The Fight To Freedom

A tribute to strong women...

When I got out of the car and took a look at the regal silhouette of the edifice before me, I smiled. It looked modern, much to the contrast of the people working in it.

"This is where I leave you. Don't worry madam. The process is fast and painless", said Ali in an assuring tone with a pleasant smile. "Thank you Ali", I said, returning the polite smile.

Ali was a modern man. he was opposed to the traditions of his country, despite his gender being the superior one. He felt sad for me, and was under the impression that I was scared, despite my calm exterior. Over the past few days, since 'it' happened, I met several men like Ali; men with a modern mind, against the age-old traditions of their own country, and yet too cowardly to resist these practices. All these men could do was offer sad smiles, and I had received plenty of those over the past few days.

Just as Ali was leaving with the car, two guards ran towards me. They harshly pushed me towards the building. They did not bother to shackle me. Escape was impossible, and it wasn't something that I was planning on.

I was merely twenty when I met him. He was five years older to me. The first thing of his that captured me was his dimpled smile. I remember the first time I spoke to him, I stuttered as I was distracted by his charm, making an utter fool of myself. He, however, did not seem to think so.

The building would almost pass as an office, if not for the large letters painted on the arch in front of the building. Though I could not read, I knew what it said: Pashtun Central Jail. I was attacked by a blast of cold air when I entered it.

We married just three years later. Of course, we had to elope and marry in secrecy since his wealthy family would never approve of a poor, uneducated girl like me. It is a source of oddity to me that even after everything, I still do not regret my marriage to him. 

The guards led me down a well lit passage. I pretended not to notice the stares of the other guards or the occupants of the cells. I examined some of the empty cells as I walked past them. They were small, dirty and empty except for a small cot and an open lavatory. I was filled, strangely, with both despondency and relief when I thought about the fact that I would not be spending a day in these cells. 

It was during the third year of our marriage that things began changing. He no longer took me out on the weekends to the cinema, surprised me when he returned from work with a chain or some flowers, or blew me kisses as he got into his car every morning to leave for work. He no longer appreciated my cooking. He stopped acknowledging me.

We reached the end of the passage to a door. One of the guards opened the door and led me inside. Or rather, outside, since we entered a rectangular courtyard.

The first slap was something I still remembered. It was a Friday night. I hadn't cleaned the dal very well and unfortunately, a stone had lodged itself in his teeth as he was eating, prompting him to slap me. I cried myself to sleep that night.

Six months later, the slaps had become a routine. They were now accompanied by kicks in the gut, whacks on the back and smacks with the belt. Sometimes, he banged my head to the wall. Occasionally, he pulled my hair so hard that large patches of it would come off, replaced by blood and raw skin. He even locked me outside the house several times. it became especially difficult during winter, when I was bereft of even a blanket, resulting in a troublesome night. I was no longer his wife, his lover, but merely a pawn to vent his anger out on. Soon, it grew to be too much.

The first thing I noticed in the courtyard was the loop of rope hung to the pole. A few feet underneath the loop was a stool. Then I saw a small group of people, all men, standing close the loop. These men would oversee my execution. There was also a doctor among them.

It was on a Saturday, two weeks ago, when I first resisted his beatings, putting a hand up to block his slap. At first, he was shocked. Then, he went upstairs. I assumed he was getting the belt, but when he came down, he pulled a gun on me. For a moment, my whole life with him flashed before me, the life before we were married, the life when we were hopelessly in love with each other.

The next moment, I drove the chopping knife lying on the table next to me into him. Oddly, I felt satisfied and content.

One of the men helped me climb the stool. I positioned my head inside the loop of rope. "Close your eyes, Hamshira. It will be easier", he whispered. There he was, another 'modern man'. 

I did as he told. The last thing that I pictured was his dimpled smile right before the man kicked the stool underneath me.

Author's Note

This is my first story on the site. Thanks for reading. Do I need to refine my language?

Reviews

[Sandra Nair]

nice one..keep going.

Please do join : http://www.writerscafe.org/groups/LOVE-OUR-DAUGHTERS/12323/

Wishes,
Sandra.