Nadia Hashimi - The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

I looked at my youngest sister. She still called me by my bacha posh name.

“It’s Rahima,” Rohila reminded her. Her vacant eyes stayed glued to the door, willing Parwin to come back.

“Rahima, where did Parwin go?” Sitara asked again.

“She’s… she’s gone to live with a new family.” I couldn’t say words like “marriage” or “husband” in the same sentence with my sister’s name. It sounded awkward. Like a little girl wearing her mother’s shoes.

I knew my mother was watching Parwin from behind the doorway. Their voices faded as they walked out the door. I went to the window to see my sister one last time. Because of her limp, she was shorter than any other fourteen-year-old girl and looked to be half the size of her new husband. I shuddered to think how she would feel to be alone with him.

“When will she come back?”

I looked at my sisters blankly. Madar- jan returned, drained. I was next. Khala Shaima had not succeeded in saving my sisters from Abdul Khaliq’s family. I knew I shouldn’t hope for any better, but I did.

I wish I could say that I put on as strong a front as Shahla or even Parwin, at least for my mother’s sake. I wish I could have done something. After all, I’d been a boy for years. Boys were supposed to defend themselves and their families. I was more than just a girl, I thought. I was a bacha posh ! I had been practicing martial arts with my friends in the streets. I didn’t have to crumple as my sisters had.

My father had to drag me from my mother’s arms while I cried, the chador falling from my head and revealing my absurdly short hair. Abdul Khaliq’s family watched in consternation. This didn’t bode well. My father dug his fingers into my arm. I only know because I saw the bruises later.

I tried to pull my arms away, kick my legs, twist my body away. It wasn’t the same as play-fighting with the boys. My father was stronger than Abdullah.

All we managed to do was embarrass my father. My mother sobbed, her hands in powerless fists. Khala Shaima shook her head and shouted that this, all of this, was wrong, a sin. She didn’t stop until my father slapped her across the face. She reeled backward. Our guests looked on, feeling it was well deserved. My father had redeemed himself in their eyes.

My struggle changed nothing. I just made it harder on my mother. And Khala Shaima.

My father handed me over to my new husband. My mother-in-law stared with a critical eye. She would have a lot of work to do to set me straight.

And Abdul Khaliq, my new husband, smirked to see me squirm under my father’s grip. As if he liked what he saw.

That was my wedding.

“First things first. You need a proper bath.”

Shekiba stood before a heavyset woman with cropped dark hair. She looked to be in her twenties. She wore ballooned pants and boots with a button-down shirt. If it weren’t for her voice, Shekiba would have believed her to be a man. As it was, Shekiba was baffled and had been since Kabul came into view.

Never could she have imagined such a place. All the homes and shops of her village could have fit in Kabul’s belly. There were streets lined with stores, striped awnings and men walking through the maze of roads. There were houses with colorful doors at the front gate. People turned and raised their hands, a respectful acknowledgment of the king’s entourage passing through. Kabul was a spectacle!

When the royal compound came into view, Shekiba’s mouth gaped. The gated entrance was flanked by stone pillars, layer after layer before the palace itself came into view. Through the main entrance, a wide path encircled an imposing tower. Shekiba craned her neck to get a good view.

That tower just about reaches the heavens!

The palace’s façade was embellished with carvings and arches, polished and bright. Bushes and greenery lined the path, including the portico that cut through the tower. The palace was an impressive structure with more windows than she had ever seen and incomparable in size to any home Shekiba had ever beheld.

Soldiers guarded every corner. It was only when they came to the entrance of the palace that Shekiba actually saw King Habibullah. On the ride to Kabul, he had been at the head of the caravan, riding in the magnificent carriage that had been stationed outside Hafizullah’s house. When they disembarked, Shekiba was sent in a different direction but she caught sight of him entering a main door.

That’s the king, Shekiba thought.

He was a stocky man with a thick beard. He wore a military uniform with a row of medals pinned across his left chest and tassels at his shoulders. A broad yellow sash crossed from his right shoulder to his left hip and covered some of the stars on his jacket. A striped belt and medallion clasp sat snugly across the middle of his belly and a tall hat of sheep’s wool added five inches to his stature. The soldiers stood at attention for King Habibullah’s return.

Shekiba wondered if she would ever cross paths with him in this enormous place.

“Follow me.”

A soldier took her around the corner, behind the palace, where the path opened into a verdant and majestic courtyard. Shekiba’s eyes widened. The courtyard had small ponds, flowering bushes and fruit trees. They followed a footpath that led to a smaller stone house, still much larger than even Agha Azizullah’s home. The soldier knocked on the door and a guard answered.

“Take her. She is to be a guard with you. Fix her up.” The guard nodded and waited for the soldier to turn before the door opened wide.

“Come in.”

A woman! Shekiba stood motionless.

“I said come in! What are you doing standing there?”

Shekiba’s feet unfroze and she followed the woman-man into the room. There were three women sitting on cushions around the floor, each older than Shekiba but younger than any of her uncle’s wives. They had stopped their conversation when she entered. Shekiba noticed four other guards in the room. Were they women too?

“Well, let’s take a look at you.” She lifted Shekiba’s burqa and took a step back. “Well, well. That’s quite a face. I suppose that’s why you were sent here. Ladies, this is our newest guard.”

Shekiba’s surprise grew when she learned all of the guards in this house were actually women dressed in men’s clothing. Ghafoor seemed to be in charge of the five guards. It was evening and she could see the exhaustion in Shekiba’s face. Ghafoor had her rest for the night and told her work would begin in the morning. For the first time in a long time, Shekiba slept soundly, surrounded by women pretending to be men.

Her transformation started at daybreak. Ghafoor led Shekiba to the wash area and cut her thick, knotted hair. She was instructed to bathe and given a set of clothing identical to what Ghafoor wore. Shekiba stared in wonder at the pants and could scarcely believe she should walk about in them. She slipped one leg in and then the other, fastening the buttons at the waist. She was given a corseted undergarment that pushed her modest bosom flat against her chest. She slipped her arms into the shirt and buttoned it closed. The boots felt heavy. Shekiba stood and stared down. Then she reached up and ran her fingers through her short hair.

She took two steps and turned. Her legs felt loose and she blushed when she looked down and saw the crotch of her pants. Her hands ran over her backside and she shuddered to think the shape of her limbs would be so visible in these ballooned pants. She had only ever seen women in skirts, draped enough to disguise the curves and crevices that hid underneath.