AMERICA – I LOVE THEE

Zara, walking behind her husband, sweats, can hardly breathe. Her blue cotton burka touches the ground. She is clumsy. The meshed grill over her face allows in barely enough light to see. This is her destiny, her fate and has been since she was eleven when her parents sold her to Ashmal for two sacks of wheat.

They do not walk far, but far enough for her to catch a glimpse of two women wearing dresses who are coming out of a place that sells fried chicken. The smell crosses the dirty street and snakes into her burka, making matters worse, if possible. One lady’s dress is red. ‘Infidel’ she thinks and then re-thinks, ‘No, it is the burka that is a sin. A red burka will never happen. ‘ Ashmal stops to buy a sack of expensive rice, imported from China. He hands it to her to slip under the burka and carry it home. First they go to prayers. He prays to Allah while Zara fakes it. They return home to their 5 children. The rest of the day she cooks, cleans, plays a bit with the children and prays 4 more required times to her own secret place. With pork being forbidden, Ashmal had a non-muslim slaughterer kill a chicken in a ritual way. Ashmal enjoyed his dinner and was ready to enjoy Zara.

There is always talk amongst the women after prayers. Iffah and Tahira stand in the shade outside the mosque doing their best to speak thru the grill. Three throats are dry. Three women smell their own perspiration. There were three known beheadings of five Muslim women the day before , women who had deserted Islam, put on dresses, got office jobs using computers. Daily women who have forsaken Allah’s commandments are pulled off the street by the Taliban, beaten unconscious and left to gather flies.

Zara is afraid, afraid she is on the sword’s point of making a decision. At home she cuts open a juicy pomegranate, sucks out the red wine and gives small slices to her children. If I stay, I will always be a slave. My life will be unbearable. If Ashmal let’s me go to school and somehow I get work, I may die for my cause. What will happen to my children? There is no one to ask. Iffah and Tashira cannot be trusted. Ashmal has to divorce me if I ask, but it will take time and he will re-marry.

Weeks creep by. Zara itches in her burka and out of it and the old ways, join the upcoming revolution, give her children the chance she never had. Ashmal is feeling nice and is letting her walk behind him to the city. As he passes a stall, Zara sees a box of silk scarves, picks out a few and steals a red one that goes inside her burka. Two sins, stealing and to make it worse, a red one. But she does not call on Allah to forgive her. She fingers the scarf in secret. The red is her blood on fire.

The time has come. She pushes Ashmal off her body and lets him see the red scarf around her wrist. He hits her, hits her hard and simply denounces her by saying the three right words and the divorce procedure goes into affect. For three months they must share their house but have no marital relations. Zara was free, was going to live with Ashmal for a year as he must provide for her and the children.

Zara took her red scarf to the Red Zone Bldg. where she joined with other modernists, paraded, was beaten a few times but so far has survived and progressed. The children are learning from her and will be free one day—if the Taliban disappears. If not, they and Pakistan may disappear.

Zara has applied for a passport and will take her three oldest children to America. The Red Zoners will be there to greet them.