cries. “Fatima has not told me anything, I swear!”

“Being friends with her could ruin your chance of getting a suitable husband,” Karim continues to yell. “Do you understand that?”

“God forbid,” Zainab says. “How do we know Fatima even knows about this?”

“Why else would the boy have the nerve to ask without his family’s knowledge or approval if they don’t already have a relationship?” I hear tongue clucking.

“Leave the girl alone.” Bibi’s talking now. “Come on, Zohra,
janem.
In my day it wasn’t uncommon to marry a boy you liked. Look at how far backward this country is moving.”

“You lived in the city, Madar,” Karim responds. “It’s easier to hide shame in cities! Besides, you married the man your parents wanted you to wed.”

“Yes, but I thought by my old age my granddaughters would be living a better life than I did. Come, my darling.”

I decide to run before someone sees me. I’m afraid to go home, but if I don’t, they will question where I’ve been. If Karim slapped Zohra simply for being friends with me, I can’t imagine the punishment I’m going to get. I run home with thoughts of Sami and my father in my mind. What happened in town? Why would Sami do this without telling me? There must be a reason.

I reach my home and change my sprint into a slow walk, dreading what lies ahead. I look to see who’s around. There is an unnerving calm. I notice my mother at the stream washing Afifa’s hair. Afifa has fallen asleep standing up, with her little head leaning on our mother’s knee as she combs the red strands. And if I’m seeing this correctly, it looks as though our mother is humming a song. How can this be happening? She must not know yet. I look around again, but still see no sign of my
baba.
I breathe a little easier as I make my way into the
tandoor
room and start peeling potatoes for dinner.

Maybe this is all just a bad dream.