The Secret Sky: A Novel of Forbidden Love in Afghanistan by Atia Abawi

Author:Atia Abawi [Abawi, Atia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2014-09-02T00:00:00+00:00

Eighteen

RASHID

I can’t believe my uncle. He slapped me . . . me! He should be beating his son for the shame he brought on our family, but instead he hit me for shaming him in front of the peasants. He never laid a finger on his precious Sami. He did let my grandfather beat my snake of a cousin, but then he acted as if that’s all that had to be done. He is wrong. So now it’s up to me. Sami needs to be punished. His whore needs to be punished too. I know I’m right. If other boys and girls see them getting away with their actions, they’ll think it’s okay. Our society will change. God’s laws will mean nothing.

I walk up to the lime-colored house, still annoyed that it has taken me three days to convince the morons I’ve been traveling around with to set up a time for me to speak with Mullah Latif directly. I’ve bounced from one imbecile to another, all picking their teeth and being as unhelpful as possible, wanting to know my issue before I speak with the mullah.

“I can’t tell you first,” I told them all, “but if you don’t let me speak with the mullah saib, it will be you who burn with regret.”

Some may have considered it smug, but I don’t care what they think. Before long, they will be polishing my shoes. The lower-ranked thugs scrambled about, scared of the possible consequences, but the higher up the chain I went, the angrier they got with that answer. Everyone is trying to assert their power over me because they see me as a child. What they don’t realize yet is that I understand God’s word more than all of them combined, and I care more about spreading his message. I hope that Mullah Latif will see that too. I can’t wait until I am rewarded and start spitting orders at them, whipping them into shape. They’ve done nothing to help our cause but lie around like cows. I’m the one going out and finding infidels. I’m the one who will even sacrifice my own family’s sinners to follow the righteous path.

I make my way into the absurdly large home after being let through by the guards. And although the house already looks run-down, from its structure, I can tell it was built in recent years. This is the new Afghan architecture borrowed from the Afghans who lived for many years across the border in Pakistan. Some have labeled them the narcotic mansions because most have been built with drug money. But I call them Peshawari palaces, because I’m told that’s the Pakistani city the design comes from.

When I make it through the entrance, I get a big whiff of the scent of too many men. The smell is a combination of body odor, dirty socks and backed-up toilets. The interior of the home looks as dilapidated as the exterior. I’m escorted up a marble staircase with stained, chipped stones and am told to wait as my escort sends a text message.

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