Tag Archives: Taliban

Blood on the Persian Rug (Previously, Honor Cuts Both Ways)

Posted in Short Stories English by
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They fled Taliban Afghanistan for American freedom, but extremism followed through their son,  who murdered his sister for ‘honor’ until his other sister taught him that honor cuts both ways.

A devastating narrative set in California about an Afghan refugee family torn apart by conflicting concepts of honor.

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Dawood’s home was a place of sorrow.

He was an old man, sitting on a couch in his living room. Deep lines of experience mapped his sun-beaten, brown, and haggard face. He had thick, grey hair cascading down on his shoulders, and his blue-grey eyes were clouded with age. But right then, his eyes could be seen brimming with confused tears, which were visible behind thick, pebbled glasses.

The room was wrapped in a thick blanket of dark gloom. The red and black, striped curtain covering the window, was drawn aside, letting some California sun in. But the dull rays of the early evening sun failed to lift off the gloom.

A few mediocre, monochrome photographs could be observed hung neatly on the pale walls. On closer scrutiny, most of the prints could be identified as from some mountainous Asian country, most probably the border regions of either Iran or Afghanistan.

Most of the photos showed tribesmen in baggy clothes, with automatic weapons held triumphantly across their chests, and heavy belts of ammunition hanging from their shoulders. Some stood in groups in front of burnt tanks, while the others stood either alone or in pairs. But the eyes of all subjects could be seen marked with a silently burning ferocity.

There were two floor lamps, one in each corner of the room. They were alight and throwing intersecting circles of light. The door to the small kitchen was half open, and the counter was visible. The ceiling fan was rotating slowly, throwing shadows across the ceiling.

A large LCD was nestled within the center of a large book cabinet. It was surrounded by thick, leather-bound volumes with their titles mostly in Persian or Arabic.

The floor was made of dark wood, polished and buffed to perfection, and a large, cream-colored, Persian rug marked its exact center. It was originally woven in beautiful, lustrous colors, but was now slowly darkening and caked with drying blood.

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There were two bodies on the floor, of a young man and a woman. They were in their early and late twenties, respectively. The girl was sprawled on her right side with dirty blond hair covering her face. Her wound was not visible, but blood soaked the rug under her stomach. She was dressed in a half-cut, white tank top and faded blue jeans. There was a black high-heeled shoe on her right foot, while the left was bare.

The boy was dressed in dark trousers and a blue shirt and was lying face down. A white skull cap half-covered his head, and was partially dyed with blood. His shoulder-length dark brown hair was also drenched in blood, and a gaping wound was visible right above his neck.

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Dawood turned his face and looked at Marjan. She was a beautiful and delicately built girl with dark eyes and dark hair, and was in her early twenties. Her face was passive, while she sat with her tightly clasped hands in her lap, and blankly stared at an invisible spot in the air. A blue-black and gleaming pistol could be seen nestled against her thigh. But she didn’t look like a murderer.

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There was a small ornamental table placed alongside the sofa. It was dark mahogany in color with intricate golden patterns. Dawood absentmindedly toyed with the few small picture frames placed on the table. He picked one at random and looked at it closely. The complete family was there - happy and smiling. Dawood, Guljaan, Parizeh, and Salman, with a young Marjaan smiling in the middle.

Dawood delicately caressed the image of his long-dead wife with his thumb, trying to extract some warmth and reassurance. He looked at the frozen faces of Parizeh and Salman, both in their teens and standing on each side of their parents, their eyes filled with mischief and fun. Dawood looked at their bodies on the floor, lifeless and ugly in death. Parizeh seemed to be sleeping calmly with one hand folded under the cheek, and the other spread outwards. Salman had both his arms spread outwards like he was diving down from a great height.

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Dawood picked up another frame and thought of a day in the distant past. It was Kabul, and the white pomegranate flowers were in full bloom. He was dressed in black and looked handsome in an embroidered black cap. Guljaan looked like a princess in a flowing, white dress. They were happy to be in love and lived in a small cottage on a hillock, on the outskirts of Kabul. Kabul was just a ghost of its former grandeur, but still beautiful after the Russians had left. Life seemed like a never-ending fairy story.

