Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

“No,” Wahida answered wistfully. “But they’ve pooled some money together to get us both freed. Just a few more days, they tell me.”

Latifa clapped her hands together.

“It’s just incredible. I’ve been here for years,” she said with a moan. “I’ve never seen anything like this. I’ve never seen so many women getting a break. Malika Zeba is a miracle maker!”

“Don’t say that,” Zeba said sharply. “I’m not a miracle worker at all. I prayed for you all while I was at the shrine. I didn’t do. . I mean, you shouldn’t think of me as. . some kind of miracle maker. I’m a prisoner just like you.”

“Not a chance. No other prisoner has been able to do what you’ve done. I’ve been here long enough to know that.”

“She’s right,” the older sister-wife confirmed. “And if you ever need anything, we are here for you. The women have been gathering in the beauty salon, in the classroom, in the prison yard. Everywhere the chatter is about what you’ve done to help us. For the first time in a long time, we feel like something can be done. You’ve lit this place like a full moon!”

“And the children are happier, too, those poor things,” clucked Bibi Shireen. “They sense their mother’s nerves, you know.”

Zeba felt her eyes mist. She wasn’t responsible for any of this — was she?

“That’s why you’ve earned the name Malika Zeba,” Nafisa said, tweaking the volume up on the television. It was time for the singing competition again, and she did not want to miss the finals. “You’re the most famous woman in this prison. There’s even a reporter who’s been here, asking around. She heard about your case and wants to interview you. I wouldn’t be surprised to see your story make the news. Your face on the television — wouldn’t that be something!”

Zeba did not answer. Notoriety within the confines of Chil Mahtab was one thing, but Zeba was certain that the rest of the country would not view her through the same rosy lenses as her fellow prisoners.

THE RAIN CAME DOWN IN SHEETS, DESCENDING FROM THICK, nimbus clouds that looked like unspun lambswool. Yusuf had dashed into the office moments before it started. The rain fell upon the glass windows of the office in a soothing, staccato rhythm. He would appreciate none of this later, he knew, when he plodded his way home on a muddied road. The rain was much needed though, as the town hadn’t seen a drop of precipitation in over a month. Brittle tree branches snapped as easily as peapods, and dust floated through the air without any moisture to weigh it down.

It was a welcome break from the heat, and Yusuf felt his eyes drawn to the window often, as if he’d never seen rain before.

When he heard the ringing, Yusuf reached into his jacket pocket. This time, he recognized the string of numbers on his cell phone. He took a deep breath before pressing his thumb against the talk button.

“Hello?” he said, purposefully icing his voice a bit to sound preoccupied.

“Yes, it’s Sultana again from Dawn, ” she said as if he’d not abruptly cut off their last conversation. “I wanted to follow up on the conversation we had the other day regarding the case of Khanum Zeba.”

Yusuf looked at the stack of papers on his desk, thinking to himself that all his preparation for the case of Khanum Zeba was a great big pile of nothing in the end. The insanity defense had looked viable when outlined on his yellow notepad, but in reality, it had choked pretty badly. The rumors about her husband, Kamal, had won her more sympathy from the judge and prosecutor than any argument Yusuf had put forth. All he had left was the truth, the horrible truth about what Zeba had seen Kamal doing that day, but Yusuf had been instructed by his client not to mention the girl. She was afraid for the girl’s well-being and rightfully so. A child had been sexually violated, he thought, but the world would only see her as damaged goods. There would not be pity or rage for her, and even if there were, it would scarcely be enough.

“Do you have a specific question?” Yusuf asked. He was sitting at his desk in their main office. Aneesa was at her desk on the opposite side of the room, a phone cradled between her tilted head and shoulder. She adjusted her glasses with her free hand and then rubbed at her forehead and temples. She was busy working on a brief for a new client, a young woman who had been sold into servitude after she’d lost both her parents. She’d been taken from a village to Kabul, and after the family she worked for discovered both of their adolescent boys had been sexually assaulting her, she was passed on as a bride to a man in his seventies. The old man had turned her out two weeks after their marriage because she’d not been a virgin. Now the client had been arrested for zina and was to arrive in Chil Mahtab in the morning. Aneesa might need his help on that case, and he didn’t want to waste time on a reporter.

“I realize you don’t want to give me specific details on this Zeba case,” she explained. “So maybe we can talk about the imprisoned women more generally. I’ve been to Chil Mahtab a few times and the stories in that place range from tragic to absurd, but no one seems to be paying any attention to how easy it is to cry ‘immorality’ at the sight of a woman doing anything.”

“How did you get interested in this topic?”

Sultana’s voice relaxed noticeably when Yusuf asked the question, as if she were afraid he might have hung up on her.

“There was a report that circulated in the NGO world. It talked about the crimes women were accused of and the sentences they received. I read the report and, at first, I was so bothered that a foreign organization would come in to our country and judge us by their standards, but then I took a step back. I realized it wasn’t useful to be annoyed if I didn’t do anything about it, so I decided to investigate for myself. Afghans aren’t going to read the NGO’s report, but they will listen to our news service.”

“I suppose there isn’t much faith in the foreign NGOs.”

“There’s either too much faith in them or too little faith. Some people want them to do everything for our country, and others see them as spies or missionaries. Either way, we’ve got to pull our own weight too.”

“Not many people see it that way.”

“You’re here with a legal aid organization. You might be hearing only one side of the story. Speaking of your organization, what do you think of the representation women are getting once they are arrested? Do you think it’s fair or adequate?”

Yusuf’s head dropped. He struggled for an answer. He knew Sultana was asking him about the general defense women received and the counselors appointed to them. But the words changed as they met his ear, turning into the same question that breathed uncomfortably down his neck each night as he tossed and turned his way to sleep each night.

Are you doing a good job defending Zeba?

“Are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m here,” Yusuf muttered. He sat up and noticed Aneesa was off the phone. She shot him a look of concern, her arched eyebrows raised. He nodded back at her in reassurance then returned to Sultana’s question. “Look, some of the women are getting a reasonable defense, but others aren’t. A lot of the lawyers are putting together cases that make me wonder what kind of training they’ve received. Their defense arguments are actually pleas for mercy and almost sound like confession statements of their own. It’s an injustice, especially for women who are arrested on trumped-up charges in the first place. That being said, I don’t know if anyone in Afghanistan is getting a fair trial. Those murderers in Kabul who were tried and sentenced in a week. . that wasn’t really a fair trial either. That was an abomination in the opposite direction.”