|
The Last Stone by Sue Littleton
Phonetic pronunciation key
Aisha = Aye-eé-shah
Sa'uda = Sah-oh-déh
Fatima = Fáh-tee-mah
Qur'an = Koh-ráhn
hajii = hahge-eé
sufi = soó-fee
Dhu al Hijjah - Do-ahl-háhge
Ramadan = Rahm-ah-zán
Sura = soo-ráy
Khadya = Káh-dah-ya
Zubaida = Zoo-báy-dah
Reza = Rey-zah
Id al-Fitr = Aid-ah-fétch
The Last Stone
by Sue Littleton
I was seventeen the day I died,
the same age as my father's third wife, Aisha,
when my little brother Omar was born.
Ah, how deliciously life lay on my tongue,
fragrant and sweet as rose petal jam!
In the center of the dusty square
the phallic pole, set deep into the ground,
points toward the last flickering stars.
A cringing mongrel sniffs at its base
and lifts his hind leg gingerly into the air
to urinate.
My father owned many wide fields,
stitched neatly with muddy irrigation canals,
fields which he rented to others who possessed no land
to plant their crops.
He had been fortunate, for several of our relatives
had lost choice lands to the blight of ground salt
that is gradually seeping upward in many places,
spreading its crystalline scourge
across once fertile soil.
Our small village was intensely traditional,
clinging stubbornly to the doctrines of the stern teacher
who had interpreted the Qur'an for us a hundred years ago.
My father was greatly respected,
although he was thought to be very modern
because he would not permit the circumcision
of his daughters at thirteen,
as did some of the villagers.
Nor did he enforce the jabar, the giving of minors
in marriage without consulting them --
he told my sisters and me that we might protest to him
any husband he chose for us,
and reminded us that a virgin, who is always modest,
indicates acceptance of her father's wishes
with chaste silence and lowered eyes,
speaking only if she is not in agreement.
In his way of life our father adhered strictly
to the teachings of the Prophet.
'Marry the women who seem good to you,
two or three or four,
but if you fear you cannot do justice
to all your wives,
marry one only . . . hence it is more likely
you will not do injustice.'
Thus our father took three wives, rather than four,
for he did not think himself wealthy enough
in patience or worldly possessions
to take a fourth wife
(albeit the Prophet had nine, which,
I overheard my father commenting to my oldest brother,
no doubt gave him the wisdom to determine
the maximum number should be four).
Sometimes my mother would glance at me and my sisters
with a phantom regret in her eyes,
for she had borne no tall sons to my father
as had Sa'uda, his first wife.
It was my mother who ran the household, however --
all the women listened and obeyed when she spoke,
even Sa'uda, who had grown very plump and lazy.
When I looked into my silver backed hand mirror
with the handle of carved white jade,
I could see that my blacksilk dark hair
fell across my pale shoulders in smooth waves;
beneath my arched brows my eyes were soft grey,
shimmering and changing as the feathers
of the wings of my pet dove,
and my lips were red as the flesh of the pomegranate,
Although my two older sisters were very pretty,
the household women cooed at me and caressed me,
saying to each other how exquisite I was,
and that I had a docile and pleasing nature besides.
My father would easily find me a worthy husband
who would not require too large a dowry,
nor mind that I had only a few golden baubles
to bring with me to the marriage --
for the Prophet has said
a woman shall keep her own wealth
when she marries.
The horizon cups the dawn in a golden melon
as the earliest rays of the sun blindly finger the naked pole,
searching for a direction to cast the first timorous shadow.
There is a stirring and a murmuring from the village;
a flash of mica sparks and winks from one of the river stones
that are stacked in small mounds in an uneven semicircle
before the thrusting stake,
smooth round stones as large as a man's clenched fist.
My four brothers, Sa'uda's sons,
were protective and considerate with us, their younger sisters --
strong, fierce young men with neatly trimmed beards,
serious dark faces that reminded me
of my father's hunting falcon
until they smiled with a gleam of white teeth.
Fatima, Sa'uda's only daughter, was born with a withered leg.
This made her always angry.
She would strike the serving women
for no reason except dissatisfaction with herself,
. . . or so it seemed to me.
Her thin, pallid lips twisted down at the corners;
her voice was shrill and mocking.
When she looked at me, cold demons danced behind her eyes.
I knew she did not love me.
When I was very small and Fatima was nine+
she would pinch me to make me cry
and pull my hair when no one was looking.
My mother would frown at the ugly, crescent shaped bruise
on the delicate flesh of my arms,
but when she spoke austerely to Sa'uda,
Sa'uda said it must have been my sisters Khadya and Zubaida,
tormenting me.
Sometimes my sisters would scold Fatima and strike her
for telling tales.