Soon after marriage, the young couple was gifted with children each year. First, Salman was born, and then Parizeh. Dawood and Guljaan looked at the two smiling angels and thanked God. Their lives were perfect.

Then their small piece of heaven turned into hell, and the pomegranate flowers went red with blood. The  Taliban rose to power in Afghanistan, and all hell broke loose.

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Dawood was a prime target for the Taliban because of his moderate and liberal views. He did not want religion to further complicate the lives of the poor Afghans. He just wanted love, understanding, and tolerance. When the Taliban destroyed the Buddha statues in Bamiyan, Dawood vented his anger in full force. It was the wrong move, and the Taliban acted swiftly. With ten, publicly delivered lashes, Dawood went one step closer to realization.

The second blow came when the Taliban caught Guljaan walking in the bazaar without pardah. She also received ten lashes in the city square.

Dawood and Guljaan purchased truth at the price of twenty lashes. The truth was that Afghanistan was no more a place to live. It had turned into hell, and especially Kabul had truly become the city of Kane. The Taliban had brought religion and expelled God.

It took the last of Dawood’s considerable savings to get him and Guljaan out of the war-torn Afghanistan. They reached a refugee camp in Pakistan, and then Dawood used his contacts to immigrate to the USA - the land of dreams and opportunities, and a land far away from extremism and intolerance. It was a land where they could finally be free of oppression and the enforcement of a violent brand of their once peaceful religion.

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Dawood looked down at Salman’s body. He thought it strange how his son grew up to be his exact opposite. He was a decent kid and a teenager - a lively boy with a healthy interest in girls and sports. But then he fell under the spell of Laiba, a Moroccan girl with extremist beliefs.

Dawood always knew that Laiba was not the kind who married men and made their lives happier. Laiba was deranged and psychologically unstable. She had love in her heart, no doubt, but that love was for a God, terrible in His fury and anger. Laiba was not a lover. She was a recruiter, and she recruited Salman.

When Salman joined forces with religion, he lost his happiness and interest in all worldly things and activities. The country that had given him freedom and refuge and opportunities, became to him the country of heathens.

Salman became everything Dawood had ever stood against. When Laiba finally left for Afghanistan, Salman wanted to follow. It took the last ounces of strength in Guljaan to stop him. She was already sick - cancer was wreaking havoc through her body. Seeing his mother in pain, Salman did not leave.

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Parizeh was the exact opposite of Salman. She was shy and reserved as a child. But she grew into a fierce and independent girl. She had no interest in religion, and specifically its extremist version. She laughed at Salman when he grew a beard and laughed even more when he chose to wear a white skull cap at all times.

She deliberately brought her male friends home just to infuriate her brother. There were embarrassing incidents. Salman could not control his anger. It was a matter of male Muslim honor for him. He fought Parizeh every step of the way. Their relationship was characterized by black seething hatred.

Personality-wise, Marjaan was a moderate and reasonable girl. She was independent like Parizeh, but lacked her abnormal interest in sensual pleasure. She had an interest in religion like Salman, but lacked his passion for extremism. She believed in a religion of peace, love, and understanding. She viewed religion as an individual choice and not as an instrument of subjugation. Her approach brought her closer to Dawood. She was his prized child.

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Then one day Guljaan died - a silent end to her long suffering. Cancer took her away. But Dawood knew it was not cancer. It was her constant longing for the white pomegranate flowers and home, which finally killed her.

Following her death, the household disintegrated. Guljaan was the force holding the fabric of sanity together. She exercised a moderating influence upon both Salman and Parizeh and was the bonding agent between the two formidable forces. When she died, the bonding force departed with her. Dawood could only sit and watch while the world that he loved disintegrated into chaos and hatred.

