The Law of Free Spirits
By: Ryan Meffert
Smashwords Edition
This book is dedicated to all the family and friends that went through the rigorous journey of reading the drafts and providing their feedback.
Copyright 2010 Ryan Meffert
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Chapter 1
The heat is abusive, boiling all the moisture from my skin into warm beads of sweat. The air seems easier to breathe when I make a circle between my folded arms and knees; and place my nose in the middle. It works as a purifier of sorts, lessening the dust and the thickness of the air. It seems to work, at least in my head. On the ground is where I would keep my journal, where I would record, all of my most secret thoughts and memories. Some day’s I wouldn’t write anything in it; other days it seemed I had been writing the entire day. My little sister Akila is in the corner of the room facing the wall. She seems oblivious to the circus of pumping and thrashing from the man in the middle of the abandoned house. She doesn’t act much different than this when we’re at home. My mother always comments how Akila lives inside her head, never outspokenly conversing with her one shredded doll; rather she seems to talk with it in some kind of imaginative telekinesis.
Just outside I can hear the voices of the shoppers and merchants. I hated when my mom took men back to this abandoned house, it was the closest to the market and the most likely place to get caught. With all the bullet ridden walls, it seems many people may have gotten caught in this house at one point or another. There were no floors, just dirt patted down. The entire place was a cliché of poor design and cheap construction. The other side of the house was beginning to cave in, and the metal bars protruded from the ceiling like a death trap. Everything was a brownish orange in this town; as if it was entirely constructed of rust. I dislike orange immensely.
‘Oh great, a nostril breather.’ I can’t stand it when they breathe through their noses. It sounds like a suffocating pig; which is most likely what he smelled like in all this heat. It was my mom's rule to never watch her with other men. I was supposed to be like my sister and face a wall. I never did though. I was thirteen years old after all, prime marrying age; I was old enough to know this part of being a woman, in some ways I knew it the same as she did. A few times I peeked, once I even saw my mother's brown eyes, I don’t think she saw me back; they seemed lost in a void of emptiness, awaiting the process to be over, or perhaps she was traveling to a distant free world. I know she has to leave her physical body behind during this; that is why she told me it was not wrong, because she is not mentally in her body when it happens. The whole thing still makes me angry; I envision slicing the men’s throats and just taking their money from their grubby pockets. I would like to suggest it to my mom, but she is too much of a pacifist to take it seriously. Not me though, I would do it.
I couldn’t help but snicker at this man's facial expressions. He looked so intense, like he was really accomplishing something supernatural with all his pumping. No matter what they may believe, these men have sex all the same. The ones I hate the most are the wannabe Clerics that chastise my mom or even me and my sister, after they just paid for sex. ‘The eight dollars you paid doesn’t include a listening ear’, I would always think as we walked away. I hated all these men, I hated that they would feel nothing for my mother, or the children she was doing this for. But I hated my father most of all. Nobody seemed to realize this wasn’t her fault. I remember when she first started doing this; it was a surreal almost adventurous activity. I would ignorantly imagine one of these men recognizing just how beautiful my mother was. He would be taken back by the fact that she was so poor and desperate to feed her family. He would be wildly handsome and ridiculously rich. When he heard she was forced into prostitution his heart would melt and he would whistle for his driver who would take us to a huge palace with horses and tables full of fresh fruits and exotic foods. I would have servants that would just brush my hair whenever I wanted; I loved it when my mom would brush my hair. In my dream, my mother’s new husband's first order of business would be to have my father hung for not taking care of his family. However, in being that I would be a princess of sorts, I would ask the man to show mercy and stick him in a dungeon full of rats, never to be seen again.
Feet trampling closely by woke me out of my stupor. I could see my mother tense up as well, but the man was still in his own world. She couldn’t dare tell him to hurry up, but we were probably both wishing it.
He wasn’t as ugly as some of them. I couldn’t imagine letting any of them touch me. They don’t deserve to ever be with someone like my mother. Prior to this war, she was easily the most beautiful professor of our village; in all of Iraq probably. Who would have thought this war would have been so devastating. Nobody talks about this side of things. It is like this massive pimple on the nose of the Iraqi people, which nobody would acknowledge. There are many women like my mother. We met them all the time, sometimes even sharing an abandoned house like this with them. I am sure they all told their husbands the same story. As a matter of fact my mom got her tall tale from another prostitute friend of ours. They tell their husbands they are cleaning houses. How ridiculous. There was never any work posted for such things any more. I had to imagine my father knew inside what she was doing. Surely he wasn’t that ignorant.
He wasn’t always unemployed either. Prior to the war he worked for an internet company. We had a nice house and even a TV. My mother worked as a professor teaching the kids in town. Not any longer though, it seems so long ago, it seems like an imaginative life that never really was. Now the only work is prostituting or war. Women are no longer allowed to teach, thanks to Al Qaeda, and men are forced to take sides in the never-ending civil disorder of the country. You could join the insurgents and be protected, but forced to kill, even civilians, and create an endless churn of violence. Or you could join the Iraqi security forces, but your family would surely be slaughtered by Al Qaeda’ then. Or you could do nothing. My father chose the latter. He was cowardly towards the war, and even more cowardly with taking care of his family. It was amusing how he would spend his days listening to the radio, shouting his opinions to anyone who would listen, which was usually just my mother and I. His opinion would change depending on that week's media spin. One week the insurgents or Al Qaeda, or the Taliban, was doing the world a favor; the next week it was just a horrible group of civilian killers.
