Sonia takes the tray, smiles, and says, “May God be with you,” and the girl answers, “May you live in peace,” in a voice curiously distorted. Sonia says, “My name is Sonia. What is your name?” The girl says, “Rashida,” and immediately turns and leaves the room. A guard, the one with the bushy beard, glares at them for an instant and then closes and locks the door.
The two women sit and eat their breakfast. Annette asks, “Why did she keep her veil on? The other woman didn’t.”
“Oh, I think she was embarrassed. Didn’t you hear her voice? Her nose has probably been cut off.”
“Good God! By who?”
“Probably her father or a brother. It’s less common than it used to be, but it still happens. It’s common enough so that among Pashtun boys it’s a coarse flirt line, like ‘Show us your tits’ among drunk frat boys in the States. You accuse a girl of having her nose cut off, and maybe she’ll flash her face to show it’s not true. Risky, but it does happen.”
“But why would they do that to a girl?”
Sonia shrugs and takes up another chapati. “It could be anything. She was seen talking to a boy; she exposed her leg or her face to a strange man. Or it could have been just suspicion-maybe her family thought she was too seductive-looking.”
“And I’m sure the man who did it thinks he’s right with Allah because he says all his prayers.”
“I’m sure he does, although that kind of thing has absolutely nothing to do with Islam. Every culture has fetishes, and among the Pashtuns it’s on the one hand hospitality and on the other the chastity of their women. Among the Americans it’s on the one hand money and on the other sexual hypocrisy.”
“Surely you can’t compare that to mutilating a girl!”
“I can and do. Businesses and factories are closed down, people are discarded, whole communities are destroyed, with all the catastrophes that follow-crime, suicide, domestic violence-just so a firm can get a bump in the stock market, and we think that’s perfectly okay; that’s how capitalism works. We keep the poor in festering ghettos. If you can’t pay for health care you sicken and die. It’s rational, we say, because return on investment is our highest good. Well, to the Pashtuns honor is the highest good, so it’s rational to cut off the nose of a girl who’s compromised your honor.”
“You can’t possibly believe that.”
Sonia pauses as a loud vehicle grinds up the hill outside the hujra. It soon stops and they hear shouts and clankings from a nearby building. The diesel engine from the night before roars anew.
“It seems to be a busy day in the village of no return,” observes Sonia. “But it’s not a question of what I believe-or, rather, it is but in another sense. If you believe in God, you’re inclined to take the world as it comes, rather than impose a system on it. The problem with both the Pashtun way and the American way is that they each worship something other than God: honor and money. The Pashtuns shouldn’t cut off girls’ noses for honor, and the Americans shouldn’t destroy lives for gain, especially since the Prophet preached extensively against pride, and you’ll recall Jesus had some harsh things to say about loot. But what you seem to be implying is that the Pashtuns are inherently depraved because what they falsely prize is different from what we falsely prize. And that can’t be true.”
“I don’t prize money,” says Annette.
“No, you fly into dangerous places and try to make peace. It’s very noble.”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“Not at all. But you know, people devoted to good works are in exactly the same danger of spiritual pride as people who concentrate on doing the rituals properly. There is absolutely nothing more dangerous in the world than self-righteousness tied to power. Those idiots out there are one example, and the recent foreign policy of the United States is another. The world is beyond fixing. That’s why we pray.”
“But surely, faith without works is sterile-” Annette begins, and then is stopped by a shrill scream, followed by shouts and more screams. A door slams and all becomes silent again, except for the wind and the diesel.
“I wonder what that was all about,” says Sonia. “I’m sorry… you were saying?”
But Annette has dropped her theological point, as though the cry from outside has pressed upon her with renewed force her present dire circumstances. She says, “Excuse me. I’m very tired right now; I need to rest,” and she lies down on her charpoy and pulls the quilt over her head.
Sonia observes this and understands. She herself slept a good deal after her mother was killed, twelve or even sixteen hours a day, for weeks. There are life events that can destroy the personality, which is a lot more fragile than most people imagine, constructed as it is from bits provided by others in the most haphazard way. People can be torn down to the core, “shattered,” as the expression goes, and then they seek sleep. And dreams, which provide the ground for the construction of a new and more integrated self. Providing there’s a core, and providing they’re willing to do the work.
Nor does insight help much. Fluss was always calling insight “baby steps.” During her first year in therapy, she had balked; she was tired of going over the sad stories, she thought she was done, and he’d said, You aren’t even started, my dear. Yes, now we have the dynamics, the demanding mother, the ineffective father, the shattering accidents, the insecurity, the rejection of offered security, the purposeful disruptions, the running off, the guilt and what results-all fine. Write it on an index card and stick it in your wallet. But now we must start on the work. Now we must get you to awaken!
Yes, work and awakening. That was the hard part, and Sonia is not sure that even now she has achieved it. More than Annette, perhaps. She can handle the Jungian jargon, she can do the dream work, but there is a blockage, a drag, a secret standing in the way. Perhaps that dream with the horrible boy is a clue. She wonders if she will figure it all out before she dies.
Annette has fallen asleep. Sonia feels a certain sympathy for the collapsed, naturally, but at the moment Annette’s collapse means there are more chapatis for her. She eats them all greedily and drinks the rest of the tea.
She spends the next hours writing in her notebook with a tiny pen. She is writing to her son, an apology, not just in the commonplace sense of a petition for forgiveness but also, mainly, in the older definition, an apology for her life, an explanation of why she has lived it as she has. She hopes it will somehow survive her death and that he will read it. She is a fluent writer, but this is a hard thing to do. It is easier to tell the truth to the world than to people you love.
There comes a point when she can’t write anymore. She puts the notebook and pen away in their small pocket and from another one takes a deck of cards. She shuffles, does fans-the peel-away, the reverse, the onehand-then fancy shuffles-the waterfall, the hindu-then deals out the four cards from the top of the deck, all aces: snap, snap, snap, snap. She wishes she had a mirror to check her passes and lifts, for she has not practiced in a while and feels rusty. On the other hand, now she has nothing but time.
The hours pass; the light from the window becomes rosy, then white. She wonders about the others, especially Karl-Heinz, who is so frail. She knows him from the Zurich days, he and his wife, Elsa. She had met Elsa before she met Karl-Heinz; Elsa was an almoner at the Burghölzli. Fluss had sent her in because of the blood on Sonia’s clothes, and Elsa had taken the clothes away and brought fresh ones, a characteristic act of kindness. Afterward, when Sonia had become Fluss’s student, she had taken Sonia into her social circle along with Fluss, who was divorced, and a changing circus of other lost souls: the formerly mad and their keepers and a good portion of the psycho-industrial complex of Zurich. A salon, but cozy in the Swiss manner; it was probably this kindness more than the precepts of Jung that had saved Sonia in those first months. She had a cozy deficit of vast proportions and drank it in like water in the desert.