Tripping on Tears (21 page)

I’d lied to the police about writing a book on honor killings, but now, it didn’t seem so farfetched. The more I thought about it the more it came together in my mind; the concept of honor killings repulsed me, but they existed, and were still practiced in places around the world – more openly – even today in the 21
st
Century. But more than the idea of bringing to light a horrific topic, the book would be more than just about honor killings in the 20
th
and 21
st
Century, it would be a book about Safia and our relationship. I didn’t know if I was a talented enough writer, but I desperately wanted to bring her to life in the pages of this book; the book would serve as a statue to her, a memorial – in its own way it would keep the essence of Safia alive. And, while I knew it would bring a smile to her face if she were here today, as she’d no doubt lament the fact that she’d prefer Gore Vidal writing the book, instead of I – unfortunately he too had passed away; maybe they discussed the prospect of what it could have been as they both sat together in
the undiscovered country
. In the real world, unfortunately, she’d have to settle for me.

I had focus.

God, I still hated.
The anger lived with me on a daily basis, but now I had something to turn my energies towards, and I was hoping that in the eventual writing it would also help me excise those demons.

Where to start?

God bless the Internet. Goddamn the Internet.

I took the first step and typed ‘honor killing’ into my search engine. I was horrified by how many articles there were on the subject – how prevalent a crime it was, and not just in, say Pakistan or India, where one might suspect it, but in places like Turkey, and even in Canada and the United States. While one would have hoped it was an out-of-date concept and that Safia’s parents were the exception to the rule, that wasn’t the case. I began reading – researching.

The idea that focusing my attention on a book about honor killing would help me diffuse my anger and hatred quickly fell by the wayside. The more I read the more and more I became enraged. I believe I mentioned earlier that I came from a family where there was no distinction between men and women; men in my family did not consider themselves more important than the women in the family – superior in any way. We believed in equality, not because it’s a concept, but because it is a reality. Not so for those cultures who embraced honor killings.

I should first off start by clarifying that honor killings is not an Islamic concept; honor killings pre-date Islam, so while I linked it to Muslims because of Safia’s parents, I was making a mistake in doing so. Honor killings seemed to thrive in any culture where men considered themselves superior to women; any culture where men strove to control their women’s lives and actions. You could say it must have been similar at one time in the Christian faith, when you consider that the traditional Christian wedding ceremony had the father-of-the-bride giving the bride
away
to her husband – in essence passing his ownership of her to another man. While that tradition has become merely symbolic, with most not even considering the implications of how it came to be in the first place, it does point to an inequality that existed at one time between the sexes within that religion.

The more I read, the more I understood it all stemmed from man’s attempt to control the sexuality of their women. Also the belief that if men didn’t keep a tight rein on these women and turned their backs, these women would run wild. They saw the actions of their women possibly affecting their standing within their community, causing dishonor – a factor that weighed heavily on them. This, of course, is true where many honor killings took place, namely rural parts of the country, where there were smaller and tighter communities and your place within that community was more important than those who moved to the big cities and were merely lost within its hustle and bustle of millions, none of whom had the time or inclination to really get to know their neighbors. In these smaller, tight knit communities, if a woman strayed or did something to dishonor her family, there was also a belief that that action would also affect any of that family’s other daughters – all of them would become shunned and no good for marriage, as it was believed that if one did it, all were capable of the same. The only way to right this wrong in their eyes was through the spilling of blood – I guess, they felt that that somehow cleansed all.

The virgin seemed to be the root of all evil; the power virginity held in negotiating a woman’s future. To understand this control, you had to stop thinking of your daughters as human beings, and look at them as commodities, with their virginity being a negotiable, economically valuable property with which a man could trade and profit from – namely through an advantageous marriage that brought with it a dowry of some value or respect based on your ties with the new family.

As I read, immersing myself in cultures in countries I’ve never been to, it also became clear that honor killings were also a motive used by Fathers to deal with defiant or disobedient daughters; if they felt their daughters were out of control and they wanted to do something about it, they could kill them. While in most of these countries murder is illegal, if they simply reasoned it was an honor killing, the courts were a little more sympathetic to these men, and the price they paid was far less than if it had been a pure murder. I found that in most countries where honor killings were practiced, it was illegal; it was just that the courts and judiciary were often more lenient with the killer if the motive for the killing was an honor killing; many did go to jail, but for a very short time, and some were even released with just a slap on the hand.

This belief, this discrimination against women in these countries starts from the day a girl is born; the inequality of the two sexes is driven home to young boys and girls throughout their upbringing, to the point where when something like an honor killing happens, it’s merely par for the course – no one is shocked or outraged. Compassion for these women, who have strayed and supposedly dishonored their families, doesn’t exist.