The worst part is I didn’t always hate my father. I remember, not so long ago, how I would long for him to come home from his job, just so I could sit on his lap and listen to him tell my mom about his day at work. I miss them smiling. Neither of them smile anymore. Once the Americans came in, and my parents lost their jobs in the civil disorder, my father went back to obsessing over the Koran. Religion became his family. I still remember when he sat us all down and told us that he let this family become corrupt with godless Western influences. That is when I could no longer wear my clothes. Instead he made us all wear head coverings and we were not allowed to leave the house, except to work. ‘I hate you everyday for making us wear these’. I can’t wait until we get into the market and mother lets us take the face wrapping down. It becomes so hot inside the hijab that I can often feel my skin burning inside; especially, when we wear black. My father loves to see us in black, as he feels that other colors attract unnecessary attention. “My family will be the model for traditional Muslim values” he would tell us.
‘Like being poor and destitute and relying on the women to feed your family through prostitution, those kinds of values?’ I would say back to him – in my head.
I love my mother and respect her despite this profession; I truly do. I just don’t understand why she let him change us. We should just run away to Jordan or Turkey. Anything is better then this. My mom mentioned it once to us, but it was never brought up again. I am all for running away; we can’t possibly stay like this forever. I am 13 years old now. ‘Prime marrying age’ for an Iraqi girl. I paused for a moment from writing in my journal. The thought sent chills down my spine. I couldn’t imagine the inbred my father would pick for me. It would be some thirty or forty year old with grimy teeth and a tethered beard. He would surely degrade me with the hijab just like my father. He may even lock me in the closet until he came home; I heard of men doing that with their new wives, to keep them secluded from the temptations of other men. ‘Not me, I would break out. No, I will run away, run to Jordan and be a refugee.’
I could hear the crowd getting riled up outside, feet began stampeding by us more and more frequently. I kicked my feet in the sand as a signal to try to get my mother's attention. The Iraqi man's menacing pumping became faster and faster, a good sign he was about to finish. Then, he got up. ‘Finally.’
They would never look at her after they got up. I felt like that was so disrespectful. The man looked at me, with a look of judgment.
“She is marrying age, your daughter; you shouldn’t bring her here with you. That is inappropriate.” The man said to my mother as he buttoned up his shirt, leaving his back to her. I could here my mom mumble an acknowledgement.
The man took eight dollars from his pocket and threw it on the ground as he walked out. I hope he gets shot by a stray bullet, as he walked outside. I got up and dusted off my clothes and picked up the eight dollars from the ground. My mother cleaned herself with a cloth she always brought with her.
I helped brush the dust off my mom's back once she got up to her feet and covered herself back up. We never spoke after the deed was done. We would all just walk back home in complete silence. This seemed to be the most difficult time for all of us emotionally. Especially the first night; I still remember how many times we had to stop as mom would collapse to the ground and cry; I would follow and then my sister, but she didn’t know what we were even crying about. Prior to the war, people would have stopped and asked her what was wrong. Nowadays though, people just assumed someone you knew died in a war, ‘big deal’ they probably thought ‘we’ve all lost loved ones’. Nowadays, we usually get home without much of a scene. Sometimes I will here the occasional sniffle or see her wipe a stream of tears from her face. I try to let her know that I am not ashamed of her actions. I see the money buying our food. I see it keeping us alive. I cry as well, but I do it when I am alone. I don’t cry because I am ashamed, I cry because I can’t do anything to stop it.
We waited another minute to make sure he was gone and the usual loiterers wouldn’t categorize us with the man who just left the house. We were in a market much further from our home then the one we would shop at. This was so nobody in our district would recognize us. I had to know the whole plan, how everything worked. It was a part of the secret pact between my mom and I. Our stories had to always be in sync, and we had to have complete trust in one another. In some ways, I felt more like a sister or a business partner then a daughter any longer. The only time I get to feel like a daughter now is when we get home after lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays, this is when my father is at his local town meetings; where they talk and get all worked up and do nothing about it. During this time my mom will teach us lessons, everything from basic competency to religious studies. My favorite time is when she tells me of the places she traveled with her parents or before the wars began. I love to hear them because they often will make her smile. My father is not allowed to know that she is teaching us, as it is strictly forbidden for women to be educated, at least in his eyes. I loved that we did it anyways; it really got the blood pumping when father would come home early and we would have to stash the books and hide the evidence. I felt like we could get away with anything.
“Ok Rajaa, get Akila, hold her hand. Let’s go.” Mother said wide eyed and attentive to the crowds outside.
“They seem worked up.” I said leaning over to get Akila’s small hand.
Mother came over to me and fixed my veil so that it covered my face in whole. There was no back way out of this house, so we had to walk out the front. We also had to make sure we were back in time to fix lunch for father.
“Ok, just keep your eyes on the ground, take my hand.”
