4

After a year of learning at the feet of the mullahs, going on monthly field trips, and hearing that Muslims in the West were the victims of mass persecution at the hands of Christians and Jews, I was suddenly removed from the madrassa.

My mother heard that there was space available in one of the state-run schools in the city. She had nothing against the madrassa, but she hadn’t forgotten the praise my first teachers had heaped upon me. She hoped that I might continue my studies and perhaps even be able to attend university one day. Not that we spoke about this much. Dreams like these are so fragile that it is wise not to handle them too often. Better to keep them secret, stashed away from prying ears and eyes.

My father was spending an increasing amount of time with the militants, and to my surprise, he did not protest my mother’s decision to pull me out of the madrassa and send me to a more academically rigorous school. Perhaps he was too busy to pay much notice, or perhaps he really didn’t care what happened to me. Either way, I felt excited about what the future might hold.

Excited, and nervous, too. My year at the madrassa had taught me a lot about world events but little about science. I was terrified that I would not succeed and my father would put an end to my education, so I committed to studying harder than ever.

The one condition my father placed on my leaving the madrassa was that I would continue to have regular religious training with someone from the mosque. I was assigned to one of the female clerics. Like most of her kind, she spent much of her time educating and leading women and young girls. She was well read and passionate about how to be a devoted Muslim, and I looked forward to these weekly meetings. Spending an hour each week talking about stories in the Qur’an made for a pleasant break from cramming all that science and math.

The further I got into my first term at the state school, the clearer it became that my science and math needed work. My mother discussed the matter with my father, who discussed it with one of the clerics, and soon I had an extra weekly study session on my calendar.

My tutor was Anwar, the same mullah who had persuaded my father to let me attend the madrassa in the first place. He was highly educated, and according to the rumors, he had even studied abroad when he was younger. My mother took me to Anwar’s house every Tuesday afternoon. She would wait in the courtyard out front while I went inside for my lesson. I was grateful for his help; while the teachers at the madrassa had struggled to explain things to me, Anwar had a way of making things clear in my mind.

I knew exactly why my father agreed to my study sessions with Anwar. It was not just that he was educated or wealthy, though his house, with its marble floor and imposing wooden furniture, was on a scale far grander than our own. My father chose him because Anwar was the leader of the militants in the city.

Yet Anwar did not look down upon me for my lack of understanding or my gender or because he held more status and wealth than my family. In fact, he treated me in a way that no other male had treated me. He treated me as an equal. Better than that, he would call me “Daughter.” Even though I knew it was a common term of endearment, whenever he said the word, I felt alive inside.

One Tuesday afternoon, as I sat working on a math problem Anwar had given me, I became aware that some men had entered the room. I had been concentrating deeply on my work, but when I heard Anwar tell his visitors that they could talk freely in front of me, explaining who my father was, I started to pay attention. I was careful to keep my eyes fixed on the page in my book.

“The brothers in the mountains need more arms,” one of the men said.

“What about the last gold we collected?” Anwar asked.

“We sold it all and bought as many weapons as we could, but it wasn’t enough. We still need more.”

“How much money do you need?”

The first man mentioned a figure so large I struggled to comprehend it.

Anwar paused. When he spoke again, he sounded almost disinterested. “Very well. Leave it to me, and I’ll organize some more collections.”

Did this mean that the gold that had been collected at the meetings at our home may have been used to buy weapons? It was a shocking conclusion, but I could find no other explanation. I was even more stunned by the figures mentioned. Millions of rupees. Tens of thousands of dollars. This was possibly the most impressive thing my young ears had ever heard. Intuitively I knew that this was information I would need to keep to myself.

†

“Do you love English, Daughter?”

I looked up from my books and studied Anwar, thrown completely off balance by the question. My father often raged about how English was the language of infidels. I knew exactly how he would expect me to answer the question. But I also knew that Anwar and my father were different.

“Yes,” I said, my voice suddenly shaky.

Anwar smiled at me. “That’s okay. I have lived in America and the UK, and there’s much to learn there. But that learning is only possible if you can read and speak English.”

I decided to risk a question. “Why did you go there?”

“University,” he said. “I studied engineering in London and then in California.”

I was on a roll, so I kept going. “Was it dangerous?”

He shrugged, his smile fading. “What I will tell you is this: there’s no country like Pakistan. It’s the only place where true followers of Allah can live as we do.”

A silence settled on the room for a while. I could feel a hundred questions taking flight within me, but my mouth could not seem to form the words.

It was Anwar who spoke next. “Maybe one day you will go to the West and study or work there. And when you do, you can join the work our Muslim brothers and sisters are already doing in those countries.”

“How?”

“If you can speak English and you know how to say the right things, it isn’t hard to turn Christians away from their religion and bring them into Islam. Besides, there are many Western boys who would be ready to fall in love with a pretty girl like you.”

I could feel my cheeks burning as I turned back to my book.

“I’m serious,” Anwar said. “There are many Muslim sisters who go and study in the West, find husbands, and bring them into Islam.”

I felt awkward and a little embarrassed, but I knew he was right. On one of the field trips, the mullah had shown several pictures of Pakistani brides standing next to Western husbands. He told us that women have the power to change a husband, especially when they have children together.

To redirect the conversation, I brought up a question that had been percolating in me since one of my Qur’an study sessions with the female cleric. She had shown me the passage about Joseph, but the story seemed incomplete. I had asked her what happened next, but all she would say was that it was in another book. If anyone could tell me more, I was sure it was Anwar.

“You want to read about Joseph?” he asked.

“Yes, and Abraham, too.”

“There’s only one book that tells those stories. I don’t have it here. It’s a black-colored book—”

“Can I read it? Where can I get it?”

He stood up. “It is called the Bible. It’s a Christian book, and you can only get it from them, but you shouldn’t have anything to do with those people. Maybe one day I’ll find one for you. But for now, you just need to read the Qur’an.”