A Desperate Struggle for Freedom

Zahra couldn't help herself. She was fascinated by Timsar, her older sister's husband. Of course she made no outward sign to him, or anyone else in her family, but she secretly counted the hours to his return each time he went out.

She had been away from the village studying art when Farah had married Timsar and from her sister's letters had expected him to be a rather serious, boring man. But the first time she saw him she felt her heart pounding and drew her chador tighter in front of her and self consciously looked away.

Yet despite her feelings she still couldn't understand how she had not only been so stupid as to share Timsar's bed while Farah and her mother were at market but had also failed to hear their return in her ecstasy.

Of course it wasn't Timsor's fault. He was a man, while it was self evident that it must have been something she had said to him, or she had loosened her grip on her chador to make him aware of her femininity.

But Zahra still couldn't believe it when her own mother roughly hustled her into her bedroom and threw her a thick black chador to put on instead of the light one she was accustomed to.

'Why?' she pleaded.

'So it will not tear indecently when your stupid ugly skinny body is flogged' her mother coldly replied.

'But ...' stammered Zahra 'but you wouldn't flog me! Tell Farah I am ashamed and sorry. I shall leave and never return ...'

'The Provincial Court will pronounce the sentence, under the law it will certainly be flogging followed by death.' said her mother, angrily 'by stoning.'

Zahra suddenly remembered seeing, when she was about eight or nine, a woman tightly bound in black from head to toe being furiously whipped while strapped to a heavy chair then taken, barely conscious, to be buried up to her chest in a pit then bloodily despatched by a volley of heavy stones to her head.

'But mother! It's me, Zahra, your daughter. Just let me leave.'

'I have but one daughter now' her mother replied coldly. 'Her name is Farah.' With that she roughly pulled Zahra's light chador open and off her head. As it was slipped off her, revealing the bright sky blue dress she wore beneath, Zahra ran to the door. But, by the time she had pulled it open towards her, her mother had dropped both the cloaks and managed to grasp her by the left shoulder. However Zahra desperately pulled free, her dress tearing open at the shoulder.

The villagers stared aghast at her running past them down the dusty street. Two men set off in pursuit but hesitated, then turned back, only a quarter of a kilometre from the village because it might be thought indecent for them alone to be pursuing a half naked young woman.

Zahra hadn't considered which direction she was going. She soon stopped running, reducing her pace to a brisk walk which was easier on her already sore bare feet. She was heading towards the mountains, the stony track was gradually steepening. Looking around she satisfied herself no no-one was near before slipping out of the dress to sit at the side of the road naked apart from her panties while she carefully knotted the ripped fabric together so that it wouldn't slip off her left shoulder when she put it back on.

Once she had dressed again she considered her situation. She couldn't return to her own village now. Her best prospects lay with returning to the city and seeking help from her friends there, but that was over forty miles in the opposite direction. If she carried on in this direction she must soon come to another village. Perhaps she could hide nearby until dusk, then after dark she would be able to steal some more respectable garments, a chador and hijab and, perhaps, some shoes and some money.

Tired, hot and thirsty she trudged despondently on. She came upon a small village somewhat unexpectedly in a shallow dip after the road twisted between several rocky outcrops. Before she had time to take cover she was surrounded by half a dozen furious villagers.

The women pointed and screamed at her until an older man, who was apparently their Imam, held up his right hand for silence.

'You offend Allah with your indecency!' he said staring seriously at her.

A younger, strongly built, man walked slowly towards her then looked her up and down 'Allah did not make your flesh so pale and tender for you to offer it to the world.'

'Whore!' a woman spat at her.

The shouts 'Whore' and 'Devil' were repeated and Zahra's head was spinning with fear and exhaustion. In the city prostitutes were simply locked up for a few days, sometimes having husbands found for them. But here she feared these peasants might view whores in the same way as adulteresses or worse. She started shaking with terror and tiredness. But, in the city, foreigners were often excused failing to observe the dress codes and just asked to cover themselves, often even offered acceptable garments with which to cover themselves. In her confusion she suddenly blurted out 'I'm a visitor to your country' in what she hoped sounded like a foreign accent. To emphasize her claimed ignorance she added 'I'm a Christian!' but almost immediately had doubts as to whether that was wise.