I had hoped that by working on this book I could work on my own hatred and anger, but the more and more I read, the angrier I became. I read stories about women being raped by their neighbor, and when it is revealed what had happened, the woman was considered tainted and now a dishonor to her family; her virginity is no more. The thought of a woman having to endure rape, and then having her life ruined by it, as no one in her family shows her compassion for what she’d been through, but instead threatening her life, just enraged me.
How can she be seen as anything but the victim?

In my research I also read about women, daughters, who had dishonored their families and became prisoners in their own homes. They were treated poorly and lived under the constant stress of not knowing which day would be their last; they knew their family was going to eventually kill them, their days were numbered, but they didn’t know where and when or how. And the how was sometimes brutally horrific.

In some of these cases the fathers, sons or uncles found horrific ways to dispatch these women who had dishonored the family. Whether it was hacking them to death or setting them on fire, or any number of sadistic methods, they carried it out in a brutal and unfeeling fashion. Some of the stories I read online were related by women who had somehow, miraculously survived their execution, some of them permanently scarred and disfigured. There were groups out there trying to help women who might fall victim to honor killings, and it was these groups that recorded for posterity many of the horrors I was now immersing myself in.

The narrow-minded, out-of-date beliefs of these men, who could so easily discard their women, as if they were ants under their shoes, only served to anger me; I still wanted to lash out, but knew that was foolish. I could always abandon my idea of writing a book on honor killings, but it was also my tribute to Safia – a permanent memorial to her being. I tried to reconcile in my mind that by indulging in this horrific topic, and possibly bringing it to light, maybe it was one more step on the road to righting such a wrong. I wasn’t delusional; my step would be a baby step; there were others out there doing all the heavy lifting on the subject matter, but nevertheless, as a writer, it was the best I could do – all I had to offer. It was write or do something I’d regret forever – namely indulge myself in revenge.

I chose my course of action; I was going to write. Ah, but life had other plans; it wasn’t going to let me off the hook that easily; it wanted to test me; for some reason it wanted, obviously, to nurture my hatred. Just remember, it wasn’t the path I chose, but the path that chose me – the fact that I embraced it when it came with violent glee, well, I regret that now, but, I hate to say it, enjoyed it at the time.

I never expected to see Saif standing at my door.

CHAPTER
Eighteen

“WHAT
Do
you want?” I asked as I looked directly into the eyes of Safia’s reputed killer – her brother, Saif.

I’d only seen Saif at a distance; up close, he and his friend, whom I would later learn was named Farooq, looked like two insolent teenagers trying desperately to look tough.

“You been following me?” asked Saif

I guess my surveillance on Safia’s parent’s home and grocery store hadn’t been as careful as I thought – I’d obviously been spotted.

“Why don’t you get the hell out of here?” I suggested.

I went to close the door but Saif reached out and grabbed it, holding it open. My first instinct was to punch him in the face. If he did what he was rumored to have done, he deserved that and a whole lot more. I grew up, however, in a civilized society and had become accustomed to ignoring those violent urges, electing to deal with matters of confrontation with words, not fists.

“You’re trespassing, son,” I said, looking Saif directly in the eye. Farooq was standing to the side of him, doing his best to look tough, but must have felt left out of the proceedings, as both Saif and I were intently focused on one another. Saif and I stared at one another – a challenging stare; you could sense the tension between us, and even I didn’t know how it was going to evolve, whether he’d back off and leave my property or we’d end up punching it out on the front lawn to the consternation of some neighbors and the amusement of others.

“I ain’t finished here, dawg!” he said, defiantly looking me in the eye.

Great, just what I needed, another teenager, in this case a South Asian teenager, who thought he was 50 Cent or something; didn’t they know they looked foolish when they tried to act Black?

“You been drinking?” I asked.

Both Saif and Farooq seemed just a little out of it; maybe they had to drink some liquid courage in order to come here and confront me; I don’t know what it took for them to come here, but all I knew was I had two poseurs on my front porch and I wanted them gone.

“You fuck with me or my family, I fuck you up, man,” he said.

“He’ll fuck you up, dude,” echoed Farooq.

I had to smile; the job of sidekick was never glamorous; it was really a useless position, as Farooq was clearly illustrating now.

“You’ve got two seconds to take your hand off the door, before I remove it myself,” I said as forcefully as possible. This was getting tiresome, and I knew if it didn’t end soon, something bad was going to happen. I could only be expected to maintain my cool for so long. This prick was a murderer; he’d stabbed to death the woman I loved.

“I want Safia’s things, asshole,” said Saif.

“Time to go boys. I’ve had just about enough of this.”

