Benafsha had her head between her knees. Shekib couldn’t tell if she was awake or asleep.
“What do you think they’re going to do with us?” Shekib asked quietly.
Benafsha shoulders lifted and fell with a deep breath.
“How long do you think we’ll have to be in here?”
Benafsha looked up. Her eyes were flat with resignation. “You really don’t know?”
Shekib shook her head.
“When the crime is adultery, the punishment is sangsaar. I will be stoned.”
CHAPTER 43. RAHIMA
The large auditorium, a room larger than any I’d ever seen, held hundreds of parliamentarians. Their chairs were arranged in rows that went from one side of the room to the other, leather chairs behind a row of desks. Each member had a microphone and a bottle of water.
Badriya’s and mine sat in the center of the room, sharing our row with Hamida and Sufia. In the front of the room sat a man with a neatly trimmed mustache and salt-and-pepper hair. He listened, nodding his head from time to time.
The men intimidated me. Some of them were my husband’s age, gray haired with beards that nearly touched their chests. Others were younger, their faces shaved and their clothes different from what the men in my village wore. Pants, button-down shirts, jackets.
As we broke for lunch during the first week, Hamida had asked me what I thought so far. I was nervous to tell her, afraid I would sound stupid. And I worried that if they saw me reading and writing, they would realize how basic my knowledge was.
“They come from where?” I asked, astounded by the accents I was hearing.
“What do you mean?” She looked to see where I was pointing.
“I mean, I’ve never seen men dressed like… dressed like that.” I pointed with my head to a man wearing brown pants and a military-style vest over a white shirt.
“That’s what you’ll see in Kabul, Rahima-jan,” Hamida said, proudly. “This parliament is where every corner of Afghanistan comes together.”
“Comes together?” Sufia scoffed. “More like this is where Afghanistan comes apart!”
Hamida laughed. A man one row away turned around and shot her a look. He shook his head and leaned over to mutter something to the man seated next to him, sharing his disapproval.
The session was called to order. Rahima tried to look around without anyone noticing. Badriya picked up a pen and held it to the blank paper before her as she watched the speaker. She was playing the part.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the matter of the president’s cabinet members will now be introduced. Seven people have been nominated by the president. It is up to this parliament to approve or reject the nominations.”
“Badriya, are we going to see the president?” I whispered. It was hard to believe I might come face-to-face with our nation’s most powerful man.
“No, you fool! This is the parliament. He does his work and we do ours! Why should he come here?”
“We’ll talk about the candidates one by one. I’ll call on you to ask whatever questions you may have. We need to decide if these individuals are suited for the job. And if they’ll help take our country in the right direction. First up is Ashrafullah Fawzali, nominated for position of minister of justice.”
The speaker went on to talk about Fawzali’s background, his home province and his role in training the police force.
A woman parliamentarian sat in the seat beside me. I heard her huff, frustrated. I watched her from the corner of my eye, slouched back in her chair and shaking her head. As the candidates’ virtues and experience were extolled by a man who had taken the floor, she became more and more displeased, fidgeting in her seat and tapping her pen.
The next candidate was introduced, someone equally distressing to her. She raised her hand to speak but the director looked past her. She waved her hand more dramatically.
“Excuse me, but I would like to say something about this candidate,” she said, leaning forward and speaking into her microphone. “Excuse me!”
“Khanum, the time for the discussion of this candidate is up. We’re getting close to ending today’s session. Thank you all, please return for tomorrow’s voting. The parliament is dismissed.”
“Of course it is! God forbid we actually talk about these candidates!” the woman hissed.
“Who is she?” I asked Badriya.
“The one next to you? Oh, that’s Zamarud Barakati. She’s trouble. Make sure you stay away from her,” Badriya leaned forward to tell me. “She’s one of those you don’t want to get mixed up with.”
“Why? What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s a troublemaker. You see what she did today? Always interrupting things. That woman’s lucky they haven’t condemned her to sangsaar.”
Stoning. I shuddered and thought of Bibi Shekiba.
As far as I had seen, Zamarud hadn’t done anything that several other parliamentarians hadn’t done. Just like the men, she had raised her hand and asked to speak. But I could see many people didn’t appreciate hearing from her. Several men had rolled their eyes or waved their hand in annoyance to hear her ask for the floor’s attention.
“She pushes her ideas too much. People don’t want to listen to her all the time.” We were walking out the security checkpoint by this time. Our driver saw us coming and went to turn the car on. Our guard was already with him. Zamarud walked angrily past us, her own security guards struggling to keep up.
She reminded me of Khala Shaima, the only woman I’d known who would speak up to men outside her own family. I wondered what Khala Shaima would have thought of Zamarud. Picturing the two of them in the same room made me smile. They could have the entire parliament up in arms.
But what I saw in that first day was just the beginning. The parliament was a fiery mix of personalities and politics. There were so many women there, but only a few of them spoke during the sessions. And there was only one Zamarud.
As the discussion of the cabinet nominations went on, Zamarud became more and more agitated. She was given opportunity to speak and took the floor like a storm, questioning the intentions and honesty of the candidates. She implied that the candidates had been chosen for reasons other than their qualifications, since one was the president’s brother-in-law while another was the president’s childhood friend. And there was no diversity, she said critically. They were all from one sect of the Afghan population. Afghanistan needed to represent all of its many colors, Zamarud insisted, or it would fall apart. Again.
On the fifth day of sessions, we took our seats. I missed my son more today and saw his round cheeks and almond eyes when I closed my eyes. I wondered if he was walking at this moment, one hand tightly gripping Jameela’s. I wanted to hear his voice, the tiny sound of “maada”; he was still unable to roll his tongue to produce the proper “madar.”
Zamarud’s voice brought me back.
“It’s imperative that we think of the future of this country. We Afghans have become complacent, letting almost anyone take on these positions of power and influence. Let’s think about it carefully and then decide.”
“Khanum, I believe it would be wise for you to consider before you speak. There are many people here and you’re not thinking—”
“I’m not thinking? I’m thinking about it a great deal! It’s you and the rest of you that need to start thinking. I’m going to speak my mind right now.”
Badriya looked over at me. Waves of anger were rippling through the room. The men were leaning over and complaining to their neighbors. Hamida and Sufia looked over at Zamarud nervously.