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Dawood again looked at Marjaan. She had come a long way and was no longer the smiling child in the picture. She had grown into a young woman, and her cold, impassive face did not betray the calamity of the moment. It was the day when Dawood’s family ended up being a family.

Dawood looked at Marjaan and then at the two dead bodies, trying to make sense of what had happened. He remembered Salman coming home in a fury and confronting Parizeh.

‘You are a complete disgrace to this family. You have brought shame upon us.’ Salman shouted at Parizeh.

‘What have I done now?’ She asked indifferently, while calmly polishing her nails.

‘You……you have done this.’ Salman said and threw a magazine in front of her.

Parizeh glanced at the magazine out of the corner of her eyes but said nothing, choosing to focus again on her nails.

‘What’s the matter? Why are you fighting with Parizeh?’ Dawood opened up his eyes slowly and asked.

‘Just look at this, father.’ Salman picked up the magazine and shoved it in Dawood’s hands. ‘Rather don’t look at it. You can’t. Parizeh is all naked in there.’

‘I am not naked. I am wearing a swimming costume.’ Parizeh explained and laughed.

‘You look like a shameless whore.’ Salman shouted at her hoarsely. ‘May God’s curse be upon you.’

‘God’s curse be upon you.’ Parizeh mimicked her brother. ‘I don’t care about your God and his curses.’

Salman stood silently, raging for a moment, and then just left the room. Dawood closed his eyes again, praying that the matter ended right there and then. But only a few moments had passed when Parizeh’s screams jolted his eyes open. She was lying on the carpet, screaming with pain, and Salman stood over her with a cutting knife dripping with blood.

‘Oh God! What have you done? Dawood asked and tried to get up, but he could not. He watched helplessly while Parizeh breathed her last.

‘I have done what you should have done a long time ago.’ Salman shouted and seemed almost possessed by his inner demons. ‘She was a threat to this family’s honor. She was a threat to our religion’s honor, and she was a threat to my honor. Today I have removed this threat forever.’

Dawood saw Marjaan, silently approaching Salman with Dawood’s gleaming Colt in her hand. But before he could warn Salman, Marjaan raised the pistol and shot Salman in the neck, point-blank.

‘What have you done, Marjaan? He was your brother.’ Dawood stood up slowly. ‘Salman was mad. He had misconceived notions of his male and religious honor. But why did you kill him, child?’

‘I killed him for honor, too, Father.’ Marjaan said and slowly sat down on the sofa, and placed the pistol in her lap.

‘Honor? Whose honor?’ Dawood thought he had misheard her.

‘My own honor, Father. My honor, being a woman.’

A Society of Self-Appointed Sheriffs (Previously, Tolerating the Intolerance)

Posted in Essays by

A colleague’s rage over someone’s after-hours drinking was so extreme that the author still checks his car for explosives months later - this is what zero tolerance looks like in practice.

A witty, autobiographical essay tracing the author’s evolving understanding of tolerance through three generations’ reactions to nude paintings - from his father’s diplomatic “cloak of feathers” explanation to his own honest conversation with his son, juxtaposed against moral outrage from visitors.

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Throughout the late 1970s and early 1980s, there was a nude painting, which was my favorite. It was an expert rendering of a naked Native American girl, and was hung on one of the walls of our humble, middle-class abode.

The choice of mysteriously dark colors accentuated her well-proportioned figure. The result was an aura of subtle eroticism. I loved it and was infatuated by the sheer seduction of the study.

One day, my father caught me looking adoringly at the painting. I hesitatingly asked him if she was naked.

‘Certainly not.’ He answered with an amused glint in his eyes and then asked me, ‘Who says so?’

‘I believe this is the opinion of everyone who has seen this painting.’ I sheepishly offered.

‘I don’t think so.’ My father smiled and answered. ‘She is not naked. Instead, she is wearing an almost invisible cloak of feathers.’

Those few words of his, which were actually aimed at quashing my sensual curiosity, incited my wild imagination even more. From that day onwards, the painting became the focus of my pre-adolescent fantasies, and I grew quite over-protective of the anonymous, nude girl.

