Each year, we are told, more than one hundred women are victims of acid attacks in Pakistan alone (that is only the reported number), and until recently, there was no legislation punishing the cowards who effectively ended these women's lives without killing them. This particular gesture (throwing very powerful acid in the faces of women and girls) is reserved for wives who no longer intrigue their husbands, girls who refuse the advances or proposals of potential suitors, even in-laws as often other women will will sometimes employ this tactic on a sister or daughter-in-law. It is not unique to Pakistan, and is seen in countries as far away as those in South America. Nor is it a Muslim phenomenon, although that seems to serve the media best as an Islamic practice. As I listened to the news today, I sat in silence as I heard of another woman here in the USA killing a pregnant woman for her unborn baby. This happens often, and in many cases, the murderer cuts the baby from its dead mother's womb. I hear all the time that we are a Christian nation, but I never hear those same pundits attribute this heinous practice to Christianity. Perhaps that is the benefit of our diversity - we are diluted (or deluded) enough that nothing we don't like sticks to us. But if we were more homogeneous, I would like to see the argument that correlates the brutal murder of a pregnant woman and the subsequent dissection of her body to extract a fetus to our Nation's faith.
Zakia stumbled forward as she tried to hold her face together with a limb that no longer responded to her. In the second or so it took to collapse, her focus shifted from the incredible heat and pain engulfing her to her children - were they with her now, had they been hurt - she had no idea where she was or what had happened to her. She tried to call their names, but her mouth, like her dead hand, no longer obeyed her. Trying to call out increased her pain, and she compensated by lunging forward in her blindness to shield them from this horror. As she hit the ground, she curled up instinctively desperately trying to stop the agony that seemed to be growing across her face like a living, hungry thing. She pressed what felt like the stump of her hand to her face, pushing as hard as she could. She heard muted voices and felt pressure on her body that must have been from other hands. She didn't know if those hands belonged to her children, the monster who did this to her, or bystanders. Still trying to call out to her children, she lost consciousness.
There had been plenty of witnesses, many who saw the nondescript man in flip flops dash across the courtyard to the steps leading down to the street, with a small plain bottle in his hand, a glass bottle one would recall later. He had stopped short of a woman coming out of the court, and after a second of hesitation, he had flung the contents of his container towards her head. No one knew what was happening, no one had the schema for it. The also stood in shock as the woman screamed, clutched wildly at her face, then fell down in a heap making low and garbled noises. They did see the curious bit of smoke rising from her, and as they rushed forward and converged on her, they smelled it too. As they began to claw at her trying to turn her and pull her up, all but one shrank away as they managed to pull her arm up from her face exposing a sick and messy mixture of blood, muscle, bone, mucous, and concrete where her face seemed melded to the step.
These Samaritans did recover, and as they lifted her up from her repose, none noticed the author of this tragedy a dozen meters away, half smiling, watching in wonder at the drama unfolding. Perhaps he really hadn't thought this through - perhaps he knew he would take away her face, but hadn't imagined the entire process. There would be no way to know what was behind the smirk, maybe just the assurance that he had done what he needed to do, and no power on earth would punish him. He stood there as they carried the remains of his wife, the mother of his children, down to the street to shove her in a taxi. He glanced down at the stain on the step that had once been her face, blinked a few times, and turned to head home without much thought, most likely a hero.
She came to in a rush of noises, smells, and the feeling of being buried. She had no way of knowing she was in the back seat of a cab with three men holding her urging the driver on to the hospital frantically. Her remaining ear was pressed down into the seat, as well as the sole eye she now possessed. She couldn't see or hear clearly, and when she tried to move her numbed arm all she felt was resisting pressure. She muttered a few prayers until she remembered her children and began to trash wildly. The more she fought, the more weight she felt down upon her. Eventually she gave in, trusting that Allah had tended to her children. She became aware agian of the pain in this moment of resignation, and redirected her resolve to manage it. She still did not know where she was, where she had been, or why she could not hear, see, or feel anything. Perhaps she was in hell, she really did not know.