I did not mind Fatima's petty cruelties nor her attempts
to mistreat me,
for everyone else petted and spoiled me
with sweetmeats and carved toys and other gifts.
I especially loved the oranges, round and bright
as the full moon when she first lifts her laughing face
over the edge of the flat rooftops!
Now, as the dawn truly claims the sky,
the men begin moving singly toward the square,
husbands, fathers, sons, brothers.
The lovers come in pairs, hands clasped,
heads inclined toward each other in remembered intimacy.
They as well
are husbands, fathers, sons and brothers.
My sisters and I rarely went beyond the doors of our house;
when we did,
we were shrouded in black from head to foot,
cloaked equally in obscurity.
Even our eyes were hidden behind the opaque screen of the veil,
lest we tempt the obscene stares
of idle and lascivious men.
The only men to whom we might show our faces
were our father, our grandfathers, our brothers,
our maternal uncles.
Once a year, after the fasting that marked each day
of the long month of Ramadan,
the families gather together at dusk with friends and relatives
to celebrate merrily into the night.
Id al-Fitr, the Feast of Breaking the Fast,
is filled with laughter and fireworks,
great platters heavy with an abundance of good things to eat,
and alms and food for the poor.
Our uncles were young and very handsome, or so,
in our maidenly innocence, they seemed to Khadya and Zubaida
and me --
they had been our childhood playmates;
we had studied the verses of the Qur'an together.
The sura that never left my memory
was the Sura of the Folding Up, which says . . .
When the sun shall be folded up;
When the stars shall plummet from the sky;
When the mountains shall be made to disappear;
When the camels ten months heavy with young
shall be left untended;
When the wild beasts shall be herded tamely together;
When the seas shall seethe and boil;
When souls shall be joined again to their bodies;
When the girl who hath been buried alive shall be asked
for what crime she had been put to death;
When the books shall be laid open;
When the heavens shall be sent to a far remove;
When hell shall burn fiercely;
When paradise shall be brought near;
Then shall every soul know what it hath wrought.
As I waited for them to come for me,
it was not death that I feared;
my fear came from my reflections on the Sura of the Folding Up.
I was filled with a great sorrow,
for what should I say when I would appear before God
and He would ask me
why I had been stoned to death?
When our uncles would visit us at Id al-Fitr,
or at other times,
my sisters and I would giggle together
and outline our long eyes with blue kohl
so that we might flirt discreetly with downcast glances
and a muted flutter of lashes.
Our brothers and uncles ignored us, of course,
talking in their deep men's voices
of politics and sports.
My sisters teased me sometimes
because my mother's youngest brother, Reza,
would bring me small gifts, a peacock's feather,
a handful of lemons from my grandfather's courtyard --
Reza was three years older than I, and he had studied
history and mathematics and English --
until my grandfather said, "Enough!"
Reza had made the Hajj pilgrimage to Mecca the year before,
for the Fifth Pillar of Islam requires
that each adult believer make a pilgrimage to Mecca,
at least once in a lifetime, during the Twelfth month, Dhu al Hijjah,
that he be may become hajji,
as were my mothers and my father and the other members
of my family.
I had heard the women say my grandfather
had chosen a wife for Reza
and that when Reza returned hajji, he would marry.
The watchers shift and mutter among themselves.
The slim figure, heavily veiled in white,
stumbles, almost falls, as she is brought forward,
supported on either side by the priest and his acolyte.
The early morning air is crisp and redolent
of charcoal fires and camel dung,
luminous with the faint roseate glow
of the rising sun.
We were as close as brother and sister, Reza and I;
he would tell Khadya and Zubaida and me stories
from the writings of Hazrat Khan,
such as the tale of the man who mocked the sage,
sneering that a Sufi's spoken words could not
heal a sick child,
then became heated and red in the face
when the Sufi called him a fool.
The sage said to the angry man,
"If a word can make you so hot and uncomfortable
you wax ill,
why should a word not have the power to heal?"
"Words can also bring great joy," Reza told me,
brushing his lips lightly with a fingertip and smiling.
My face grew warm
and I did not know where to turn my eyes.
I had no clever remark to lighten the moment,
as had my sister Khadya.
Reza and I were rarely alone,
but when he would come to our house,
I seemed to sense Fatima's jealous glare
always at my back.
At Reza's wedding the women celebrated in their quarters,
apart from the men.
Reza's bride was small and dark and her nose was large,
but, said my mother, so is her dowry.
The morning after the wedding night,
when the women hung the sheet from the balcony,
the bloodstain bloomed like a flower
against the fine white cotton
so that all might see
Reza's wife had been a virgin.
I felt strange when Reza would come into the women's quarters
after his marriage.
