Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

“If anyone’s mental status needs to be assessed, it’s yours. The police are the ones who conduct discoveries. It’s a simple, black-and-white case, and I’m sure Qazi Najeeb will tell you that.”

“I’ll speak for myself!” Qazi Najeeb interjected. He hadn’t expected today’s trial proceedings to be so animated, especially with Gulnaz present. Gulnaz, as far as he could tell, did not seem bothered by the shouting match. She remained composed, listening intently.

The judge continued. “Let’s move on. There was as much investigation as there typically is for a case like this. Your client’s been charged with the crime. We know the crime happened. We’ve got a written statement in which she confesses to killing her husband.”

“Your Honor, on that piece of paper is a confession of a woman who hit her husband on top of his head with a hatchet.”

“Yes?”

“Kamal died from a hatchet wound to the back of the head, low enough that it was near his neck. If she did confess, she would know where his wound was, wouldn’t she?”

“On top of the head. . back of the head. . you’re really reaching.”

“Why are we wasting our time on this?” the prosecutor asked.

“I don’t consider it a waste of time to do my job,” Yusuf shot back. “Maybe you should ask yourself if you’re doing yours.”

Qazi Najeeb stroked his short beard and felt a few crumbs between his fingers. Of course, a case involving the murshid ’s daughter would not be straightforward. He could let these two lawyers take cheap shots at each other but he had to do it in a way that would save face for him.

“Go ahead, Yusuf.”

The prosecutor huffed and sat back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest.

“This is what happens when we let foreigners stick their noses in our affairs,” he muttered.

“Article sixty-seven of the penal code of Afghanistan states,” Yusuf recited with his eyes set on the prosecutor, “that ‘a person who while committing a crime lacks his senses and intelligence due to insanity or other mental disease has no penal responsibility and shall not be punished.’”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” the prosecutor said, chuckling.

Both the judge and Yusuf noticed Gulnaz square her gaze on him.

“And I’ve never had such a case,” Qazi Najeeb explained. “Yusuf, this is not the type of defense I was expecting to hear. Maybe you want to reconsider. Khanum Zeba is obviously distressed, but that could be because she’s thinking about the day she plunged a hatchet into her husband’s head. Women have gone mad over much smaller matters, I’m sure we can all agree.”

The qazi took a sip of his tea. The biscuits, though delicious, were dry and seemed to have caught on the inside of his throat. Still, he found himself reaching for another.

“These are delicious, Khanum,” he said absently. “My own mother’s biscuits were not this good, God rest her soul. What did you put in these?”

“May you eat in good health, Qazi- sahib, ” Gulnaz replied politely. “They are nothing but flour, butter, and sugar.”

“Mm, delicious.” The qazi wiped the crumbs from his mouth before he spoke again. “I have an idea that might help us in this odd situation. I have a good friend who provides treatment for the insane. He’s been quite successful curing some very seriously affected people. Maybe we can ask him to evaluate Khanum Zeba. Why not follow the letter of the law in this case? We might make a name for ourselves here.”

“Make a name for ourselves? Your Honor, I thought we’d have this case decided today or in the next week. If he were asking for mercy because she’s a mother or if she stated her husband tried to kill her, then maybe there would be something worth talking about but this. . this. . insanity excuse. .”

“It’s the law,” the judge said with amusement. “We cannot argue with that.”

The prosecutor was astounded. Qazi Najeeb had a reputation for being objective and difficult — though not impossible — to bribe. Still, this was unexpected behavior.

“Qazi- sahib, this is a great idea!” Yusuf said excitedly. If Zeba remained in her current state, the evaluation would provide a quick answer in their favor. “Your friend is a doctor? Is he at the hospital in the city?”

“He’s better than a doctor,” Qazi Najeeb said proudly. “Doctors can’t do anything for the poor people who’ve lost their minds. They can barely fix a broken leg. He’s a mullah with a special talent for healing the insane. I met him years ago when I was living closer to my father’s home.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t worry. He’s the best person for this.” The judge looked quite pleased with himself, as if he’d personally solved the mystery of who had murdered Kamal.

“With all due respect, Qazi- sahib, this is not something that requires evaluation. Was she crazy? She killed her husband in their own home — of course she’s crazy! But that doesn’t mean that she isn’t guilty.” The prosecutor turned his attention to Yusuf. “And if you’re saying she’s crazy, are you saying that she did kill her husband or are you still maintaining that she didn’t?”

Yusuf took a deep breath. That was the question he had been hoping the prosecutor wouldn’t ask. The judge intervened just as he opened his mouth to try to answer.

“It’s been too long since I last spoke with my friend. I believe this is a sign that I should reach out to him. God is great, my friends. We will reach a conclusion soon. I know the victim’s family is waiting and trusting that we will make the right decision.”

“Exactly!” exclaimed the prosecutor. “What are we supposed to tell them? That the murderess might have had a temper? That some djinn had taken control of her body and turned her into a bloodthirsty husband killer?”

“We won’t tell them anything,” said the judge. “We’ll take Khanum Zeba to the shrine and have the mullah look at her. If he thinks she’s not crazy, there’s nothing more to it. She’ll be brought back to Chil Mahtab and we’ll decide on her guilt based on what we have here.”

Yusuf fanned himself with his notepad. The opinion of some shaman was not what he’d been hoping to pin his defense on.

“What about a hospital? There are mental health professionals that we can work with. With all due respect, Your Honor, there are doctors in this country to tell us what we need to know.”

“We’ve never done anything like this before, Agha- jan, ” the judge explained with a hint of condescension. “The nearest hospital is nearly two days’ travel from here and is always filled to capacity. The community trusts this mullah. We’ll get his expert opinion quickly.”

Yusuf feared pressing the judge too much and losing this narrow opening. He had to bend, he realized, if he wanted Zeba to have any chance at all.

“Khanum Gulnaz, did your daughter have any mental problems as a child?”

Gulnaz rubbed her hands together. Dust had clung to her skin on the long journey from home to the qazi ’s office.

She thought of all the things she could say. Zeba talked to herself as a small child. She’d once woken in the night screaming that she’d seen a djinn in her bedroom. She’d claimed to see letters in the flames that licked at an aluminum pot. She could’ve used everything Gulnaz had taught her over the years, but she chose to live without power. Even now, she would not say exactly what had happened in that courtyard. Were these not the signs of a mentally defective person?

“She was a plain and ordinary child, Your Honor,” she said mournfully. “But she is not the same now. Something terrible has happened to my daughter and I cannot imagine what it is. It’s as if her mind was poisoned.”