“They said around one o’clock. Shouldn’t be much longer. Just look at this crowd! All these people here to see our Queen Soraya!”
Shekiba held Shah’s hand tightly, her eyes scanning the stage for any sign of Amanullah. She wondered what he looked like now. It had been years since she last saw him.
Stupid, she told herself. Look at this crowd. How could you have thought you were suited for something like this, that you could be worthy of taking that stage, of appearing before all these people!
Shekiba adjusted her veil and leaned over to give Shah a handful of nuts to snack on. She’d been unable to stomach much food in the past few weeks and even the woody smell of roasted almonds turned her nose, a smell she’d never before even noticed.
Little Shah was happily entertained by the many faces, the man selling vegetables from his wooden cart, the children holding their mothers’ hands. He did not mind that they had been standing around for over an hour, nor did he notice the number of stares his mother’s face attracted. Shekiba kept her veil draped over the left half of her face and averted her gaze when she saw curious eyes. Shah was seven years old now and wise enough to detect stares and whispers. She did not want her son to feel embarrassed by her.
Gulnaz and Shabnam were at home. Gulnaz was not happy that Shekiba had been invited for an outing by Agha Khalil’s wife and she had only spoken a few words to Shekiba since finding out. But she contented herself with the knowledge that Aasif would be pleased she’d stayed home instead of shamelessly wandering around Kabul in a crowd of people.
Soldiers lined the stage and created a perimeter around it so the crowd couldn’t get too close. In the center of the stage was a podium draped in navy blue velvet with gold tassels and embroidered with two crossed swords. Shekiba looked at the soldiers and thought of Arg, the guards, the harem. It seemed like a hundred years ago that she’d walked about the palace grounds with cropped hair and men’s slacks. She looked at her son, soon to be a young man, and wondered what he would have thought to see his mother dressed that way.
He wouldn’t understand. Only a daughter could know what it was to cross that line, to feel the freedom of living as the opposite sex. Her fingers touched her belly briefly. She looked at Shah and knew this one was different. She could feel it.
Mahnaz shielded her eyes from the sun.
“Have you seen her before?” she asked.
Shekiba shook her head.
“She looks like a queen. I don’t know how else to describe her. You should see the clothes she wears! Straight from Europe! My husband tells me that even the children wear European clothes!”
“Your husband works with them?”
“Yes, he does some calligraphy work for the king and he serves as counsel to the queen when the king is away. He’s going to be traveling with them soon.”
“He’s away often, isn’t he?”
Mahnaz nodded, her face showing her disappointment. “He is, but at least I have my mother-in-law and his family around. I would be so lonely otherwise.”
“How was your marriage arranged? His family is from Kabul, are they not?”
“Yes, they are. He and his family had traveled through our village on their way to Jalalabad one year. In that time, his father and my father came to know each other and they arranged for us to be married. I had seen him only once, just for a second. It was so unexpected!”
“And you’ve been living in Kabul since then?”
“Mostly,” she said, and leaned in to speak more discreetly. “My husband had some differences of opinion, you could say, with some of the government officials. We went through some difficult times then. They took everything from us. Our furniture, our home, our jewelry. We moved into the countryside for a year and a half until word was sent that we could return. The children were miserable there. We were so happy to come back!”
“That sounds awful,” Shekiba said. But worse could have been done to you, she thought.
“It was awful. But that’s how it is. When you don’t agree with powerful people, be prepared to lose everything. I only hope we will not go through such an experience again.” She sighed. “It is hard to say, though, since what men will tolerate changes as often as the shape of the moon.”
Shekiba nodded.
“There they are!” Mahnaz spotted Amanullah and Soraya being escorted onto the stage. Soldiers were lined up ceremoniously on either side of them and generals stood at their side. They were smiling and waving to faces they recognized in a group of dignitaries just in front of the platform.
A man in a suit took the podium and began to speak. He introduced himself and spoke of King Amanullah’s recent trip to Europe. Afghanistan was in a period of rebirth, he declared, and would grow with the leadership of such a strong-willed and visionary monarch. His speech went on until one of the generals could take no more and whispered something into his ear that brought him to closing remarks rather abruptly.
“Our noble king Amanullah!” he announced, and stepped away from the podium, his arms outstretched dramatically to welcome the country’s leader to the stage.
“As-salaam-alaikum and thank you! I am pleased to come and speak here with you!”
Shekiba’s lips turned up ever so slightly in a half smile. He looked even more dignified than she remembered, his olive-brown military jacket was decorated with medals and stars and cinched at the waist with a leather belt. He took off his hat and placed it on the podium before him. His posture gave an aura of confidence, a self-assurance that seeped through the crowd. Shekiba looked at the faces around her, their eyes focused on the stage, their expressions eager.
