Translated from the Dari by Dr. Zubair Popalzai
I am sitting in the hallway of the prosecutor’s office. A police officer is standing next to me to make sure I do not run away. I have cuffs on my hands—the hands I used until a month ago to teach the alphabet and arithmetic to the children of the village. I had wished to see my hands covered in white chalk dust for the rest of my life. Well, life does not always go the way we want it to.
Three people were already waiting in the hallway for their trials when I got here. The second man, with a soldier standing beside him like a shadow, now comes back out of the courtroom, his eyes full of tears. His relatives circle him. A middle-aged woman—probably his mother—sits on the ground at his feet. She hits herself on her forehead, crying again and again, “Why did you kill her? Why? Why did you humiliate me in these final days of my life? You have left me alone, did I have anyone but you?”
I envy the young man. I wish I had someone who was upset for me today. My parents were my only hope, but to protect their reputation they would not spare me even five minutes of their time so that I could explain to them why I did what I did. This loneliness frightens me, but I must not be scared. I must think about Jamshid, who is lonelier than I am.
The third person in line enters the courtroom. At the same time, Jamshid and his sister appear at the end of the hallway among men and women in black, who must be relatives of his sister’s husband. His sister’s head is hanging down as if she has been deprived of the right to raise it. She is wearing a black shawl today. When I see her, I understand why women are called siah sar. She represents the true sense of the word: one who is destined for darkness.
At the age of nine, she lost her mother to torture by her father, a gambling philanderer. This was the same father who forcibly wed her to a lustful monster of a man, as old as her grandfather. Her brother is her only hope. She wants him to go to school, build a future and save himself and her from misery.
As she gets closer, I can tell from the way she is walking that her body is still in pain. After the incident, I have the same dream every night. In my dream, the girl’s screams get louder and louder with every step her husband takes towards her. I see how he brutally pulls her hair and takes her to the corner of the room. I hear the sound of her husband’s punches and kicks and, between each one, the girl’s cries and moans. In my dream, I see Jamshid peering through the courtyard gate. He squeezes my hand and cries. I can see but I can do nothing. I am too cowardly to stand up to the head of the village.
In the dream world, I am ashamed of myself. I lean my head against the wall and close my eyes in shame, so that I will see nothing. Then I see Jamshid again. I see him running around the yard, looking for something on the ground. He stands over a basket of dishes, picks up something, and hurries into the room. This is the point at which I wake every night.
We have entered the courtroom. I stand in the dock. To my right is a judge reviewing my case with his colleagues. The court is not yet in session and people are leaving and entering freely. To my left are the victim’s family, my lawyer, and the victim’s lawyer. I wish I could see some of my friends and family in the room, but, unfortunately, I do not. No one, except for Jamshid. Although he is no blood relation of mine, Jamshid feels like a son. He is sitting on a chair next to his sister, filled with stress and worry, just like the day he entered my class. He swings his small legs back and forth.
The day Jamshid entered my classroom, I didn’t know anything about him. The school principal had told me that a new student from the adjacent village would be transferring to my class. When Jamshid entered, I guessed it was him.
I greeted him and said welcome, but he came in without a word. Keeping his head low, he went to the back of the classroom and sat in the furthest row. He was late: as he entered, the school bell rang for the last time. Dari language was the final lesson of the day. I asked for a volunteer to read the alphabet out loud and all hands went up except Jamshid’s.
To include him I pointed my finger at him and asked him to recite the alphabet. He didn’t move. I repeated myself, a second time and then a third. The other students murmured that Jamshid didn’t know the alphabet. Looking at the other students, I said I would count to three and if Jamshid did know the alphabet, he would definitely stand up and recite it. Jamshid rose, his head still down.
I said, “All right, let’s see how much you know!”
After a long pause, he started: “A for Anar, B for Baba, Te for Tabar… D for…” but then he stopped. The rest of the students were quietly nudging him, “Daud, Daud,” but it was as though he couldn’t hear them. I did not want him to sit. I asked him to start over. He started again: “A for Anar, B for Baba, Te for Tabar… D for…” and then there was silence.
I noticed that both his hands had started to tremble. I walked over to him. His whole body was shaking. I could not understand what had made this poor child hurt so much. I put my hand on his back and said, “No problem, try to learn the alphabet well before our next Dari session.”
I went back to the front of the class. The period finished and the school bell rang. Eagerly, the students left the classroom. I watched Jamshid, who did not move until the last pupil had left the class. Then, he quietly gathered his books and got up from behind his desk. I needed to hear at least one word from him. He passed my desk, eager to leave, but I stopped him and tried to make him look me in the eye. I took his hands and assured him that if there was a problem, I would help him solve it. I promised him that I would teach him the alphabet myself.