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My protectiveness was duly challenged a few weeks later, when a young aunt of mine came visiting. She was considered to be a symbol of Pakistani modernity and liberalism, but her attitude that day shocked me.

Right after entering our living room, she found the painting and stood in front of it, completely dumbstruck.

‘Dear God in heaven!’ She exclaimed while reacting in her peculiar and irritatingly shrill voice, ‘This girl is not wearing anything.’

‘No.’ I stood beside her and considered it my duty to correct her observation. ‘She is not naked. She is wearing a cloak of feathers. You just can’t see it.’

She looked at me with obvious disdain and put an end to my valiant and protective efforts with an icy stare.

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Decades passed, and I became a young and married man myself, with a lovely wife and two kids - a daughter aged 9, and a son aged 6.

History repeated itself one day, when I was almost finished hanging a newly painted nude. My son approached me with a shy grin, and I could feel the onset of déjà vu even before he started.

‘So, is she really…?’ My son’s shyness did not let him complete his question.

‘Yeah, buddy, she is really naked.’ I anticipated his question and answered while ruffling his hair. ‘But this is a piece of art. So we don’t call her naked. We call her a nude.’

‘What is a nude?’ He asked me, growing confident because of my amused smile.

‘Nude means she isn’t wearing any clothes.’ I explained. ‘And anyone who believes that she is wearing a cloak of invisible feathers is drastically wrong,’ I added for good measure.

‘Huh?’ My son looked confused, thought of commenting on something, but then dropped the idea and ran away.

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Incidentally, the very next day, a friend of my wife came over. I never liked her company as she had the most annoying habit of poking her poisonous and thorny nose into everyone else’s business.

‘Well, well, well, what do we have here?’ She strutted like an overly inquisitive hen to my painting, which was displayed in full glory in our living room.

From where I was standing, I could exactly witness her transformation. Her moral anguish manifested into a shudder, which started at the tip of her impossibly high bun, vibrated down her spine, and ended in a decisive shake of her ample behind.

‘Goddammit, what are you people doing?’ She proclaimed loudly, ‘You must not hang such pictures (pictures?) in your house. Your kids are so young, and pictures like this can easily corrupt their young minds.’

‘Please don’t worry. This is only a nude.’ Suddenly, my son answered, while bouncing up and down excitedly, and his shocking words rendered that awful woman speechless. ‘And this is not a picture. It is a painting.’

‘Bravo!’ I silently admired his courage and tried to laugh off the incident. On a side note, thankfully, that honest and timely revelation by my son made it the last day of our not-so-beautiful acquaintance with that terrible woman.

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All these incidents from the past make me think. Nudes aside, we, as a society of educated and globally aware Pakistanis, have zero tolerance. We cannot tolerate anything that is not consistent with our ideas on morality and appropriate social attitudes.

We walk around with rigid minds and stereotypes, and try to filter our world through these frameworks. This attitude is not restricted to any particular social group or religious sect. Each one of us is too self-important to see and respect a different perspective. Probably, our ability to accept others’ points of view has been successfully suppressed by decades of living within our own carapaces.

A veiled woman shies away from an uncovered woman and sees the devil in her. The modern woman, on the other hand, sees medieval tyranny and subjugation lurking within the dark folds of an abaya.

A religious zealot, and there are so many of them, cries to high heaven each time he comes across teens, dancing to popular tunes. And on the other end of the spectrum, our young generation sees a terrorist hiding behind each beard.

We are all self-appointed sheriffs, playing in a make-believe land of cowboys and Native Americans. But the land does not need so many sheriffs and a far more liberal sprinkling of cowboys.

This bizarre attitude has greatly disturbed our mental peace. It has also snatched away our ability to have guilt-free fun and enjoy the simple pleasures of life.

