This story has a lot of truth in itself. It got second prize in a global level short-story writing competition and I can closely relate with the events here. Read it with a strong heart.
I am proud to be protective of women, whatever the hell the world thinks of them. A woman is termed as un-understood (forgive me for semantics) creature. I believe it is men who lack the understanding of more sensitive things around themselves.
I am not a feminist, nor a womanizer. But I do believe in equality of all around me. Read on.... :-
“Come away, Nura. This is no place for a woman.”
My brother, Kahlil, nudges my elbow, as we stand in the heat and dust of the town square. I sweat under my black abaaya. It’s the middle of May, already hot, with few palm trees here for shelter. In June, my husband, Abdul, will drive us to the mountains of Taif to escape the heat of Riyadh. I once looked forward to it. But not any more. My heart is too full of grief.
Kahlil lays a hand on my shoulder, his eyes pleading. “It’ll be a rough business, Nura. Think about it. They’ll drag her in, shackled, and force her to her knees while the mob looks on and taunts.” He lifts his eyebrows. “You can cope with that, you, her mother?”
I feel a great lump rise to my throat and stick there. “I want just one glance at her face,” I murmur. “One last glance at my beautiful Sara, before ...”
I swallow, my words choked in despair.
My brother’s eyes glisten with sympathy. He is a kind man. Beneath that wiry beard and massive frame, he’s gentle and caring, not arrogant or scornful of women, like so many Saudi men. But he’s not Saudi. He’s Kuwaiti, like me. It was good of him to drive me here today. In this country, we women are not allowed to drive.
But he’s shuffling his feet now, anxious to go. “Why upset yourself further?” he argues. “Why not grieve at home, with Abdul?”
I taste bitterness in my mouth. “With Abdul? With my husband? Why do you think he refused to bring me here himself today?”
My voice hardens. “Because he’s choking on his guilt, that’s why. Because it was he who demanded her execution. His own daughter.”
A flame of anger shoots up inside me. “Even if she were guilty, the penalty is flogging, not stoning. But Abdul’s not content with that. He’s like a maddened bull and insists on death. ‘For the family honour,’ he shouts, thumping the table. And the mutawa support him for his moral convictions.”
I give a snort. “Moral convictions? The child’s innocent. Even Abdul must realise that by now. But he can’t lose face. He must defend the family honour.” I spit out the words.
Kahlil, as always, trying to see the other side, strokes his beard. “Innocent or not, Nura, they found her guilty in the Shari’a court.” He flings up his arms. “She had sex with five young men, remember! Begged them for it, they said. If that’s true, it’s shocking – a crime of Hudud. No wonder Abdul was mad.”
“And what punishment do the men get, Khalil? A lecture from Father, with their promise not to do it again?” I hear my voice grow shrill. “Those boys raped her, while the rest of us were away. They were high on drugs, smuggled in from abroad, no doubt. And your nephew, Hadi, after promising to protect her, did nothing.”
“But why?”
“Why? Because he was high on drugs too. They raped her, Kahlil, and made her pregnant. A girl of thirteen. Begging for sex? She’d only just been veiled. She knew nothing about such things.”
I see lines of doubt crease his forehead. “How do you know they were taking drugs?”
“Jane told us, our Filipino maid. She caught them with American magazines too – you can guess the sort – then found Sara crying and screaming.”
My voice trembles at the memory. I bite my lip till it bleeds. “You know the rest – the hospital visit, the phone call to the police, the lies...”
My stomach churns. “The boys denied everything, of course. Hid their drugs. Had their story all prepared. And Abdul believed them, as did the court. Who would take a woman’s word against a man’s?”
Kahlil shakes his head. “I still don’t see there’s any proof of rape.”
I click my tongue. What do I expect? Men stick up for each other, even a man like Khalil. There must be witnesses to rape. A woman’s word counts for nothing.
Disappointed with Khalil, I push him away. “Don’t touch me. You’ll have the mutawa arresting us for lewdness.”
I glance around me. Noon prayers are over, and more people are joining the crowd, restless, impatient for spectacle, getting angry in the hot sun. They are mostly men, young thugs, laughing, jostling each other, keen for the fun to begin. I see older men too, stern-faced men of Allah. But some of them, I know, take trips abroad and buy girls of nine or ten for their pleasure, paying their parents a few riyals for the privilege.
And here they are, ready to punish my daughter for fornication. They’ll seize the largest stones from the pile and push forward to the front, so they can meet their aim with ease. I’m told it can take two hours before it ends.
A stirring in the crowd disrupts my thoughts. The truck has appeared, with men emptying rocks and stones in a pile. I shut my eyes. My brother was right. I should never have come. But I have to see my child. Who else will show her support? I want to give a sign of my belief in her, hold out my hands in compassion. Then I will find some quiet corner and pray to Allah to punish those who sent her to her death.
