I Should Have Honor Read online

  I Should Have Honor is a work of nonfiction. Some names and identifying details have been changed.

  Copyright © 2018 by Khalida Brohi

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint and division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  RANDOM HOUSE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Hardback ISBN 9780399588013

  Ebook ISBN 9780399588020

  randomhousebooks.com

  All photographs, unless otherwise indicated, are courtesy of the author

  Book design by Barbara M. Bachman, adapted for ebook

  Cover design: Anna Kochman

  Cover illustration: Peter Lemeunnie, modele d’indienne (gouache on paper), Musée des Beaux-Arts, Angers/Bridgeman Images

  v5.3.2

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Part One

  Chapter 1: Light of the World

  Chapter 2: The Exchange

  Chapter 3: Bundle of Hope

  Chapter 4: Dreams of My Father

  Chapter 5: The Child Bride

  Chapter 6: Romance in the Village

  Chapter 7: A Matter of Honor

  Chapter 8: A New Beginning

  Chapter 9: Mornings in Kotri

  Chapter 10: A Street Kid

  Chapter 11: My Heart Belongs to the Mountains

  Chapter 12: The Overnight Adult

  Chapter 13: A Question of Honor

  Part Two

  Chapter 14: Life After the Murder

  Chapter 15: A Youth Revolution

  Chapter 16: The WAKE UP Campaign Against Honor Killings

  Chapter 17: To America for the First Time

  Chapter 18: Don’t Cry, Strategize

  Chapter 19: Being Unreasonable

  Chapter 20: The Stroke

  Chapter 21: My Strategy to End Honor Killings

  Chapter 22: Pakistan’s Tribal Fashion Brand

  Chapter 23: Kalsoom

  Chapter 24: Noreen

  Chapter 25: The Year of Hardships

  Chapter 26: Love in Los Angeles

  Chapter 27: Guilt and Reconciliation

  Chapter 28: A Love Marriage in Pakistan

  Chapter 29: Aba’s Confession

  Chapter 30: Borders

  Chapter 31: The Victory of Love

  Chapter 32: God’s Justice

  Chapter 33: A Big Tribal Wedding

  Chapter 34: Gang of Thieves

  Epilogue

  Photo Insert

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Glossary

  About the Author

  THERE IS A SAYING IN my tribe: Izzat mare, pen mare te maf.

  “Even if I have nothing, I should have honor.”

  Like any other girl in my village, I associated the concepts of honor and dishonor with my father. I knew, in the way that I knew the sun rises from the east, that as his eldest daughter, I was the person who could dishonor him the most. In my childhood I would spend days and hours worrying about how to keep the honor of my father alive, and how never to stain it.

  Every time I thought of honor, a small girl would come to mind, a girl wearing a long chador (veil), standing behind the weatherbeaten wooden door of her house, peeking through the cracks, staring at me while I played with my friends in the streets. She would be one of the girls in the village who wasn’t allowed to play with me and my friends as we ran around yelling at one another, playing kho (hide-and-seek) or making clay dolls. She was each of those girls who stayed behind, peeking from the windows and doors when I went to call them to play. There were moments in our game of kho when I would steal a glimpse of these girls and feel a stab of jealousy in my heart for how strong they must be, to stay behind at home and honor their fathers. I wished I could do that. Or I wished I were forced to do that. But instead games, clay dolls, and experiences running free were my reality.

  At times I would see my cousins run off, their faces flushed, hiding smiles, the corner of their scarves stuffed in their mouths each time their mothers spoke about their marriages. “Look at the honor of my house,” the mother would beam, “shy as a little kitten!” The jealousy would return….I would never feel so shy perhaps. I am definitely going to dishonor my father, I would think to myself with a sinking heart.

  As I grew older, my innocent understanding of honor and dishonor expanded through hushed whispers of the women in our haveli (traditional communal home of an extended family). As the word murder emerged in the same conversations as honor, my fear and anxiety about this topic became stronger—women and girls killed because they brought shame on their male relatives and their houses. The biggest dishonor to a house, it seemed, was a girl gone “wrong.” Never really understanding what that meant, I had promised myself I would never go “wrong.”

  Then one day when I was about ten years old, my father sat me down and asked me the question I dreaded the most.

