On Rakhi, sharing a story written by a 13-year old. Please spare a thought for the many children, brothers and sisters who live and die unloved and uncelebrated, and be grateful for whatever freedoms we have... ~~~ Ten Minutes to Live I sit among the cheering crowd, watching men jeer and children clap in joy as they watch the soccer match at the Ghazi stadium. Any other day, I would have been the luckiest woman in Afghanistan to be let inside a stadium full of men. But today, I am here only till the half time of the match. I have merely ten minutes until then. Ten minutes to live…ten minutes to breathe my last. I don’t know what to do in these last moments of my life. A prayer to Allah seems like an appeasing thought, but I do not know what to pray for. Pray for what? My life? I know that I‘ll die today. No one can save me, and all those who could, have left me to the mercy of the Taliban. Yes, the Taliban – the people who call themselves the soldiers of Allah but rarely see reason beyond their understanding. I look around me to see if someone will suffer the same fate as me. Fortunately, there are none. Today, it is only me who will be punished. Punished, for being a woman, punished for the sins I have committed, punished for talking to a man without veiling my face. Today, the guilty would be punished, and in front of everyone so that no one dares repeat it. Today, I will be punished for something that is a crime for the women of my land. Whether my actions are a sin in the eyes of Allah is what I will never know. Is talking to a childhood friend with your face unveiled, a sin? No, perhaps not a sin, but surely a crime. My crime was simple – I had spoken and laughed with another man, in spite of being married and that too with my face unveiled. My punishment would be even simpler – I would be stoned until my last breath faded away. I fail to understand my husband’s lack of trust in me. “I will be the happiest man to see this shameless lady being stoned”, he’d said with a disgusted expression on his face. My father had said the same thing, just added a few more words of criticism. I expected nothing better because I knew he would end up being beaten himself if he bothered to save me. What I had not expected was that my husband would volunteer to be the one to stone me to death. According to him, it would have still been acceptable if I had just spoken to my friend, but what I should not have done was reveal my face to him. The solitary claim on my face rested with my family and by giving it away, I had lowered their dignity incomparably. The crowd’s cheers and claps break my reverie. The match has reached its half time. Two Taliban guards walk up to me and tell me that it’s time. I can feel the wild throbbing of my pulse. My heart isn’t under control. Finally, I feel the fear of death. I can feel myself being engulfed in its darkness. I walk towards my doomed end. There is deafening silence all around. So much that it hurts my eardrums. I hear many gasps from people all around me. I can hear my name being spoken on the speakers. They are acknowledging each one of my deeds. I fixate my gaze at the ground and walk. Finally, I reach the stadium grounds. I shift my gaze to look ahead. There he is, standing a little farther away beside a heap of stones. These are the stones which are meant for me. Tears well up in my eyes but I fight back. There stands my husband waiting to push me into the depths of death. I keep walking. I feel my hands shaking. The guard behind me tells me to stop. My legs freeze abruptly. Somebody hastily puts the black ‘death cloth’ over my face. There is darkness all around me. It is terrifying. I can only hear soft mumbles; my eyes desperately search for a ray of light. And then it starts. My body feels the impact of the first stone… Then the second and so it continues. I can hear everyone shout ‘Allah-U- Akbar’. My body is numb with pain now. I don’t know for how long I can endure. Now… my heart desires to pray. I want to be taken away as soon as possible. There is too much to bear. A stone hits my head. I can feel the blood trickling down my forehead. My head is throbbing…it hurts. My knees give away and I drop to the ground. I don’t feel stones anymore. Am I dead? No, I can still feel the pain. Did they forgive me? No, they never forgive. I feel someone picking up my hand to feel the pulse. “Still alive”, the man shouts. And it starts again. Endlessly, one after the other. Another stone hits my head. Everything seems to be swirling. I am approaching darkness. I can see it reaching out to me. “Forgive me Allah”, is all I manage to mumble before everything turns black… By - The Girl Who Always Smiled * * * * * Thanks Abhijit Chakraborty for the share.
Posted on: Wed, 21 Aug 2013 06:54:55 +0000