I took mother's hand and firmly gripped Akila’s. Mother opened the door, the bright light was instantly blinding. People were rushing by creating a dust cloud that seemed to be still in front of the abandoned house. Even without the dust and blaring sun, it was hard enough to see with the veil and hijab; it cut off most of my peripheral view.
A quick jerk and I was pulled outside and starting along the road home. People were whisking by, knocking my shoulder. I could here a man shouting behind us “death to unclean, death to unclean”. I knew exactly what that meant. I could feel mother's pace picking up, I was now in a partial jog. The dust stung in my eyes, so I kept my face down, my only view was of the passing rocks and my feet patting the surface in a blurred motion.
People were running in the opposite direction as us. These public scenes attracted everyone nearby. Mother never let us watch when people gathered. I knew from stories of friends what happened in those mobs, women were stoned or beaten to death. That was our biggest fear, if we ever got caught. “Whore! Send her to hell!” these words were now being used by the crowds passing.
Akila’s feet were having a difficult time keeping up. I could feel her scurrying feet and then a dead weight dragging on the surface as she would partially collapse. With a quick jerk upwards with my arm she would find her footing and continue running.
A cry of death echoed through the stone walls of the market. I could feel my stomach drop and a large knot fill my throat. I couldn’t help but to stop and look back. There was a large crowd; I could see hands rising with stones, dropping them down into an opening. “Leave her alone!” I cried out as tears involuntarily poured down my face. Akila was looking, and started crying when she saw my face. I felt my mother's arms wrap around me. A few people, just outside the crowd were now looking at me, as if my outcry was disrespectful.
“Do not meddle in others business, we must get home. Get your sister's hand and let’s go. Now.” Mother said.
I could hear the rhythmic thumps of rocks pounding the ground. My cheek was twitching with every thump. My mind began replicating what it must feel like to have your body crushing under the stones; the bones cracking, the bruising and dizziness.
“Put that down, Rajaa.” My mother took a rock from my hand and threw it back on the ground. “You want to get us all killed?”
I was jerked into motion again, but I kept looking back. An older man, who was taking notice of me, was still in a stern stare. I stared right back, as long as I could keep looking back; I stared right into his eyes. ‘You don’t scare me.’
He had no beard, but his skin was plagued with wrinkles. His cheeks looked like they overlapped in several layers. His eyes were dark and one of his bushy eye brows was slightly raised over the other. His right thumb was aggressively rubbing the inside of his palm; I imagined he was warming it up to smack me with. Turning around, my eyes locked onto another face; there was no escape, no rock to hide under. I felt a flush of blood leave my face. The man is starring right at me, jerking my head away I was now looking towards the ground. I knew it was too late, it was one of my father's cousins; and he surely recognized me. He would always know me; I held his secret, something I would never forget.
We made out way to the market that was closest to our house. This market was by far smaller, but had everything needed to make the main meal for the day. Mother grabbed some flat bread and rice, she also grabbed some dates, which were father's favorite snack. As we exited the market, I felt an overwhelming need to confess to mother what I had seen. I didn’t want to make her frantic; she was already a nervous wreck. He had seen us at the other market, we just needed to get our story straight.
“Mom, I need to tell you something.” I said squeezing her bony hand.
“What is it?” Her attention turned to me instantly. I loved that about her, she would always stop whatever she was doing to make sure her children were heard. I will never have children, but if I did, I would treat them just as my mother does.
“Just as we were leaving the city, well after we had left the abandoned house, I saw Rahim. And he definitely saw me.”
I could see her face drop. Her bottom lip tucked inside her mouth.
“Mom its ok, we just need to say we went to the far market because they were out of something here.”
“Rajaa, you don’t understand, I am not permitted at the far market. Why was Rahim there at the market, why is he always loitering about, doesn’t he have anything to do.” Mother said thrashing her arms in frustration.
“We could run away…to Jordan.”
“Rajaa, enough with the running away, a worse death awaits us if we attempted such a feat.”
“Mom, we could run away, I would go with you, and we could be refugees. Maybe even go to America.”
The sorrow began to build in my mom's eyes. I could see water welling up. “I’m sorry, bad idea, what should we tell father then?”
“No, no child, it’s not a bad idea. It’s just not possible right now. But don’t stop thinking it; if I could get you out of here, I would tomorrow. You don’t ever want to end up like me.”
“Yes, I do. I would not be ashamed. I am not stupid mom, I am 13, and I know what you are doing for us. I know it would be easier to marry me off, but you're not, I would be just like you. I see how daddy changed; I will never let a man treat me like him. I will never be married.”
“Oh sweet Rajaa, don’t let daddy’s bad example ward you off from all men, they are not all evil, not by far. My father was never as this. It is the society we live in.”
“This society will never change mom. Men have it too good to change it. I will never be married, I hate all men.”
She kept looking at me as if wanting to correct my thoughts. I got this look a lot.
“Let’s not tell your father anything. Maybe Rahim didn’t see you. You never know. Either way the result will be the same.”
She rubbed my face with the backside of her hand and then did the same to my sister. “Never learn hatred, learn everything else, but never that.”
With that, we made our way home.