He came to visit my mother, his sister--
his wife did not accompany him.
At first he was cheerful and kind to me as ever
. . . yet different, not the same as he had been.
He would follow me and boldly take my hand,
pulling me to him
when no one could see us,
telling me how lovely I was, how graceful;
that he envied the man chosen to be my husband,
for such a man would be favored beyond all others.
He would whisper lines from love poems in my ear,
and once, beneath the spreading branches of the fig tree
that stood guard by the wall
at the end of my father's garden,
he kissed me tenderly on the mouth.
I knew what we were doing was a terrible sin,
a thing forbidden by God and the Prophet Muhammad,
who received the Qur'an from the Angel Gabriel,
the Book that is the Word of God.
I have no excuse, there is no pardon for me!
Ah, what shall we say when we go before God,
the girl who was buried alive
and I,
how shall we answer His questions?
When Reza took me aside again,
I did not resist, but followed him in a dreaming trance.
Now his burning kisses fell on my face and cheeks --
he would not let me draw away.
I let him lead me into the clandestine gloom under the old fig
and there he had carnal knowledge of me.
The piercing, battering pain was far greater
than any pleasure I might have imagined
and the scarlet stain, reminder of my lost virginity,
symbol of my honor,
my father's honor, my brothers' honor,
the honor of our family,
shone like a radiant jewel in the folds of my gown.
The young woman is dragged
toward the waiting post by the two men,
who press her back against the stout wooden pillar,
forcing her upright; ropes appear,
are wrapped around her slender form
and tightened ruthlessly,
binding her so that she cannot struggle.
There is no sound but the harsh breathing of her warders
for beneath the veil that hides her face
her voice has been muffled with a gag.
It would not be decorous should she scream or plead.
Perhaps my father could have arranged a hurried marriage,
if no one were aware of my shame save my mother
and a trusted serving woman.
Perhaps… perhaps…
my mother could have arranged
that my virginity be returned to me for my wedding night,
bribed the village woman who would be sent to examine me
to swear that I was still pure, untouched . . .
my groom's thrusts would burst a small bladder
filled with fresh pigeon's blood.
It would not have been the first time
such a thing had occurred.
In the women's quarters there are many secrets,
mysteries that women must know
to survive.
Fatima had seen Reza lead me away to the fig tree,
and followed us, to spy.
She was afraid to tell my father what she had seen,
so she told her brothers instead.
Our brothers were proud men, mindful of the dignity
of our family.
I was a shameless harlot, unclean.
My mother and my sisters wept until their faces were swollen
and their eyes dulled with tears.
Even Fatima wept…
My father turned away from me when I knelt sobbing
at his feet.
It was my brothers who accused me before the tribunal,
as if they, not Fatima, had witnessed my humiliation,
the loss of my chastity.
The judges passed my sentence in icy calm.
I could not think or reason, or lament my destiny.
I do not remember if I reflected
how dear is life,
how full of wondrous things
that now I would never have the opportunity to experience. . .
I could only tremble, remembering the words
of the Sura of the Folding Up.
When the girl who hath been buried alive shall be asked
for what crime she had been put to death;
. . . Then shall every soul know what it hath wrought.
I do not know Reza's punishment, but he is a man,
and I was an unmarried female.
The priest lifts his arm, lets it fall in a gesture
of dismissal.
The men begin to pick up the stones,
hefting them lightly in their hands
suddenly one of the lovers throws a beautifully rounded stone
that strikes the bound figure with a dull thud.
Another stone flies, another, and another.
A scarlet bloom appears on the white veil.
The men stir restlessly, a few are scowling.
Many stones arc through the air now.
The last stone falls,
the swathed figure shudders,
sags within its bonds.
How like the blood on a new bride's bed sheet
is the blood of the fallen woman…
A cur dog sidles hungrily
toward the huddled, broken body,
sniffing and licking,
runs yelping from a kick in its skinny ribs.
Celestial voices surround me, exalt me;
there is no more pain, nor fear,
nor shame.
I am welcomed into Paradise.
His great mercy enfolds me,
the grace of His love fills me,
and I am at peace.
EPILOGUE
The Last Stone
This poetic prose is a story based on customs which continue to exist in small villages in various parts of the Islamic world.
To the best of my knowledge, there is no country that includes all the practices mentioned. However, today, at this moment
in time, all of them are occurring in those small, isolated villages in Egypt, Iraq, Iran, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia and various
Islamic nations in North Africa.
In addition, the story was inspired by a letter to the editor of a local newspaper in Austin, Texas, written
by a witness who observed the death by stoning of a young woman in a North African nation. There was also
an article in yet another newspaper concerning a woman in the Mid-East who returned to her small village
to visit her mother. She had run away five years before to a large city to avoid a forced marriage with
a man chosen by her father. Her brothers accused her of bringing dishonour to their family and stabbed
her to death in front of the villagers, who were in agreement with her punishment.
