89"A man, who was completely innocent, is offered as a sacrifice for the good of others, including his enemies, and became the ransom of the world. It was a perfect act."
Mahatma Gandhi
Cold. Silent. Black.
That was the perfect description for the night.
The men were all gathered in the daalan. Today was the day the Jirga was going to announce the final verdict. To decide the penalty for murder. There was only one thought on peoples' minds. Would there be a settlement in cash, in cattle, or would the Yousafzai tribe have to bear the ultimate shame?
The two tribes sat face to face, at opposite ends of the rooms. The Akhunzadas and the Yousafzais. Two different villages. Sworn enemies. And yet sitting in one room. Waiting, hoping, one for reprieve, the other for revenge. Some waited, eyes bloodshot, the others looked on, eyes bloodthirsty.
The accused sat on one of the sofas. He sat proud, no hint of repentance in his stance. No regret in his eyes. After all, he was a Pathan. For him, it was no matter of shame that he'd killed a man so viciously a fortnight before. To him, it was a matter of honor, self respect, that an Akhunzada hunted on his ground. Yousafzai ground. And then dared challenge him. Whatever happened to that man was well deserved.
The Akhunzadas sat united, all hungry wolves determined to avenge their brother, who'd died after a show of immense bravery. Who chose death over dishonor. Who fought and died, instead of begging for mercy. Only one thought revolved around their minds. Only one word became a constant chant in their heads. Revenge.
Amidst the crowd, only two people had emotions different from the other people present in the room. They were sitting to opposite ends of the room.
One was the culprit's eldest brother, whose face was a deadly shade of grey. He would sigh now and then, and his mouth moved in mute prayer. Sometimes he'd glance up at the Akhunzadas, his eyes carrying an unspoken plea he was too proud to voice. They didn't miss the helplessness that reflected from there, and they relished in his misery.
The other person sat with the Akhunzadas. The deceased's nephew, he was a young man, barely twenty three or twenty four. He sat silent, sure of himself, an ugly sneer marring his face. His tribe would look at him with a look of pride, expectation, and hope. For revenge. He kept staring ahead, unconcerned with any of them.
It was obvious that what the older person would lose, he would gain. The older person would look at him now and again, trying to convey a message. The younger would meet his desperate stare with a glassy, shuttered one of his own. There was nothing written in those eyes.
The faint buzzing of the Jirga went on, as the elders of both tribes sat together, trying to come up with a solution that suited them both.
The women quarters were adjacent to the daalan. Here, the two tribes were divided by the same imaginary line that kept the males separate. The Akhunzadas to one side, the Yousafzais to the other. The atmosphere, however, was not hostile. Every person present in the room was staring fixedly at one person, their eyes filled with pity and fear. All mouths were moving in one silent prayer.
The Yousafzais prayed for the verdict to be anything but the ultimate one. The ultimate disgrace to a tribe. The ultimate pain for one family. The topic which had been most frequently discussed by the Jirga.
The eyes of the Akhunzadas held pity. Pity and fear. For they knew their men. They were women too. Whether it was due to weak and soft hearts, or the fact that they were human, they did not want their own kind suffering.
In the middle of them all, a young girl, barely twenty three, sat with her face horribly pale. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she looked tired and exhausted. An older lady, probably her mother, was running her hand down the girl's hair, her eyes overflowing with tears. The mother would sometimes raise her eyes skyward and curse the fact that she was a murderer's sister-in-law. The girl kept silent, her hand clutching an aunt's in a deathly grip. People would come, kiss her cheek, mutter empty words of comfort, and leave, thanking Allah it wasn't their daughter in this situation.
To the Akhunzadas side, there was one middle aged lady who sat staring at the people, expressionless. Her eyes held tears, and yet she wasn't sad. She was the sister-in-law of the deceased, and even though her mind wasn't singing at the thought of revenge, she wasn't fearful of the future. No matter what it was.
The faint buzzing from the other side of the wall could be heard clearly. The women, engrossed as they were in their prayers, kept one ear to the door, not wanting to miss the verdict.
This went on for a good two more hours. Then a resonating silence fell across the house. There was a scrap of chairs and someone cleared their throat. A strong, male voice floated to the women quarters. The man spoke in his native language, Pashto, for the benefit of all the audience.
'My dear brothers… Thank you all for gathering here. It was indeed, a sorry incident that we lost one of our fellow brothers.' He did not sound at all sorry. 'After a long discussion, and a lot of thought, this Jirga has finally come to a decision suitable for all. It was very tough, but this was the only viable solution. We would like to apologize to all those families who are going to be unsatisfied, and effected by our decision. Now, the verdict…'
A hush fell across the crowd. The next word echoed around the room, a dead sentence.
'Swarah'
From the muffled weeping of the crowd in the women quarters, a blood-curdling scream rose. And the girl sitting with the red swollen eyes, collapsed to the floor.
To the other side, while the Yousafzais sat, eyes downcast, shamed, the Akhunzadas got up and embraced the same young man with a sneer on his face. He was smiling now, a cold, indifferent smile.
People congratulated him saying, 'Congratulations, Ahad. Make us proud. Avenge your uncle.'
Ahad looked up, his eyes taking a strange twinkle, and nodded.
Hey...
This scene is based in a remote village of NWFP, Pakistan, called Sawabi.
i'm aware of the fact that some of you might have a problem understanding a few words, and thus i've kept those word fonts in italics. the meanings, are as follows.
Daalan: a living room with beds made of reed and an open fire.
Jirga: a tribal assembly of elders which takes decisions by consensus, particularly among the Pathan but also in other ethnic groups near them.
Swarah: Besides murder or taking revenge for settling the score and protecting and keeping the honour, in Pukhtu there are other rules as well for solving the issue peacefully and amicably and bringing an end to the would-be bloodshed. Under one of these rules, if the aggrieved party agrees to settle the issue amicably, sometimes the party who has done the wrong gives a girl in marriage to a male member of the aggrieved party. Sometimes the aggrieved party asks for the girl. The girl of the aggressive side betrothed with or married to a male member of the aggrieved party in such a manner is called swarah (also written as swara).