Chapter 2:
“The United States is a bunch of bullies; they rub their Christian beliefs like sand paper to our faces. You are so lucky we are Muslim and have values. Their women walk around like whores and their men allow it. A bunch of homosexuals as well, you don’t see that here, Allah wouldn’t allow homosexuals in the Muslim faith. That’s how we know we have the true God. Praise Allah!”
He crammed an overabundant amount of rice in his mouth, his cheeks swelling like a chipmunk's. I couldn’t understand why he had become so angry. I thought it was the fact of him losing his job, but mom believes it is the radical Clerics he is always going to visit.
“You chew too loudly Rajaa…how many times? No man would marry such a slob. Just close your mouth, and eat like a lady. Most women cover their mouths when they eat. My cousin's wife, his family, I am much too lenient with you, and look where it has gotten me.” My father said, his mouth spitting out rice as he spoke.
I just kept my eyes on the food in front of me and began chewing more lightly. Inside, I was raging. I couldn’t voice my opinion any longer. I had no opinion or feelings. I was sitting on a crack in the floor, it was pinching my legs, but I didn’t even move for fear he would find some reason to tell me how I am not a lady or not appreciative.
Our house had fallen apart since the war began. The constant rumbling of bombs and tanks rolling by caused the foundation to crack. Most of the walls in the house had flaking paint and cracks that would run from one side clear to the other. We had sold most of our nicer things. Now we sat in the living room on a red faded rug. We had a radio up on a stand where the TV once was. The house had two bedrooms. One of those bedrooms I shared with my sister, but we had no door. So there was never any privacy.
“I want to tell you all…and without any attitude from any of you…” he swayed his hands back and forth. I guess he felt powerful constantly shoving his fingers in our face. ”…that we are moving in my cousin and his wife and kids into this house. Before you start…” He said looking into my mother's face, pausing so she would take notice. “…you better know that my decision is final. Final. We will be in much better shape with them living here. They will be moving in tomorrow. They aren’t thrilled about it either, but this is what Allah has decided for us. Family is meant to be together anyhow, you don’t forget that.”
I was so tense inside. I hated how he spoke down to us all the time. “Where am I supposed to sleep now?” I couldn’t hold it in. I knew the answer; I just had to open my mouth.
“Go clean some houses, find a husband, and you can pester him where you sleep. You think you are so special here. You think that I like sharing my house? You are ignorant; your mother has taught you nothing. All that education your mother got has been wasted. No wonder women can’t teach, I see clearly now, because they are spoiled and arrogant.”
Mother got up and ran into the bedroom shutting the door. I could hear her wailing immediately. I felt thick mucus in the back of my throat as tears welled in my eyes.
“Why are you so nasty to her, why don’t you love us anymore? I can’t stand your religious bantering all the time.”
A side of my father’s face I had never seen appeared. It was not my father any longer. His face turned red. A hundred shades thick with red anger. His fists clenched. I could feel my body trembling. Akila started crying as loudly as she could. I welcomed the distraction and reached over to coddle her. Suddenly, I felt a sharp sting from my head. My body was being dragged across the rug. I felt the burning in my knees. I grabbed for my hair to pull down so I could ease the tension, I could feel strands snapping out. I saw myself sliding across the floor in front of my father. I was now in my room. “You are a thankless, worthless, spoiled little devil. No wonder hell is filled with women-daughters like you!” He smacked me back and forth, mostly hitting my hands.
He took one of my pictures off the wall and smashed it onto the floor and left. I could still hear my sister wailing in the living room. My body was trembling uncontrollably, I wanted to cry so hard, but it kept getting stuck inside my throat, there was so much emotion that it had jammed inside me. ‘I just want you to die’.
“What are you teaching her…did you hear what your daughter just said to me? Did you? You think this praises Allah? Do you think her hating her father makes her love you? I will not be embarrassed like this when my family moves in. I told you to stop teaching, but you do not listen. You will cease teaching her anything…do you understand me this time? You dishonor Allah and this family.”
I could hear him yelling at her all night long, with a few breaks in between. I finally mustered the strength to go get Akila from the living room. She was still sitting with her legs folded, in the same position she was left in. She started crying the second I touched her. We went back to the room and cried in each others arms the rest of the night. She would tremble every time the yelling would start up again. I thought I heard smacking sounds, like the sound meat makes when hitting a cutting table, but I denied my ear's accuracy, as I didn’t even want to consider it. If I saw him hit her, I would kill him. I thought about killing him the remainder of the night until I fell asleep.
I woke up the next morning still cuddling my sister. She was sucking her thumb and still had tear trails on her pink cheeks. She looked scared and sad, even in her sleep. The top of my head was sore as was my face. The sun had a made a perfect spotlight directly on us, I could feel the temperature change when I got up and moved away from the windows. Peeking around the doorway I was looking to see if mom was out of bed yet. Instead I got a cold sick feeling when I heard the voice of Rahim. ‘How could he be here already.’
I heard my dad’s voice, it was still angry sounding, and he was talking about mother. I looked down the hall at the bedroom door where my parents slept. I felt a fear consume me when I looked at the closed door. I couldn’t imagine what her night was like; I just hoped she wasn’t hurt. I tip-toed my way to the door and turned the knob. As I walked inside I heard a loud burst of anger behind me, it was from my father, the loud noise sent me shooting inside their room and shutting the door behind me. “Mom?”