After a short pause, he broke down. Tears were flowing from his eyes as he said, “Leila, Leila.” I realized he was not in a state to explain his problem to me. I hugged him and said I would help him solve all his problems. I wiped his tears and told him to return home. “We will talk tomorrow,” I said. Jamshid walked slowly out of the classroom.
After speaking to several villagers, I learned that he had transferred to our school because his sister had married the chief of our village. Since Jamshid had a stepmother and his father was a gambler and a philanderer, his sister would not accept the marriage unless her brother also came to her husband’s house and lived there with her. In the end, the girl’s father and her husband agreed to her request and seven-year-old Jamshid ended up in Year One in our village.
I began spending an hour a day with him, when we would chat together. It brought us very close. Gradually he changed in class, too. When he entered the room, he would smile at me, then greet his classmates energetically.
But one day—that day—he entered the classroom silently, hanging his head again. I called his name and asked him why he was late, but he went straight to his chair without saying a word.
I told him to recite the alphabet as punishment for coming in late. But he didn’t say anything; he remained seated with his head down. When I asked him in a more serious voice to get up, he slowly stood, still staring at the ground.
The catch in his voice made me feel as if all the sorrows of the world had accumulated in his throat. Just like the first day, his voice faded when he reached the letter D. He tried to say “D for Daud” a second time, but only “D” could be heard. I noticed that his hands were shaking. He raised his head and stared into my eyes as if the lump in his throat was about to explode. After a short pause, he ran to the door and hurried out of the classroom.
There was no peace left in me. I could not ignore him and continue teaching. I told the students that something urgent had come up and that I had to leave for a few minutes. I asked them to stay in the classroom and review their lessons until I returned. I rushed to the school gate to find Jamshid. From the school grounds, I saw him running past the hill, towards his sister’s house.
I followed him to the house of the village chief. Jamshid was sitting by the garden wall, crying softly and occasionally peeking into the house. When I approached him, he immediately got up. He didn’t say anything—just pointed to the house.
I didn’t understand. He took my hand and slowly led me to the gate. He pointed to the curtained window of a room. I could hear sounds from behind the curtain: the sound of beating, followed by a woman’s crying and screaming.
We saw the shadow of a person grab a woman by the hair and drag her to the corner of the room. The woman was screaming so hard that even a rock would melt. Then, for a moment, it was silent. The woman’s voice disappeared and a man could be heard panting.
When the woman’s voice went quiet, I realized that Jamshid’s mind was elsewhere. He let go of my hand and ran into the garden, like someone who has lost something. He wandered around in bewilderment. He ran to the basket of dishes in the middle of the yard. He picked something up and hurried into the room. I quickly followed him.
I saw the little girl lying on the floor with the chief on top of her, strangling her.
I was panicking but Jamshid took the initiative. He attacked the chief from behind with the knife that he had picked up. Without hesitation, he furiously stabbed him in the back again and again. I could see he was letting out all his rage. Although I could have, I did not stop him. The man deserved worse than that. I counted the number of times Jamshid stabbed the chief in the back. One, two… eleven. When he struck for the twelfth time we heard the bodyguards approaching.
Jamshid threw down the knife and looked for a way to escape. He was panicking. My mind was not in the right place either. I hugged Jamshid and whispered in his ear, “I will fix everything. You must run away. Wash your hands and change your clothes.” As he shuddered and tears welled up in his eyes, I continued slowly, “Be sure to read your lessons and save yourself and your sister from this misery.” I kissed him on the head and pushed him towards the door. Jamshid jumped through the window and fled. I picked the knife up from the floor and went over to the chief’s body. As his bodyguards entered, I stabbed him in the back for the thirteenth time.
The court is now in session and the judge begins to ask his questions. I answer casually. The last question is, “Mr. —, do you admit that you killed Daud Khan by stabbing him with a knife thirteen times while you were fully aware and of sound mind?”
Jamshid raises his head and stares into my eyes with a hopeful look. His look makes me more steadfast. I smile at him, turn my face to the judge and say, “Yes. I admit that I killed Daud Khan with a knife by stabbing him thirteen times while I was of sound mind. I admit it, Judge.”
I look at Jamshid and see that he’s stopped anxiously swinging his legs. He is holding his head high and he looks at me with eyes that shout joy. By lifting this crime off his shoulders, I have made him as light as a feather in the air. Although the judge sentences me to life imprisonment, I do not feel any sadness in my heart.
The trial is officially over. Everyone leaves, one by one. Jamshid’s sister also leaves, followed by Jamshid. He smiles at me as he walks past. As he walks, he begins to recite the alphabet quietly. When he reaches the letter D he looks back at me from the courtroom door and continues loudly until he gets to the end.