Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

She was reluctant to engage in conversation with the women, but as Asma had just said, boredom was a crime waiting to happen. Zeba was growing impatient and anxious. She was trying not to imagine spending the rest of her life in this prison but was also having a hard time imagining any alternative. The judge had not yet given her a date for her trial. Her brother was looking for a lawyer. It wouldn’t be easy to find one who would want to defend her, she knew.

“You haven’t met with the judge yet?” Latifa asked once the sound of Asma’s footsteps faded.

“No,” Zeba said simply. “Not yet.”

“They like to keep people a good, long time before they even start the trial. Keep you in here so long that you and everyone you know start to believe you’re guilty for whatever’s written in your file.”

Latifa sat on a plastic chair facing the television set in the corner of the cell. Mezhgan and Nafisa sat on the floor in front of the bunk bed they shared. They were devout followers of a Turkish soap opera, voices awkwardly dubbed in Dari. Their eyes did not drift from the grainy screen.

“How long were you here before you got your trial?” Zeba asked.

Latifa let out a guffaw before answering.

“I was here two months. Simple case but the prosecutor kept filing extensions. I wasn’t even denying that I’d left my family’s home or taken my sister. But I know why. I’m sure the judge was hoping my father would sweeten his tea and arranged for the delays.”

Two months. Zeba felt a lump in her throat swell. She lowered her head.

“Doesn’t mean it will be the same for you, just means that’s what he did for me. Isn’t that right, Khanum?” Latifa nodded her head in the direction of another guard, a plain woman in her forties with wisps of hair peeking out from under a chestnut head scarf. She’d paused at their doorway, her eyes drawn to the soap opera drama.

“Come on, Latifa. You know I don’t listen to anything you say,” she said smartly.

Latifa chuckled.

“You’re some friend, thanks. How’s your daughter, by the way? Is she back to school yet or still having fevers?”

“She’s much better, thanks. She went back yesterday, which means I could be here to watch over you instead of her. How lucky am I?”

The mood was light, until the guard asked her next question.

“Nafisa, are you ready for tomorrow?”

Nafisa took a deep breath in and started to squirm on the floor. Mezhgan put a hand on her cellmate’s knee.

“You’ll be fine,” she reassured.

“It’s stupid,” Latifa declared.

“If you’ve got nothing to hide, this can help you,” the guard said gently.

Latifa noticed the look of confusion on Zeba’s face.

“This little girl is going to get examined tomorrow,” Latifa sang out, with the theatrics of a radio announcer. “A very wise and all-knowing doctor’s going to tell the world if she’s a virgin or not. That’s what everyone really wants to know. Did she or didn’t she? Is she still a girl or is she a harlot? Has she stripped her father of his honor?”

Nafisa’s face turned a deep shade of red.

“Shut up, Latifa!” she hissed.

Latifa continued, unfazed.

“Let me prepare you a bit since no one else will. You’ll have to take your underpants off and lift your skirt. The doctor’s going to use a flashlight to look at every hole in your body to see if a man’s been near it. Oh, yes, your backside is part of the exam. But the front is the main story. He’ll poke around looking to make sure your woman part still has its modesty veil. If you don’t have that little veil they’re looking for, you’re in big trouble. If you’ve ever fallen from a window or out of a tree, better mention it before they’ve got your legs open for a look. That’s the only hope you’ve got to explain what they might find in a way that doesn’t condemn you to this place for another decade. Did you fall out of a tree? Think hard, my friend. Surely, you must have fallen from a tree at some point in your life.”

Mezhgan clucked her tongue sympathetically.

“Enough, Latifa! You think everything’s a joke. She’s going to be humiliated enough tomorrow as it is. You don’t have to make it worse.”

“I’m only trying to prepare her. Look at the poor girl’s face. Haven’t you noticed that she’s barely eaten or slept in the last couple of days? She’s a bag of nerves. Not everyone would be as prepared as you to have a man sticking his fingers between her legs.”

Mezhgan grabbed her hairbrush and threw it at Latifa’s head. She ducked just in time. Mezhgan stood and looked as if she might storm out of the cell. She made it to the doorway, where she paused, arms folded across her chest. The guard smiled in amusement.

“I hope her lawyer is better than mine,” Latifa said, sighing. “The one assigned to me told me I should be ashamed for leaving my family. He told the judge as much at my hearing and then asked him to have pity on me because I seemed to be repentant — what a defense! There’s a woman in here that got examined and the doctor reported that she had been having sex at least once a week with two different men.”

“They can tell that from looking at her there?” Nafisa, a lilt of surprise in her voice.

“I’m not a doctor. Maybe the men left their voting cards inside her. Damned if I know.”

Nafisa was too nervous to find this amusing.

“What did your test show?” Nafisa asked. In the weeks they’d spent together in the cell, Latifa had never spoken about her exam. She’d not even mentioned that she’d endured one.

“My test? Are you as stupid as they are?” Latifa huffed. “You don’t have to ask the flesh between my legs if I’ve ever had sex with a man. You can just ask me and I’ll tell you I haven’t, even if the men in my family don’t believe it. My brother swore he’d kill me for being a whore.”

Latifa then paused, her eyes closed. She wagged her finger in the air as if it were receiving a signal.

“I’ve got one! I’ve got one!

“If a man’s honor is his highest prize

Why then stash it between a woman’s thighs?

“Isn’t it brilliant?” Latifa exclaimed. Zeba was too distracted to appreciate the couplet or the fact that she’d inspired a bit of creativity in her cellmate.

“Do they examine everyone?” Zeba asked nervously.

“No,” Latifa said as she stood up and shook out her legs. “Only if you’re here for adultery or zina . And something tells me that’s not what you’re here for.”

Latifa was right. Zeba had hardly desired to have sex within her marriage, much less outside of her marriage.

“So, Zeba, are you going to tell us what happened or are we going to have to guess?”

Zeba met Latifa’s stare. She shook her head and took a deep breath.

It was shocking how quickly the smell of blood had filled the air. Ghastly shadows appeared on her husband’s face. Was it pain? He’d looked shocked, as if he were staring the devil in the face. He had crumpled, his arms outstretched, half expecting Zeba to catch him. The ground had quaked beneath Zeba and she’d let out a sharp gasp. Darkness, seeping from her husband’s head, stained the earth around him and inched toward her. Zeba had stumbled to get back on her feet, never turning her back on him. She’d hobbled backward until her back hit the outhouse wall, then she’d slid to the ground. Zeba lifted her eyes for a second, just long enough to cry out a single word.

Go.

“I have nothing to say.” Zeba returned to her cot and buttoned the cuff of her sleeve. The others saw her fingers fumbling, her lips quivering. These moments came from time to time, sudden flashes from that day. It was difficult to have a conversation in those moments. It was sometimes even hard to breathe.