I shiver in the heat as I remember that she gave birth just hours ago. A girl. The mutawa and police will be guarding the ward’s entrance, so no one can help her escape. Bound and shackled, she’ll be brought here to die, still weak from giving birth.
And the time is come. My heart plunges to my stomach as I see a police car arrive at the square and grind to a halt. The crowd moves forward, curious, eager. Trembling, I watch the police officers pull my child from the car and drag her to the far end of the square.
“Let’s go. You’ve seen enough.” Kahlil taps my shoulder.
I pay no heed. I throw out my arms and push my way to the front. “Sara, my child,” I gasp.
I see her shackled, unveiled, her head drooped over her chest. She looks half-dead as they force her to her knees on the ground.
I move my lips in desperate prayer. “Oh, Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, save my poor, innocent daughter! And punish those who sent her to her death!”
I lift my veil. It is forbidden, but I must see clearly my child’s face. Those close by nudge each other, titter and peer at me. I don’t care. Let them. Let the mutawa come and arrest me.
“Cover your face, woman,” someone in the crowd hisses.
My brother comes and clutches at my elbow. “Nura, Nura, the mutawa are watching.”
“To hell with the mutawa!” I push further forward. “Sara. Look up, Sara, I’m here, with you. See.” I stretch out my arms.
I believe she hears me. She lifts her head. I see her lips move, the pleading, the terror in her eyes. At last, she looks at me, a dead, despairing look.
I wring my hands, my eyes stung with tears. I feel her pain, her fear, her helplessness before this mob. Yet, I can do nothing. My breath comes out in deep, gulping sobs as I fall forward to the front of the crowd.
The men there shove me back. “Where’s this woman’s husband?” one demands. Another yells into my face, “Stop screeching, woman. The girl’s a whore. She deserves all she gets.”
I face them, fists clenched, their voices almost drowned out by the pounding in my head. I become a wild creature, ready to spit and claw at their faces. “She’s no whore,” I scream.
“Leave her be, you ruffians, you low-born dogs!”
They gape at me and back away, astonished at my insolence. But at this moment, I don’t care what I say, or do. Let them kill me, if they must.
Before more damage can be done, Kahlil charges over and grabs my arm.
I take one last look at my daughter’s face, before they place a gag in her mouth and fasten the hood around her head. Then I drop my veil and turn away.
Suddenly, my rage is spent. A deadly calm sweeps over me.
I hear a man call for quiet. He reads out Sara’s crime then announces the start of the execution. There is a rush to the pile of stones. Khalil tries to drag me away, but I shake him off. There is one more thing I have to do.
Sweat and dust fill my nostrils as I elbow my way through the crowd pushing towards the pile of stones. I choose a jagged piece of rock and hide it under my abaaya. It feels rough and unrelenting in my hands. That done, I hasten with my brother towards the car park.
My mind is made up. When we get home, I shall carry the rock to the marriage-bed and slide it under the sheets. “Sleep with that, Abdul,” I’ll say, “for I’ll never come to your bed again. That stone is like my heart, as hard and cold as my wifely love.” Later, I shall leave him and go to my mother in Kuwait. I know where the passports are kept. And I know how to forge my husband’s signature for the letter of permission I’ll need to travel. I shan’t miss him or my spoilt, shiftless son. I renounce them both.
We arrive. I thank Khalil for his support and walk through the iron gates into my husband’s house. I want to relieve myself of the heavy stone, but I’m startled by a noise coming from Abdul’s study. I stop to listen, then make my way there.
The door is ajar. And there is Abdul, slumped over his desk, hands resting on his head. A bottle of whiskey, from the black market, stands, half-empty, beside him. He is letting out drunken, snorting sobs.
My mouth hangs open. A twinge of pity touches my heart. “Abdul, you are grieving about Sara?”
He looks up, stupefied. “About Sara? My shameless daughter?” He slaps his hand on the desk. “No!” His voice breaks. “It’s my son I grieve for, my Hadi.”
“Hadi?”
“Yes. Hadi. The police found him, with drugs in his pocket. I can’t believe it. He’ll go to prison, or get eighty lashes.” He lays his head on the desk. “Oh my son, my treasured son.” His shoulders heave under silent sobs. “How can I renounce my son?”
“You renounced your daughter. Where were your tears for her?” I feel again that flame of fury shooting up inside me. He has not a grain of pity to spare his daughter.
I think of her dying in the square, despair in her eyes, the cruel gag forced into her mouth. I see again the jeering youths, thrusting their hands into the pile of stones, hear them laughing and yelling in my face.
The mental picture reminds me of the rock I’m holding under my abaaya.
Like one in a trance, I draw it out, step behind Abdul and, with all my strength, bring it crashing down on his head. He utters a cry. A spasm passes between his shoulder-blades. I pay no heed, but strike again and again, until the skull cracks and the blood spurts out – until he is still, and there is silence.