You might be window shopping with your better half and want to hold her hand in a rarely occurring tidal rush of romance. But you really don’t want to do that. Chances are that every Tom, Dick, and Harry will eye you suspiciously with wild dreams of skinning you alive. Not only men, but even women will look at you aghast. And if you are really unlucky, a policeman may approach and demand documentary proof of marriage. So at best, the romantic advances just have to be limited to occasional and secret brushing of fingers.

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The other day, a ‘pious’ colleague dramatically entered my office, in an aura of scandalous excitement. Grabbing a seat and placing his elbows on the table, he leaned forward.

‘Here comes another conspiracy theory,’ I thought and sighed, desperately trying to avoid the overpowering gusts of his perfume and praying, ‘Please don’t make it another 9/11 conspiracy.’

‘Know what Mr. X is up to these days?’ He asked. Mr. X is a bachelor colleague of ours and is popularly believed to be a delinquent of sorts.

‘No. Has he joined Al Qaeda?’ I asked him, but my barely concealed attempt at sarcasm smoothly slipped past his one-track mind.

‘Nope. He has started drinking.’ He whispered.

‘So?’ I was already losing interest.

‘So?’ He repeated my question in barely suppressed rage.

‘I mean, I have never seen him drunk.’ I said, trying my best not to aggravate him.

‘Nah, he drinks after office hours.’ He revealed in another whisper.

‘So why does this concern us?’ I retaliated. ‘You are a member of an extremist, religious outfit, but I have never brought it up. Only once, when you made a miserable attempt at recruiting me.’

‘Are you equating drinking alcohol with my religious affiliations?’ He asked while chewing his words deliberately.

‘Yes.’ I offered innocently.

Thereafter, all hell broke loose, and only my solid oak table saved me from the blind rage and murderous fury of that maniac. By the way, even after the passage of a few months, I still check under my car before leaving the office for hidden explosives.

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Pakistan, this wonderful land of ours, was created by our forefathers so that we could all live in peace and harmony irrespective of our religion and faith. Unfortunately, the mullahs digress, and the result of this digression has been a vicious circle.

An overdose of religion makes us judgmental and miserable. Therefore, we find so many faults with others around us. We cannot rectify those faults, and the circle completes when the frustration of failure fills our hearts with even more hateful misery. We are not living in a wonderful land. We are living in the ‘9th Circle of Hell’ and it is of our own making.

Each day, I observe hatred seeping into our society and poisoning our minds and those of our youngsters. In my humble opinion, we are not happy with what we are. Therefore, we are not happy with what others are. We are not comfortable with our tortured and twisted inner selves and thus we are not comfortable with our fellow beings.

Moreover, our peculiar brand of religion, coupled with the frustrations of a society rapidly going materialistic, has transformed us into being judgmental. Unfortunately, like a searchlight, our judgment illuminates only those around us, while leaving our own selves concealed in darkness. But luckily, it is not difficult to be happy.

We only have to replace critique with admiration. Learn to be comfortable with the naughty radical residing in our heart and appreciate his suggestions instead of stifling them. There is absolutely no need to notice what others are up to unless they are violating the boundaries of our personal freedom.

What is happening in Afghanistan under the Taliban is not only due to the constantly warring tribal factions and the absence of firm governmental control. Afghanistan is up in flames primarily because of the intolerance towards the centuries-old culture and a radical and forcibly imposed social change. The destruction of the Buddha statues in Bamyan and the killing of a large number of innocent women are not harbingers of an Islamic system of government, but are heralds of a dark age of intolerance.

Just like Afghanistan, Pakistan too is going through the most difficult time of its short history. We are badly confused about our national ideology. We cannot decide if we want to be religious or not. Our political system is inefficient. Our institutions are failing badly. We are in dire need of good governance, social justice, and improved literacy rates. And most importantly, our society definitely requires a revolution and a complete overhaul.

But before changing those around us, we need to change ourselves. We must transform our thinking and also our attitudes. Only tolerance can bring about this revolution, and nobody has explained tolerance better than Frederick Peris, who once said, ‘I do my thing and you do yours. I am not in this world to live up to your expectations, and you are not in this world to live up to mine.’