Children of God by Emeera

'It was 3:27a.m. Silence resonated through the corridor as she was wheeled out of the maternity ward .The security guards were following her, like shadows, till she reached her room. She was deposited on the bed as the door shut behind her. There was no escaping her brutal fate. She lay like a corpse on the narrow bed, her limbs hanging from the edges as her lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling fan. She had completely exhausted herself long ago. She had no one to protect and no one to protect her. I quickly peered at the doorway, to ensure that the guards were preoccupied, before lightly grasping her hand. “Amal”, I whispered. She blinked. Slowly, she averted her eyes from the ceiling, she looked into mine. I closed my eyes and for the first time in five years I recited fragments of the Qur’an. We remained like that for a while, with me lending her strength. “Amal, it’s a girl. Do you want to see her?” Without verbally responding she resumed staring at the ceiling. I gradually let go of her hand as I heard scattering footsteps and cries of “Allah” echoing down the long hallway. The last I saw of her was when she was shacked in leg irons and handcuffs, a symbolism of her grave “sin”, as the mutawas, the religious men, ordered her lifeless form to be dragged away. I quickly averted my eyes and rushed out of the door before anyone could anyone could notice the tears. I hid in the staff room for that morning. There, the British nurse, I don’t remember her name, furiously inquired about Amal’s case. She took in every painful detail as I recounted Amal’s story- everything from her brutal rape to the birth of her undesirable child early in the morning. Frankly, I’m always wary of loud and obnoxious females, such as her, but the need to share Amal’s tragedy overpowered my judgment. The nurse was dumbfounded and gasped loudly as I revealed that Amal was thirteen.

Later that afternoon as I stood in the infantry, I looked past the mutawa and stared at the isolated crib. The family had been contacted but they refused to take custody of ‘it’. Three mutawas surrounded Amal’s father and bestowed blessings on him for his unwavering faith. “Doctor Sawlat.” I turned around to find a mutawa standing behind me. How can these stout men walk with such stealth and speed? He congratulated me for witnessing the “will of Allah” and informed me that Amal would be executed for the unforgivable crime of fornication outside matrimony while her male accomplices had been ‘understandably’ spared by the mutawas. All male members of her family except her brother, who had requested to stay at home, would attend. The mutawa suggested that the ‘poor boy’ could not face the one who had ‘stained the family name’. Or maybe, I mused silently, he was being gnawed by guilt.

“The execution will proceed at 11:30 am today, at the public square”, someone shouted loudly. This announcement was followed by universal cries of “Allah is great!”

I walked down the street, away from the hospital. The sounds of scurrying veiled women and wailing of infants filled the atmosphere. It was a living contrast to the colorful and crowded streets of Bihar, my home. I would be flying back home by this time tomorrow and would be far away from this empty and hostile place, I though with relief. Eventually, but inevitably, my thoughts drift to the baby girl and her teenage mother. I, an unmarried man without unnecessary relationships, somehow understood this spent girl and sympathized with her.

Strange, I thought while I cautiously lit a cigarette. One girl gave birth to an unwanted child while long ago one devout woman was denied the joy of motherhood. I still carried the memories of the day when instead of hearing the cries of my new-born nephew, I heard my sister’s wails. Fate had mercilessly taken from my sister what Allah had given to her. There was, understandably, nothing I could do then. But surely there should be something I can do now, I contemplated. I felt sympathetic towards the little one, whose crime was to come into this earth, to be born. This infant had already been prosecuted unjustly, like her mother had been, and forced to pay for the crimes of others. I remembered my mother’s words, “Allah always protects his children!” “Both these children are innocent Allah!” I whispered. Looking at the sky, I sighed. I had long ago abandoned faith in miracles, but right now I prayed with fervour that at least this infant would be spared.

Somewhere, the bell for afternoon prayer rang treacherously slow. I pulled up my sleeve and glanced at my watch. It was indeed twelve noon. I gazed at the direction of the public square, before turning my back from it. I threw the cigarette on the pavement and made a decision as I walked towards the hospital with unnatural determination.

The next day, I stepped out of the taxi that had parked outside the airport. The taxi driver unloaded my luggage from the taxi and helped me find a trolley. I carefully shifted the weight in my arms, which was not heavy but had to be handled with utmost delicacy. As I strolled towards the departure area, I felt as if all eyes were staring at me. Maybe I was being a bit paranoid.

Finally, after hours of waiting for the delayed flight, I boarded the aircraft with precautious steps. I cautiously seated myself near the window and requested an extra blanket from the air-hostess. She smiled softly as her eyes fell at the bundle in my lap. I too found myself looking, with a mixture of fondness and disbelief, at my adopted one day old daughter.