“The editorial,” General Zia said, then paused. “The editorial is very unfortunate. I don’t mind personal insults, but somebody is trying to malign our friendship. Somebody is trying to undermine all the good work we have done together.”
“It’s probably a bunch of liberal op-ed writers on a lean news day, Mr President. I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”
“It could jeopardise our chances for the Nobel, you see. I was hoping we would receive it together.” There was a moment’s silence at the other end. “For liberating Afghanistan,” he added, and thought this Arnie chap wasn’t very bright.
“We can discuss it at the party, Mr President, I hope you will be able to come.”
General Zia realised that a statement blaming the Jewish press and talking to the US ambassador would not solve the Blind Zainab problem when yet another group of women staged a protest in Islamabad the next day. “All rich begums,” the Information Minister told him. “More chauffeurs than protesters.”
When confronted with a legal dilemma like this, General Zia always picked up the phone and called ninety-year-old Qadi, his man in Mecca who had retired as a judge of the Saudi Sharia Court thirty years ago and since then had never missed a prayer in Khana Kaaba. The man practically lived in the House of God.
The phone call started, like it always did, with the General expressing his desire to die while on a pilgrimage to Mecca and to be buried at Qadi’s feet. Qadi assured him that Allah would grant him his wish and enquired about the purpose of this phone call.
“With your blessings I have introduced the new laws in Pakistan and by the grace of Allah hundreds of sinners have already been convicted: we have two hundred thieves waiting for their hands to be amputated, thousands of drunkards have been lashed in public.”
“Allah may help you, Allah may help you,” Qadi kept muttering.
“We have just had a death-by-stoning sentence passed and I was calling about that.” General Zia didn’t want to mention Zainab’s name.
“Real test, my birather. A real test.” Ninety-year-old Qadi’s voice was suddenly booming over the phone. “Our rulers of this Saudi kingdom, may their rule last till the Judgement Day, they don’t have courage for this. They like to make easy on everyone’s eyes; chop, chop after Friday prayers and everyone goes home happy. They not only chop the head off the criminal, they kill the spirit of law. People just become spectators. Adultery is a crime against society and people must carry out the punishment themselves. You cannot pass the responsibility onto some hired executioner and think you have done Allah’s work.”
“Yes, Qadi, I wanted your guidance on this matter: what happens if the accused says that she was forced to fornicate? How do we establish whether she is telling the truth? I mean, sometimes you can look at a woman’s face and tell that she is a fornicator, but we need legal procedures to establish it.”
Qadi spoke as if he had thought about this for a long time. “Women always make this excuse after they are caught fornicating, but we all know that rape is not easy to commit. The perpetrator will need at least four accomplices. There will have to be two men holding her by her arms, two pinning down her legs and then the fifth one between her legs, committing the act. So the answer is yes, a woman can be raped and it’s a serious crime.”
“So the woman will be required to recognise all five culprits in the court?” Zia asked.
“Our law, you know, is not set in stone, it encourages us to use our common sense. So the two men who are holding her down by her arms, maybe the woman would not be able to recognise those two and the judge can make an exception.”
“And what if she didn’t see any of the culprits? What if they were wearing masks?”
General Zia could tell the old man was suddenly angry.
“Why would a rapist wear a mask? Is he a bank robber? Bank robbers wear masks. Kidnappers wear masks. I have never heard of a rapist wearing a mask in my forty years as a judge.”
General Zia felt stupid as Qadi continued, this time in a cold, admonishing, teacher-like voice. “Rapists like to see their own reflection in the woman’s eyes. That is one reason they’d never wear masks,” said Qadi.
“And what if the woman in question was blind?” General Zia asked.
Qadi clearly didn’t get General Zia’s drift.
“Do you mean morally blind or someone who Allah has not given the physical powers to see?”
“Blind. A woman who can’t see.”
“The law doesn’t differentiate between those who can see and those who can’t. Let’s assume for the sake of legal argument that the rapist was blind in this case, would he be entitled to any special privilege? So the victim, blind or not, is entitled to the same scrutiny, same rights.”
“How will she recognise her rapists and the other people who held her down?”
“It can be done in two ways: if she is married, her husband will have to establish in the court that she is of good character and then we’ll need four male Muslims of sound character who have witnessed the crime. And since rape is a very serious crime, circumstantial evidence wouldn’t do. ‘We heard screams and we saw blood and we heard the man hitting her’ is not enough evidence; witnesses will be required to have witnessed the actual penetration. And if the woman is not married she’ll have to prove that she was a virgin before this horrible crime was committed.”
General Zia felt much better by dinner time. He had already passed Qadi’s legal advice to his Chief Justice and was now composing a speech in his head that he would ask the First Lady to deliver at the annual charity bazaar of the All Pakistan Professional Women’s Association. He tried to test some of the arguments on the First Lady after reminding her of her promise to carry out her state duties. She listened silently at first, but when he reached the part about the victim having to establish her virginity the First Lady interrupted him.
“Are you talking about Blind Zainab’s case?”
“Well, yes, but basically we are trying to establish a legal precedent that will safeguard women’s honour. All women’s honour.”
“I don’t know anything about the law and I’ll make this speech if that’s what the law says.” The First Lady pushed her plate away. “But how is this woman supposed to prove that she is a virgin if a bunch of men banged her for three days and three nights?”
FIFTEEN
I follow the chicken korma smell and crawl my way towards the door. I pick up the plate and put it back. It’s hot. I suddenly feel very hungry. I sit down with my back against the door and start to eat. My world is reduced to the tender chicken flesh dripping with creamy curry. Even the bitter whole spices that get stuck in my teeth seem like portents of a prosperous, free future. I have only finished half my plate when the brick is pushed out. I take my plate to the hole and remove the brick.
“I wanted to check they have given you food because sometimes they like to starve the newcomers. You can share mine. Lentil soup garnished with gravel and fifty-fifty bread that is half flour and half sand. Your military chefs are very consistent. I have received the same food for nine years.”
I feel the guilt that the privileged prisoners must feel. I put my plate aside. “No. They have given me food.”
We sit in silence for a while. The absence of any prospects of freedom in the near future hangs heavy in the air. Suddenly this plate of rich, hot food seems like the promise of a long sentence. I feel the walls of this dungeon closing in on me.
“Did your strike work then?” I am desperate for conversation about anything that is not the quality of food or the texture of darkness in this part of the Fort.