I could see her on the bed. She was cuddling tightly with the blankets, her back turned to me. I walked around to see her face. “Oh my God, mom.” I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, her face was swollen, one of her eyes completely shut. Her cheeks were purple and red. “Mom…” tears streamed down my face. She reached out and touched my cheek.
“Its ok child, it looks worse then it feels, really.”
“Mom, we can’t let him do this to us, we need to leave.”
“I know, I know.” She whispered softly.
“I am serious mom. We need to leave, anything is better then this. I can’t live with Rahim, I hate him. Please let’s go, now.”
“Just let me rest. I will think about it Rajaa. Are you taking care of your sister?” she said her voice cracking as she spoke.
I ignored her question with a look of obviousness “Mom…what if Rahim tells father about us being in the market. He will kill you if he finds out…”
“No, Rajaa, your father may be a different man but he would not kill me. Your taking this too seriously, I have been making your father very angry. He is the head of the house you know. I don’t exactly make this easy on him.”
“Mom, what are you talking about? Look at you. You’re hurt. He is not your husband any longer, and he is not my father, not after he put his hands on you. He dragged me across the floor by my hair…” I broke down right then. I couldn’t speak any more, I felt so broken and desperate. I just crawled into the bed with my mom and wept. I knew she was in far more pain then I was, but I still felt the childish instinct to confide my pain. We lay there together. I was wrapped in the warmness of her embrace; it was the most soothing feeling and nothing in this world could ever take the place of a mother's touch.
Bang! The large crash awoke me out of my sleep. I sat up instantly, to see my father standing in the door way. He was with Rahim. “Get out of here Rajaa, now!”
“Daddy, please…leave her alone.” I cried as I could see his eyes fixated upon her like a drooling wolf.
He came at me like a mad man; again I was hoisted by my hair, this time thrown into the hall way like a shoe. The door to their bedroom slammed. I could hear him screaming again. Everything started spinning; my vision was hazy and filled with spots. I could see my fingers reaching out. “Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, damn you, stop.” I kept muttering, I was trying to scream but like a bad dream it wouldn’t come out. I wanted to protect my mother so badly I could feel my knuckles burning. I placed my head onto the floor -
‘Allah if you are real, if you are alive, please protect my mother, please, I beg of you. Make him leave her alone. She is a good woman, she is, and I swear I will be a better child if you protect her today.’
But nothing stopped. I heard crashing and screaming. Then I heard the word I feared him saying most of all - ‘prostitute’. Maybe I misheard him. Was it just random anger or an accusation?
I heard it again “you prostitute”.
‘Oh my God. He knows.’ I heard the smacking sound again. My body cringed. That bastard, was he going to kill her?’
My whole world froze. The next moment I was in a level of consciousness that I had never felt before. Animalistic instinct kicked in. I remember going into the kitchen, seeing Rahim’s wife, she was but a shadow to me, bug eyed and afraid. I remember the rumble of the drawer as it opened and the creaking of the rollers inside. I could feel the cold metal as I saw my reflection and felt its power. I felt equalized, as if I had risen to a level of adulthood that few children would ever have to experience. It was in my hand, and I was walking back through the halls. I passed my room to look in on my sister one last time, she was awake, her black eyes wide and paralyzed; her thumb still in her mouth.
The door knob turned with little effort, it seemed to expect me. The door popped with an alarm, but I wasn’t startled. My feet carried me involuntarily, I felt as spirits were moving me, I wasn’t walking, I was gliding towards them. I saw my father's arm beating down upon my mom’s body; she was on the ground defenseless. I swallowed the lump in my throat. His body swung around, but I was already there. The blade slid into his thigh, easing into him like a custom holster. No blood came spraying as I expected. There was nothing, but silence. Only the handle remained exposed. I looked up to see my father's face, he looked fearful. I could see that I brought him down to the human level again. He was no longer invincible. I ceased to believe in his strength but I was frozen from pulling the blade out and finishing as I had rehearsed in my head a thousand times.
“You worthless cha-leb (dog).”
Rahim backhanded Rajaa to the ground. The knife went flying into the air along with her. Rajaa’s head smacking the floor with a thump. A steady stream of blood flowed from her nose.
“Oh, God, Besma, what in all creation! Your family is possessed with the devil." Rahim said looking at the knife that was gouging out the other side of Besmas’ leg. “Oh, Allah, God who is most great and powerful, remove the djinn from this child and mother.” Rahim fell to the ground in prayer.
Besma looked down at the blade protruding from his thigh. Then down at his wife and daughter who both lay unconscious. “Why have I been cursed with such betrayal? I spoiled them and killed them with my ignorance.” Besma began to wail. It was a mix of pain and sorrow. Rahim’s wife was in the hallway now, covering her face, but her eyes were wide as quarters.
“Rahim, stop this madness, I beg of you!” his wife cried out to him on her knees, reaching her palms out toward him.
“Me? Stop this madness…are you possessed woman - to speak to me about madness? Look at this, what was done here.” Rahim ran towards his wife and smacked her face with the back of his hand. “Don’t you ever question me.”