The stories never end. Terrible crimes have always been perpetrated in the name of religion,
especially against women, and particularly in those patrilineal/patriarchal cultures guided
by religious extremists.
I was several years investigating and preparing myself to finally write the sad history of
the young woman in the poem. I had the great good luck to meet a wonderful woman poet from Iran,
and she and her husband advised me in regard to many of the details - not only that, my friend
defended me in writing against various accusations (by men, of course) that the poem is offensive,
that since I had never lived in the Mid-East, I was ignorant of the Islamic culture and could not
write about it truthfully.
At times when I present the poem, or when I attempt to discuss with women and/or friends on
the theme of the treatment of women in the world today, that there are millions, genitally mutilated
in the name of religion, murdered by father and brothers in the name of primitive "honour,"
I am told "I don't want to talk about those things. They do not concern me."
I feel that in some way all women are my sisters, and anything that happens to another woman,
no matter where she is or of what religion, concerns me. If telling this story can awaken
the female (or male) conscience to the desperate situations women are living even now, if
there is a new awareness of injustice and persecution of the female, then I have achieved
the goal I set myself when I decided to write The Last Stone.
Sue Littleton
Buenos Aires 2010
Bibliography
Dermenghem, Emile:
Muhammad and the Islamic Tradition (translated from the French by Jean M. Watt) (The Overlook Press, New York 1955).
Fernea, Elizabeth Warnock
Guests of the Sheik, An Ethnography of an Iraqi Village (Anchor Books, Doubleday & Company; Garden City, New York 1969).
Conversation with Dr. Fernea May 1997 affirming validity of what was expressed in The Last Stone after a negative
commentary published as a letter/editorial in the campus newspaper of the University of Texas, by a graduate male
student specializing in the Mid East, Arabia and other Islamic nations.
Graham, Munir (Editor):
Tales Told by Hazrat Inayat Khan (Sufi Order Publications, New York 1980)
Sabini, John:
Islam: A Primer (Middle East Editorial Associates, Washington, D.C.)
Two ethnological documentaries, including one showing the demonstration of the bloodied bed sheet after the wedding night.
A photograph in Life Magazine in the 1992 issue dedicated to "Rites of Passage" of a terrified thirteen year
old Egyptian girl undergoing a clitordectomy which is casually being performed by a man while the girl's mother watches.
"The veiling of women and the segregation of the sexes are not enjoined in the Qur'an.
Women in pre-Islamic Arabia did not wear the face veil . . . women do not wear the veil
when on pilgrimage to Mecca . . . Veiling appears to have been a Byzantine and Persian
custom which was introduced among the Arabs in the 9th century and became a status symbol. . . .
veiling is largely an urban and middle class practice. . . . Today the degree of segregation
varies from country to country. Within the family, segregation traditionally takes the form of the harim.
Harim simply means 'forbidden' and denotes the women's rooms in a house, which are forbidden to strangers;
it does not imply confinement."
"The unrestricted polygamy of pre-Islamic Arabia was reduced in the Qur'an to four legal wives
with the injunction that the husband treat all of them equally. 'Marry the women who seem good
to you, two or three or four, but if you fear you cannot do justice to them [marry] one only . . .
thus it is more likely you will not do injustice.' The message clearly is that, while polygamy is
permitted, monogamy is preferable." Islam: A Primer. John Sabini.
Regarding female circumcision, this is a practice within a strict patriarchal culture.
Studies indicate that twenty million women a year are genitally mutilated in North Africa and certain
parts of the Middle-East.
The Sura of the Folding Up (At Takwir) is an English translation of the actual verse, or Sura 81,
from the Qur'an. (I have slightly reworded the original translation I chose from the many available
to the interested scholar. I especially recommend recordings available on the Internet.
This poem is a fictional story based on customs which are being practiced or were practiced as
recently as ten years ago by several different Islamic cultures. I do not believe that one
culture includes all the practices described, but somewhere, today, all of them are occurring.
Reference here is to certain Islamic nations of North Africa; to Egypt, Iraq, Iraan, Saudi Arabia and Pakistan.
Sue Littleton has been writing for 50 years. Her experiences come from a sheep ranch in West Texas to the sophisticated capital of Argentina,
and from 18 years in Buenos Aires to Austin,Texas.
A college education is a wonderful thing. She graduated at age 57. Her poetry returned to her with intense joy and a range unknown before
the mind-dazzling experiences of undergraduate studies.
Email: Sue Littleton
Return to Table of Contents
|