They both snickered to one another, like I’d just said something funny. That really was the wrong move, as it just served to piss me off even more. I’d had enough, so I stepped forward and shoved Saif. I’d taken him by surprise; I guess he hadn’t figured someone like me would make any physical move; I imagine the two of them had suspected that the sight of them would have me shaking in my boots.

Saif stumbled back, his hand coming off the door. I was about to back up and close the door behind me, when Farooq, no longer surprised by my move, lashed out and hit me hard in the side of the face. I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting such a move; I’d expected a lot of posturing, but when push came to shove, figured they’d lose any courage they’d mustered coming over here and just leave – probably leaving behind them a long series of expletives.

Farooq had quite a punch; it sent me stumbling backwards, momentarily dazed. I expected to suddenly feel a wealth of fists pummeling me, taking advantage of my surprised state, but instead the two idiots bolted past me into my house. I gained my senses and followed after them.

“What the hell do the two of you think you’re doing?” I called after them.

This wasn’t good. Instead of retreating, they were now in my home; surprisingly, I wasn’t worried or frightened by their presence, and if they knew what was going on in my mind, they would have been worried and frightened. I knew if I didn’t get the two pricks out of there and soon, all hell was going to break loose, and either they or I would be posing for a chalk outline on the floor of my living room.

Saif and Farooq came to a stop in my living room. They had no way of knowing where to look for Safia’s things. They’d obviously made their move before thinking it through carefully. As I followed them into the living room, Saif turned to me; there was anger and hatred on his face as he looked at me; I’m sure he was looking into a mirror.

“You’re giving me Safia’s things, you fucking asshole!” he yelled.

“Get out of my house, NOW. Before the two of you end up in jail,” I said.

“FUCK YOU!” offered Farooq.

God bless the dimwitted sidekick.

“You’re going to give me her stuff, or I’m gonna fuck you up, bro,” said Saif.

“I’m calling the police,” I said moving for the phone.

Farooq rushed me. This time I was ready. It was a clumsy rush, and when he lashed out to punch me once again in the head, I was able to duck his thrust. Missing threw him a little off balance, which gave me the opportunity to punch him in the head, sending him falling to the floor; he hit the ground heavy, the sound of his breath leaving him upon impact, escaping from his lips. “Idiot,” I thought.

It’s funny, even though my friends and I in high school liked to consider ourselves to be tough guys, when I look back on those days, we really didn’t get into that many fights. There was a lot of posturing and puffing out our chests and what not, but things seldom resulted in fists actually flying. There were those who did fight, and we knew who they were; those guys you avoided. We stuck to our crowd which talked a good game, but very rarely put ourselves in a position to need to have to back it up. Of course, after college, as a journalist, I was an adult, and for the most part adults try to stay out of fist fights. It doesn’t seem like a great way to solve problems, and you’re building a life, collecting possessions and such, and now if you do lash out some lawyer is going to come along and take everything you have, now and potentially in the future. You could throw a punch, but nobody was going to take it for what it was, they were going to sue your ass – so you didn’t throw punches. Simple enough. Hitting Farooq was the first punch I’d thrown in a very, very, very long time. I connected well, sending him to the floor severely dazed, but at the same time, damn it, it hurt like hell. I’m a writer, I have soft hands, not calloused hands that are used to throwing punches, and connecting with him solidly, well it hurt.

When I looked back at Saif, he was standing there, a knife, what looked like a fancy, decorative, but sharp knife, in his hand, and a shit-eating grin on his face. I don’t know where he got it, from his belt, or strapped to his leg, but he had it; it stopped me in my tracks.

“You fuckin’ ruined my sister! Dishonored my family! She had to pay and so should you, motherfucker!” he yelled.

My full attention was on that knife in his hand; a chill travelled through my body. Saif had pulled a knife on me. Safia had been stabbed to death. Jesus Christ, was I looking at the knife that had taken her life? Would he have been stupid enough not to get rid of it, but to actually carry it around? Could anybody be that stupid? Looking at him, and the company he kept, which was still on the floor moaning in pain, I figured, yes he could be.

“You killed her?” I asked.

“I needed to right a wrong,” he said.

“Is that the knife you pulled on her? That you used to stab her to death?”

This was unreal. I tried to look at him, but my gaze kept going to the knife. I’m sure he thought I was worried about it, which was why I kept looking at it, but that wasn’t the case; I just kept looking at the instrument that had taken my love from me; this object that had brought such grief and harm to my life.

“She was a whore; she died a whore’s death,” he said.

You talk about the straw that broke the camel’s back. He’d found it all right.

That slow simmer of mine at times was like a well tuned, high performance sports car that could go from zero to sixty in seconds; all it took was the right motivation. I don’t even know if Saif saw it coming; whether in that brief second he had spotted that murderous glimmer in my eyes and knew he’d stepped over the line and was about to pay the price for it. Personally, I think he was too stupid to know anything.