Rahim walked away from his wife who was rolling on the ground in tears. “Pray, pray for forgiveness.” Rahim suggested. This time he was pulling at Besma’s arm from the ground.
“What must I do with them here? I am so confused. Allah, God who is most great, give me the strength to handle this deceit.” Besma kneeled on the floor; blood began to soak his pants in an expanding circle. “Praise to Allah, protect me from the evil that has possessed my family. What am I to do almighty Allah?”
Rahim’s wife joined in from the hallway, cleaning the ground first, and then praying silently to herself; citing the scriptures in the Quran. She knew if they heard her praying with them, they would hit her again; but the emotions overcame her and she did it anyways.
Besma fell over onto the floor. His knee splashing as it fell into the puddle of blood that had accumulated. Rahim broke from his prayer and picked up Besma over his shoulder. “We must get him to the hospital, immediately.” He said to his wife, who rushed out the door with him.
Rajaa awoke with her sister shaking her arm. “Get up sister, get up.” Her little voice pleading. Rajaa’s vision was blurry, she could see her mother's hair spread across the floor; dampened with the blood of Besma’s leg.
“Mom, mom." Rajaa began shaking her mom. The slight mumble was the sweetest sound. The sound of life. “Get up, Mom…” her voice went into a whisper.
“Akila, is anyone still here?” Rajaa asked.
Akila shook her heard, no. “Mom, we got to leave, now; before they get back.”
Essra slowly got up from the ground. Her face was swollen as if it had been stung by a swarm of bees. As she began to stand up, she lost her balance using the wall to catch her. Rajaa rushed over to help her. “Mom, let's go, go to your sister's house.”
“Wait here.” Rajaa went into the bathroom to grab a cloth and some water. There she looked into the cracked mirror at her own face. There was flaky dry blood streaming down from her nose to her lips. Her face was red and his lip was cracked with fresh blood. The image was mesmerizing, she could see through her own eyes; the gate into her soul, and it was empty.
Rajaa wiped her own face, it was sore, but she ignored the pain and just wiped harder. She washed until her face felt raw.
Taking the cloth to her mother, Rajaa gently wiped the blood and helped put her mother’s hijab on, as well as her sisters. As they left the house, Essra stopped to look back. “I remember the good times too.” With that they made their way through the busy streets and back through the market. Her sister was several blocks away, but it was the only family they had left. Essra's father and mother had passed years before. Her sister was married to a man named Salah; nobody liked him much, but he wasn’t friends with Besma; which made him a potential ally. Neither Rajaa nor Essra knew how long they had been unconscious, but the sun was now setting on the day as they made their way to Salah’s house.
Rajaa went to the door, Essra stayed in the distance her face hidden in a veil. Salah answered. His face looked troubled and grim. He had such a slender frame, like a teenage boy; his presence was a relief nonetheless. “Come in”, Salah said, ignoring Rajaa, his voice was toward Essra. He turned leaving the door open. Rajaa could see Amira inside; she smiled and motioned for Rajaa to come in. The warm hug from Amira was a relief. “You go into our room, take your sister ok?” Amira said pulling back and smiling. Rajaa listened and took her sister into the room, shutting the door and laying on the nice bed. Lying there, images of the day began to plague her memory. Her head was spinning. Akila looked up at her big sister. “Rajaa…I’m scared.” Rajaa looked down at her big black eyes. They were straining to look up at her. “I know me too…me too.”
Chapter 3
“Rajaa, wake up…I have nice dinner for you.” The soft whisper of a feminine voice felt soothing. Then I felt the sting of my loosened hair and remembered where I was. Looking up I could see the smiling face of Amira through the blurry shadow of my eyes. “Why don’t you let your sister sleep.” Amira suggested, looking at the traumatized sleep that Akila has fallen into once again.
“Ok.” I said getting up from the bed. My body felt sore and my stomach was knotted a thousand times over. I didn’t want to eat, but I did want to be with my mom. Their house was almost identical to our own. Salah worked as a truck driver, hauling tools, food, whatever was needed into all areas of Iraq. His line of work was increasingly dangerous with the war, as he was expected to deliver supplies in areas which were engaging heavily in battle. Sometimes he would come back with a truck riddled with bullets from one end to the other. A few times he even had to abandon his supplies at gunpoint. That was a regular part of the job.
In the living room mom was still wrapped in her hijab and veil, using it to cover her face as she ate. I could see only a few grains of rice go into her mouth; her hand was shaking profusely. Despite her obvious pain, she smiled as I walked in. I could see the flinch in her eyes as her cheeks rose. Amira handed me a bowl of rice. “Please, eat Rajaa.”
I ate as much as I could, which amounted to only a few bites. I was so nervous and I could feel Amira and Salah starring at me with every bite. The silence was eerie. I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed with anxiety; I wanted to know how much mother had told them. If they were going to help us, what our plan was. I wanted to seem respectful in front of Salah though, I knew he was our only hope of getting out of this situation.
“Rajaa, I am going to tell you the same thing I told your mother, and you need to listen, Ok?” Salah said, acting stern like my father. I immediately felt discomfort again.