The crowd fell into a shocked silence, many turning towards the Imam who stood calmly looking at her for several long seconds.

His silence as he contemplated her statement chilled her.

'Christians!' he spat.

'Christians are filth.' He paused. 'They are animals even dirtier than swine, than the wild pigs that come down from the hills and destroy our crops and bring pestilence to our village.'

After that outburst he seemed lost for words.

Several of the menfolk shuffled uneasily as the other peasants' eyes turned to them.

Finally one spoke 'We drive the swine back up into the mountains' then looked uncertainly at his companions.

'Or get the Ghaznavis to shoot them' said an older man rather queitly.

'Why don't we shoot them?' queried a youth, without taking his eyes off Zahra.

'Because we cannot touch the unclean carcasses to bury or remove them.' explained the first man.

Zahra felt that things were getting beyond her control and looked back at the Imam.

'Drive her off up into the mountains' spat an old woman.

'Yes!' shouted a younger man. 'Send her up to live with the rest of the pigs.

Zahra felt she had only one chance. 'Yes, drive me away. Send me back to the city from which I so unwisely strayed' she appealed directly to the Imam.

He looked from her to the small group of men. One coughed nervously.

Zahra sensed her chance slipping away. 'Please, servants of merciful Allah' she said, almost crying.

'Once up in the mountains we could shoot her' the youth suggested.

Zahra sank to her knees, sobbing.

'Drive her up into the hills!' the old woman persisted.

A stone struck the dry dusty ground inches from her, she saw a woman holding a stone in the air ready to hurl it. Seconds later yet another hit the side of her rib cage. A smaller pebble struck the back of her head. The crowd was now murmuring angrily. She got to her feet and ran. She needed to circle round the mob and head back downhill, but no matter how she twisted and turned they continued to force her uphill. With cold horror she realised three of the men were carrying ancient looking long barrelled rifles slung on their shoulders.

Several sharp stones had drawn blood, one cut just above her right eye particularly troubled her, she kept having to wipe the blood away with the back of her hand. Her thin dress was clinging to her back, damp with warm sweat from the baking afternoon sun while her open mouth was so dry with thirst that she couldn't spit out the dust she had breathed into it.

Unable to outflank her pursuers she could only try to outrun them up the steepening hill. But she was tired, hungry and thirsty. Her feet were painfully cut and bleeding and she stumbled and fell. She lay face down, exhausted and panting rapidly, but then feeling more sharp stones striking her calves and the small of her back, she struggled first onto her hands and knees, then back to her feet and she staggered on uphill.

With relief she realised that the light was fading and hoped they would soon give up their pursuit. As the red sun sank beneath the horizon the air cooled rapidly, the sweat soaking her dress adding to the chill.

As darkness fell she could only make out four or five men still following her. There was no moon, though the stars shone bright in the clear sky. She stopped and listened, she heard her tormentors nearby, looking back she could make them out standing still only about 30 metres away. She bent forward, hands on her knees trying to get her breath back. They came no closer but just stood motionless watching her.

After about five minutes Zahra wearily sat down. A few moments later two of the men also sat, still watching her. Shivering she pulled her knees up to her chin, but the cold clammy cloth of her dress stretched across her back then tore down from one of the rents made by a sharp stone thrown at her. Despite the dark one of the standing men noticed that and declared 'Look, the infidel is exposing even more of her evil flesh to tempt the devout sons of Mohammed!'

In disbelief she saw one of the men was raising his gun to his shoulder. Tears welled in her eyes but she kept her mouth determinedly shut, for when she spoke she only seemed to make things worse! As she heard a loud click she lost control of her bladder and soiled herself, her urine soaking the ground beneath her buttocks and feet.

Then she recognised the authoritative voice of the Imam, she hadn't realised he was still there, 'No! She is but an animal, an unclean swine. The offence to Allah is that she dares to wear, or try to wear' he added with a sneer, 'clothes at all.'

There was silence after that. A few minutes later she heard someone hacking at a clump scrubby trees slightly further down the hillside. A man returned bearing a couple of long sticks, a lot taller than him. He stood before her, alongside his companions and carefully sharpened

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THE END