The darkness crept in again, and she felt the beginnings of a dream - she had no word for hallucination in her language, and embraced the familiar escape, no matter where it lead her. She dreamt she was fighting with her husband, or at least, fending him off. He had grown more violent lately, as she could no longer give him enough money for his habits, and the combination of drug addition and spite had made the beatings more vivid. At 39, she had learned to absorb his anger but it was taking its toll. On this occasion, he had knocked her to the ground and was beating her savagely in the head. She could feel her face coming apart, could feel the blood spraying everywhere. But it was a dream, and when she woke she would be sore, but whole again - at least what passed for being whole in a living nightmare worse than the cruel imagination of her dreams.
To be continued.....
Zakia stumbled forward as she tried to hold her face together with a limb that no longer responded to her. In the second or so it took to collapse, her focus shifted from the incredible heat and pain engulfing her to her children - were they with her now, had they been hurt - she had no idea where she was or what had happened to her. She tried to call their names, but her mouth, like her dead hand, no longer obeyed her. Trying to call out increased her pain, and she compensated by lunging forward in her blindness to shield them from this horror. As she hit the ground, she curled up instinctively desperately trying to stop the agony that seemed to be growing across her face like a living, hungry thing. She pressed what felt like the stump of her hand to her face, pushing as hard as she could. She heard muted voices and felt pressure on her body that must have been from other hands. She didn't know if those hands belonged to her children, the monster who did this to her, or bystanders. Still trying to call out to her children, she lost consciousness.
There had been plenty of witnesses, many who saw the nondescript man in flip flops dash across the courtyard to the steps leading down to the street, with a small plain bottle in his hand, a glass bottle one would recall later. He had stopped short of a woman coming out of the court, and after a second of hesitation, he had flung the contents of his container towards her head. No one knew what was happening, no one had the schema for it. The also stood in shock as the woman screamed, clutched wildly at her face, then fell down in a heap making low and garbled noises. They did see the curious bit of smoke rising from her, and as they rushed forward and converged on her, they smelled it too. As they began to claw at her trying to turn her and pull her up, all but one shrank away as they managed to pull her arm up from her face exposing a sick and messy mixture of blood, muscle, bone, mucous, and concrete where her face seemed melded to the step.
These Samaritans did recover, and as they lifted her up from her repose, none noticed the author of this tragedy a dozen meters away, half smiling, watching in wonder at the drama unfolding. Perhaps he really hadn't thought this through - perhaps he knew he would take away her face, but hadn't imagined the entire process. There would be no way to know what was behind the smirk, maybe just the assurance that he had done what he needed to do, and no power on earth would punish him. He stood there as they carried the remains of his wife, the mother of his children, down to the street to shove her in a taxi. He glanced down at the stain on the step that had once been her face, blinked a few times, and turned to head home without much thought, most likely a hero.
She came to in a rush of noises, smells, and the feeling of being buried. She had no way of knowing she was in the back seat of a cab with three men holding her urging the driver on to the hospital frantically. Her remaining ear was pressed down into the seat, as well as the sole eye she now possessed. She couldn't see or hear clearly, and when she tried to move her numbed arm all she felt was resisting pressure. She muttered a few prayers until she remembered her children and began to trash wildly. The more she fought, the more weight she felt down upon her. Eventually she gave in, trusting that Allah had tended to her children. She became aware agian of the pain in this moment of resignation, and redirected her resolve to manage it. She still did not know where she was, where she had been, or why she could not hear, see, or feel anything. Perhaps she was in hell, she really did not know.
The darkness crept in again, and she felt the beginnings of a dream - she had no word for hallucination in her language, and embraced the familiar escape, no matter where it lead her. She dreamt she was fighting with her husband, or at least, fending him off. He had grown more violent lately, as she could no longer give him enough money for his habits, and the combination of drug addition and spite had made the beatings more vivid. At 39, she had learned to absorb his anger but it was taking its toll. On this occasion, he had knocked her to the ground and was beating her savagely in the head. She could feel her face coming apart, could feel the blood spraying everywhere. But it was a dream, and when she woke she would be sore, but whole again - at least what passed for being whole in a living nightmare worse than the cruel imagination of her dreams.
To be continued.....
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