“Your father has already called us. He told me everything. I know you stabbed him. You should be very ashamed for stabbing your father, but that is not my place. I know of your mother’s discretions as well. Your father knows you would come here.
I felt myself start to vomit. The puke was just enough to wash up my throat and swallow back down. My mom patted my back as I coughed. “It’s ok, Rajaa, just listen…”
“I’m very sorry what has happened to you and your mother Rajaa. I am.” I felt tears steaming down my face as he began to speak.
“I will talk to your father when he gets here. I was supposed to turn you away, but I have decided I will not do that to you. I will talk with Besma, he is a reasonable man, and guided by Allah, we will work something out. Do you understand?”
I didn’t understand, father was not reasonable, not anymore. The thought of seeing him again was more then I could bear. “Mom, we can’t see him again, he will kill me, he will kill me for stabbing him…Mom?”
“Rajaa, quiet…what do you want to do? Run away, run where? We can’t go anywhere without a passport, without permission. This is a kind thing Salah has done for us.” Essra turned to Salah. “I am thankful.”
Salah got up and sat in a chair turning on the radio. The daylight turned to night. I kept praying repetitively, every few minutes, that father would forget about us, abandon us forever. I remembered the stories mother told of the United States, I thought about what it would like to be free. I could watch Akila play with other children; without worry of tanks or explosions. I even thought about seeing mother’s hair blow in a cool breeze, where she can wear a pretty silk dress, worry free, her stress and grey hair vanishing along with the stress of this life. What we have here, it would only be a distant memory. Maybe that makes me less Iraqi, maybe it makes me disrespectful to a Muslim country, but why…why is it wrong to want to worship in a peaceful place, where people treat women with respect and equality. That night I made up my mind, I would find a way to become American. Then I would help the Americans understand Muslim culture, the best parts, and everyone could be free and happy. That night I fell asleep with a little bit of hope.
The next morning, I awoke to the presence of others in the room. My mom, my sister, and I all slept in the living room on the rug. Salah and Amira were already awake and moving about. Amira couldn’t have children, but she still stayed at home to take care of everything for Salah, even laying out his clothes in the morning. He had to think about nothing when he was home.
“Good morning Rajaa, Amira said with her sweet smile. She was as gentle as a dove. She almost seemed divine with the light shining through the windows behind her. I couldn’t help but smile back. “Would you like some breakfast, I have it prepared for you?” Amira asked.
Breakfast, that’s a luxury that I hadn’t experienced since before the war. It has been so long since the last time I had breakfast my stomach had no interest; but I still accepted the invitation. The smell in the house was so wonderful; I could almost taste the warm bread.
Amira began bringing in plates full of eggs and flat breads, with butter and jam. My stomach suddenly decided breakfast was back in. Salah had already eaten and was going into work for the morning, but thankfully would be back by lunch today. The spread of breakfast foods was laid out on the far side of the rug, so my mom and sister could still sleep. Mom’s face was covered with the blanket. I wonder if she is awake but not wanting to get out of the protection of the blanket.
Amira and I ate to contentment. It was a welcome distraction; I loved the sweet jams on bread.
“Amira, do you think we can live here for awhile?”
Amira didn’t look up. I knew the answer to my question already. “I don’t know sweet child, we will see, I don’t mind you staying here.” She said smiling but still not looking up.
“I really like it here. The breakfast was great, and I was very comfortable sleeping.” I said, trying to feel Amira out. She didn’t respond.
After a good bit of silence, she finally spoke. “Salah will speak to your dad, and hopefully work things out. Then you can sleep in your own bed again.”
“I don’t want to sleep in my own bed; I never want to see him again. He tried to kill me and mom.” I said, sternly. I wanted her to understand the direness of our situation.
“Unfortunately, such luxuries of wanting are not always possible in this age Rajaa. You will need to accept what luxury your father provides that is the best that we can do…under the circumstances.”
“Well I am going to the United States, there I can have lots of luxuries. Mom and Akila are going to come with me. We are going to be free and have jobs. Mom will teach again, and I can take care of Akila.”
“I see, well, until that time, let’s see what we can do to make you at peace with your father. It is not honorable to have such hate as you do. It is not honorable for you to be hit either. That is what Salah will help to resolve…ok?”
It wasn’t ok with me. I didn’t want to resolve the issues. My father was dead to me. The fact is I am scared to death to see him. I stabbed him. I know he hated me as much as I hated him now. There were no more bonds, no child-father relationship. That has been broken forever, and I’m thankful for that…yes I am.
“Don’t be so hasty to run away from your country. The United States may be a nice place, but what if you could bring that type of freedom here. What if your name could be celebrated in the streets as the women who brought about change amidst all this war? Something to consider. We all deserve what you and your mom and sister will have in America.” Amira said with a smile.
I blew off her comments with a sly glare, but they stuck with me as I pondered them; maybe she was right. The rest of the day, I couldn’t get the thought out of my head. ‘I could free the women of Iraq.’ My imagination went crazy, I could see women stepping up and throwing their hijab and veils onto the ground, touching your wife was a crime of severe punishment. They would carry signs with my picture on them and chant my name. I would even be given a palace and praised throughout all the news and even talked about in the states. Maybe I could even run the country one day. The possibilities were endless. I escaped from cleaning so I could write down all the things I would change. I wanted mom and Amira to read this. They could help me set it all up and we could all be praised.