I charged him and I charged hard. I don’t know what I was thinking; he still had that knife held out before him, and by charging him, I’d be charging directly into it, but that didn’t matter, as he’d crossed the line. He could stand there all night saying whatever he wanted about me, but once he brought up Safia and dishonored her memory that was it.

Fights in the movies are often brilliantly choreographed; this wasn’t one of them; this was real life. I charged him and he hadn’t expected that move. He was looking for fear, and me begging him to spare my life, so when I didn’t I guess it kind of gave me an advantage. I was on him in no time; I was in a rage.

I can’t say I know for sure what happened with the knife; possibly it glanced off the side of me or something when I tackled him; I really don’t recall, all I do know is that I wasn’t stabbed. I think in his surprise, he had probably dropped it; I wasn’t some helpless woman whom he probably snuck up on and stabbed in the back; I don’t know if that’s how he did it with Safia, but seeing him now, and the company he kept, I’m sure it was sleazy and cowardly however he did it; if he’d come at her head on, she’d have probably clocked him and saved her life.

It wasn’t pretty, but Saif and I bounced off the couch and hit the floor, with me on top of him. Like I said, he had expected fear, not confrontation, so I had the upper hand the whole time. Before he could get his bearings and decide to fight back, I was punching him in the face, as hard as I could. Blood was everywhere, as I’m sure I had shattered his nose. At one point he was like a rag doll underneath me, unable to defend himself in any way and I still kept on pummeling him. For all I know, I was killing him, but at that moment, I really didn’t care. I hit him and hit him and hit him and hit him; I was never going to stop.

“Shit! NO!”

Farooq’s voice snapped me out of my murderous rage. I turned to see him half raised up, still trying to recover from my blow. As I said, I’d connected well; one of those lucky punches that turned out to be highly effective. I looked down at the bloody mess that was Saif’s face; I’d been holding him by the hair with one hand and pummeling him with the other; both his face and my fist were covered in blood.

“You’re killing him!” said Farooq.

I rose to my feet and looked down at Saif’s unconscious body. Why hadn’t they walked away? They’d poked the bear, unknowingly, but poked him just the same. Neither one of them could have known the extent of the anger and hatred that had been building up within me all this time, nor that they were going to be the ones to help unleash it. Maybe that’s why they say, “Don’t poke the bear?”

I advanced on Farooq; he had only a moment to whimper before I was on him and continuing my rage.

I felt sick to my stomach.

I don’t know what had come over me; actually...yes, I guess I did know. The anger within me had been pent up for far too long and took advantage of the opportunity those two idiots provided. I have to admit, and I really don’t want to, because I know it says a lot about me, but I enjoyed the rage; I hurt, and I’ve hurt every day since Safia’s death, so I wanted someone else to hurt.

I sat there at the kitchen table both congratulating myself on having finally struck a blow towards vengeance, while deep down, another side of me, a side that was quickly losing its hold on my soul, was ashamed at what I had done. It had been stupid – bordering on insane – for Saif to have come to my house. I guess he wanted to be the hero in his parent’s eyes and do what Kareena and Rijja had been unable to do and retrieve Safia’s things. He had to know I wouldn’t be welcoming him and his friend into my home with open arms, or that his presence would change my mind; no, he figured he could frighten me into doing what he wanted. I had beaten that kid and I had beat him good. And I knew I should be ashamed of myself.

We live in a civilized society; brute force and resorting to violence, well, that’s the last resort of those who aren’t civilized; who can’t find a proper way to solve problems between themselves and others. Communication and reasoning should rule the day, as that’s the only way to get something productive accomplished; fighting, resorting to violence, well it may accomplish a specific goal in the short term, but in the long run it is more harmful to our world than we could ever imagine; the darkness in human hearts, and our willingness to turn to violence, is a cancer that has been eating away at us since the dawn of humankind.

I was a peaceful man; I didn’t believe in physical violence, but I had beaten that kid and his friend with gusto; two sides of me were now fighting their own internal battle to determine whether I could find my way back to who I once was, or whether I was to become someone different, darker, deadlier.

I stared at the knife Saif had brought into my home. It was resting in front of me on my kitchen table. It didn’t look well used; as I’d said before it looked almost decorative; something Safia’s parents had had lying around the house; maybe on display along with a lot of other ethnic crap they collected. It had laid around the house until Saif had been given his mandate to take care of his sister, and then it took on a new purpose. Why use a kitchen knife or something like that, when you have this fancy knife lying around; maybe by using it, Saif felt it had more meaning; he was carrying out a sacred ceremony and it was ceremonial – or at least I think it was.