We are in good hands, people seemed to be thinking.
Shekiba tried to focus on his speech but her mind wandered. She kept her eyes on Amanullah, wondering if he would remember her, the harem guard with the scarred face. She willed his kind eyes to fall upon her again. She felt a flutter in her stomach and wasn’t surprised that even the smallest of spirits could be moved by Amanullah’s presence.
Mahnaz looked over at her occasionally, nodding in agreement. Shekiba realized the king must have said something noteworthy. Shah pulled at her hand and she absentmindedly pulled raisins from her purse. He ate them one by one, bored by the speech.
Queen Soraya joined him at the podium. She wore a thin head scarf, plum colored, to match her skirt suit. She wore a fitted jacket with a brooch that caught the sunlight, over a pencil skirt that ended midcalf. Her shoes were smart—black Mary Janes with a modest heel.
This is his wife, the woman he spoke of as thoughtful and dedicated, strong-willed. Indeed, she does walk with her head held high. Then again, why shouldn’t she? She is queen to our beloved Amanullah.
Suddenly, Queen Soraya looked at her husband and pulled her head scarf off her head! Shekiba’s mouth dropped open. She looked at King Amanullah and was shocked to see him smiling and clapping. Mahnaz grabbed Shekiba by the forearm and broke into a grin. A mix of gasps and applause rippled through the crowd.
“Isn’t that amazing?” she said excitedly.
“What just happened? Why did she do that?”
“Weren’t you listening? He just said that the chador is not required in Islam! The queen is doing away with her head scarf!”
“But . . . how could she . . .”
“It’s a new day in Kabul! Aren’t you glad I dragged you here?” she said, nudging Shekiba with her elbow.
Amanullah went on to say a few more words with Soraya at his side. He declared her, his wife, to be the minister of education and queen to the Afghan people. He turned the podium over to Soraya. Shekiba looked to Shah, then turned her attention back to the stage. Today’s speeches were more interesting than she had anticipated.
Queen Soraya spoke eloquently and with a confidence that complemented her husband’s. Shekiba felt humbled and listened to her talk on the importance of independence.
“Do you think, however, that our nation from the outset needs only men to serve it? Women should also take their part as women did in the early years of our nation and Islam. From their examples we must learn that we must all contribute toward the development of our nation and that this cannot be done without being equipped with knowledge. So we should all attempt to acquire as much knowledge as possible, in order that we may render our services to society in the manner of the women of early Islam.”
“Imagine. Just imagine, being able to speak like her to a crowd of people this size. She is a remarkable woman. Oh, the people of Qala-e-Bulbul would just faint to see something like this, wouldn’t they?” Mahnaz said with a laugh.
Shekiba thought of her own uncles. No doubt they would have sneered and walked out on such a speech. A woman? Telling their wives to acquire knowledge?
It was an exhilarating day. Shekiba was vaguely aware that this day would change something, though she wasn’t sure what.
She’s a wise woman, Shekiba thought. A woman like that would have given my father’s land to me. She would have told my grandmother to send me to school instead of the fields.
Shekiba’s lip stiffened with resolve.
She knew Queen Soraya was speaking of changes that wouldn’t affect her.
My story ends here, she thought. She now had a better life than she could have imagined. Somehow she had found an escape from a much worse naseeb.
But something in Shekiba did shift. She had a glimmer of hope, a feeling that things might get better with this woman Amanullah had chosen over her. Her face flushed knowing it still felt that way to her, as ridiculous as it was.
She thought of the way she was beaten when she took the deed to Hakim-sahib. She thought of Benafsha succumbing under the weight of the stones.
But sometimes you have to act out of line, I suppose. Sometimes you have to take a chance if you want something badly enough.
Things would be okay for Shah, Shekiba knew. He was a boy and his well-connected father would make sure he had every opportunity. She thanked God for that.
And may Allah give my daughters, should I be blessed with any, a chance to do what Queen Soraya seems to believe is possible. May Allah give them courage when they are told they are out of line. And may Allah protect them when they seek something better, and give them a chance to prove they deserve more.
This life is difficult. We lose fathers, brothers, mothers, songbirds and pieces of ourselves. Whips strike the innocent, honors go to the guilty, and there is too much loneliness. I would be a fool to pray for my children to escape all of that. Ask for too much and it might actually turn out worse. But I can pray for small things, like fertile fields, a mother’s love, a child’s smile—a life that’s less bitter than sweet.