Changes
in Iraq
By: Rajaa
No more veils or head coverings. Women will were long dresses and cover their bosoms as the Koran says. Nothing more.
Women will return back to work. They will be able to teach and do all the things free women can, mo matter where they live in Iraq.
Women would not be treated as slaves. Hitting is illegal and subject to hangings.
Women would be able to walk the streets without their husbands. They could even travel without permission if they wanted.
Women would be equals to the men in decisions. They would eat together as a family.
Women could choose to not be married. There would be no more arranged marriages. They also don’t have to be in a marriage with multiple women.
Girls would go to the same schools and be taught the same things as boys.
Women can play sports.
Women could walk side by side with their husbands, and pray with them.
Women could chew as loud as they want.
It was perfect, just ten laws that would make women free. They made perfect sense; there is no reason, not even in all the Koran, that these would be wrong things for women to want. Amira was right I would bring the good things of the United States to Iraq.
I could hardly wait until mom got up. It was around lunch time when she finally rose from under the blankets. I ran into the room at hearing her greetings with Amira, but when I saw her my anxiousness quickly vanished. There I was standing in the living area, with the paper of change in my hands; but my mom was swollen and puffed so violently, I could hardly recognize her beautiful face. Her once tan skin was now purple and blue. Her lips were cut and swollen like a fish. I could even see bruises on her neck were she had been choked.
Even Amira was at a loss for words. Nothing could describe the brutality with which she was abused. It was one thing to see these images in the papers and on TV, but to see them in person, and to know that person, it was very painful. I ran up to give her a hug; it was the only thing that seemed appropriate. “I love you so much mother.”
“I love you…” her words were faint and weak. I felt her limp arms make their way around my back.
“What’s this?” She asked seeing the piece of paper I had behind my back.
I felt a sense of embarrassment; but boldly handed her the paper and revealed my plans. “Amira and I were talking, and I told her how we were going to go to the United States and be free. Amira thought I should bring the good parts of the United States here, so all women could enjoy them. So these are my ten rules that I want to change in Iraq. I thought we could get on TV or the radio and read them to people.”
My mom looked at the rules. Her facial expression was very intense, which made me feel better about what I had created. I watched a tear fall down her purple swollen cheeks; she tried to wipe them away but flinched in pain.
“I think these are wonderful rules.” She said, in between sniffles. “Wonderful rules.” She repeated.
I felt so relieved at my mom’s response. I couldn’t keep my cheeks from smiling; they were stuck in an enormous smile.
Mom and Amira both smiled at each other, mom kept reading the list as she ate a late breakfast.
A little while later my mom took me and my sister into a room to talk. I couldn’t wait to hear our plan for escape. I was excited, scared, and thrilled all at the same time.
We all went into the small bedroom and mom shut the door. Amira stayed in the living area. “My sweet angels.” Mom said as my sister and I sat down. Even with all her bruising I felt at ease with her smile and words. “Let’s pray to Allah before we begin, ok?” After a short prayer I sat in anticipation of her words.
“Girls, beautiful, wonderful girls, I want you both to know how blessed I am to have you as my children. My whole life I spent in anticipation of having a family and it became more beautiful to me than I could have ever dreamed, praise is to Allah. I grew up in Iraq, and through the oppression of past times came freedom… and with that freedom, I was given privileges, praise to Allah, that were hardly experienced by most generations of Muslim women. The world is a circle, and with this circle comes a vicious cycle of repeating history. We are again at a time of oppression as women.“ I could see the sadness in her eyes as she spoke. I could see her traveling back to the better days in her head.
“Someday, you will look back and say, I remember when…and you will recall these moments of oppression. But, you will also remember that your mom did many bad things in this time. Things I dishonored Allah with, and my own dignity. You may grow up and feel saddened that I did these things and brought shame upon our family name. You will hopefully remember that I did these shameful things so that you could eat and grow up to live better lives than I could give to you.” Tears kept falling from mom’s cheeks as she spoke; they fell in sync with her words.
“I don’t believe you’re shameful. I don’t. And neither does Akila…” I said.
“Nope” Akila responded, agreeing with me.
I continued “I think what you did honors Allah, because you sacrificed yourself for your family. Is your sacrifice any less then other prophets, just because you’re a women…I don’t think so. Father is dishonoring Allah by not providing for his family. We need to get away, so we can be safe and make our own lives.”
Akila nodded her head in agreement. Though I knew she had no idea what I was talking about. Mother was looking at me, proudly.
“Your independence will be your greatest… and your most discriminated gift.” Mom said to me, grabbing my hand in between hers. “There is no escaping this life, not right now. Nobody helps women and children, not in these far places of Iraq. We must help ourselves by staying close to one another and loving each other. As hard as it may sound, I need for you…” mom began squeezing my hand “to stop hating your father. We must love and respect him and support him in his trials. I promise you, he will not hurt any of you any longer. He lost his temper, and dishonored Allah by laying his hands on us. But we must give him forgiveness, as he is the head of this family. Do you understand?”