Departed Honour

A little girl witnessing her elder sister's death

I am called Esha, and at age ten,
lived I in a village under the mountains " 
under the heat and the hills
engraved far beneath the 
underdeveloped 
Middle East.

Shadows concealed
my hiding place, under the table, I
witnessed the torment and torture
that would, no doubt, go unpunished by
the law " 
for normality; to us. and them. and all.  

So the villagers, government and others above
sealed their lips; kept dead silent at these 
cruelties, 
for it was not of their concern, 
so released they, not one peep.

But whispered? oh, how they did!
when darkness surrounded, through night’s obscurity
in their mud huts, straw roofs and hand-crafted doors.
the whispers passed, from one mouth to more
from another to a heart, but to no ears abroad.

Words sprouted wings as whispers
now traveled to each household
to plague our minds; the horrific truth savoured.

Gossip " spread in swiftness
always the same plot
his pleasure, her torture
his rage, her death
but characters altered;
and the shame grew.
on it went and on it went
for decades and centuries

until one day, 
hearts desensitized.

Sister crouched, shielding
from Father
hurt, betrayed,
his honour, his pride, his name
obliterated in disdain.
I saw neither faces
but I needed not to see
Father grasping tightly a belt, choking
cold murderous hands
swinging down viciously; she yelped
whimpered, squealed.

screamed. the belt whipped the air
shrieked. it slapped a layer
of skin that was sinfully
touched.

Fear struck, frozen in shame.
Father drew closer
she turned blue and I felt a shiver
her eye caught mine
in darkness, for an instant her
shrilling seized.
Silence.

He struck her back
Whip! Whip! Whip! Whip! 
Sweat formed; his movements slowed
his breathing, heavy; his body, exhausted.
But a glance at Sister
refueled his anger;
the rage, a submitter
of her soul, as we wept;
direct to death’s door
step.

lifeless in a fetal position
the circle of life it seemed like maybe
she was dead with a hand,
resting on her belly
on her bump, holding her baby.

The end. Father breathless,
hands raw, red from constant gripping
choking
Sister still, drenched in a pool of blood and tears
and bloody tears
a hand over her stomach, guarding
her unborn child.

I was paralyzed; traumatized
when Father passed by
his aura threatening
me, to follow her and commit
her sins
knowing I 
witnessed Sister’s demise.

his eyes focused ahead
proud and smug; here, the gloating began
because he was the 
hero
to them. Fathers in situations the same
with daughters engaging in activities
condemned.

An ambulance arrived minutes later
placed on stand-by
Father hired them to cater
after my Sister died
Homicide. 

They carried her out
an old-fashioned stretcher, a white cloth
beginning to soak in the red
Remembered I, then, cousins speaking
witnessed I had, just, an honour killing.

Honour. Killing.
One word betrays the other.
Our honour like her corpse, he tossed.
To kill to save one’s honour 
is how humanity is lost.

I tell you this,
but my courage runs not deep,
and my voice, not strong,
so I beg thee to question Father
and help him understand his wrongs.
How has our honour been preserved through murder
of his pride, the eldest of his daughter?
Tell him he has failed and
morality could not be seized,
because beside my dear Sister,
now lies our family’s honour in peace.

Reviews

[Marie]

I had to read this twice before I understood it fully. It's very good. Look at the last two lines. Do you want to say "...besides my dear Sister," or "...beside my dear Sister,"?