  “Khali,” he said in a tone that made no effort to hide his affection and worry, “do you know how you will dishonor me?” Blood drained from my round cheeks, my mouth became dry, and I felt light-headed and heavy in my body at the same time. I didn’t say anything, understanding very well that he knew the answer to his question. He knew clearly but wanted to hear it from me.

  I did not want to say it aloud. The idea of going “wrong” was a bitter taste in my mouth, a devil lurking in the woods, a ghost hiding behind doors, all those things I feared. And yet I didn’t even know what “wrong” meant. So I kept quiet, letting the thick air hold me still as my breathing turned shallow.

  My father’s eyes looked straight into mine. Fear now took physical shape and danced in front of my eyes as I stared back at him, afraid that he could see it too.

  “Khali,” he continued with the same grimness, “you will dishonor me the day you fail to bring good grades home.”

  I thought I was not hearing him correctly. “I have risked every bit of my dignity by bringing you and your sisters to the city,” he continued. “I have brought tears into my own father’s eyes. I have argued with my friends about my decision to give you freedom, and with this freedom they tell me you can easily destroy my honor. My honor now lies with you, my Khali, and the day you stop working hard and fail in school, I will be completely dishonored.”

  He kept speaking, but I wasn’t able to hear anything else. My universe was slowly taking a new shape around me. My mind and heart filled with fresh awareness, and my brain opened with the burst of this new knowledge. A secret was spoken to me that day, a secret that would later help me stand strong in the face of a centuries-old custom. Life would later call me to speak this truth. I would be able to remind people what honor really meant. Honor is not murder. And dishonor is not a girl who goes to school. It is not a girl who plays outside. It is not a girl who refuses to marry at a young age. It is not a girl who speaks, laughs, and takes the opportunities that come in front of her. Instead, honor is identity. Honor is dignity. Honor is serving those we love with integrity and hard work; it is respecting one another, welcoming the stranger, and speaking and being proud of your own language. It is providing for your fa
mily, striving for the best in life, and praying for the best for people; it is being a nation that people praise and respect.

  This awakening to the real meaning of honor gave me the clarity to be angry when a murder close to my home shook my understanding of the world. I stood up to fight this unjust crime. And I started on a journey of reminding people what true honor is. I would raise my voice, look deep into our cultural values, and ask, Where exactly did honor attach itself to murder? I would examine our religious guidance to try to understand how the Holy Quran could call daughters rehmat (blessing) when people who called themselves Muslims were practicing this brutal custom.

  That day my father took the biggest weight from my shoulders and in its place attached two wings. I soared in this new awareness. I was free from the fear that makes women tell their peers to accept their fate, to stay quiet in the face of injustice. And more than anything, I was free to tell my story and the stories of those like me to the world.

  I wrote this book because it is time to share this story. My story is not unique. It is the story of thousands of girls and women in Pakistan who are unable to grow because of a lack of opportunities or lack of voice.

  I proudly call myself a tribal woman, and I carry with me hundreds of stories that have shaped and enriched my life and connected me to every single woman in my country. But it is time to have an intimate conversation about the taboos surrounding honor killings, to share stories and expose the complexities of a society that gets easily overgeneralized, never letting us have a deeper sense of why these issues are still rampant.

  I was born in a tribal area of Pakistan, moved among rural communities, slum communities, towns, and cities, and even set foot in elite circles. I came to see firsthand what has made my country strong. Despite honor killings and poverty, people in Pakistan thrive and continue to grow. I want to move the conversation from politics to people, toward real human stories. Because at the end of the day, we are solving real human issues.

  Finally, I wrote this book because I truly believe in honor. Honor has been misused for centuries. We have come to feel it is ugly and unnecessary. But in reality it is a beautiful, powerful value that grounds us and makes us stronger. It is time now to redefine honor and make it a part of each and every one of us. Honor is what gives us the strength to fight for what is right, to stand up for justice, for goodness, to be strong in faith and belief, and to defend our bodies, our cultures, and our environment. By reclaiming our honor, we will take the power away from those who use it against us. By taking charge of our identity, we will stop those who decide our fate. And by believing that we should have honor, we will start on the journey to being stronger in ourselves.

  I often meet young people who are excited about a cause but are waiting for that one thing that will help them begin. But you already have all you need to start. I take pride that I created paths where no path existed, that I mobilized people and organized groups where it appeared the hardest. My life has constantly brought moments where I had to make one decision: If the resources to help me with my goal do not exist, do I wait for them to materialize, or do I create them myself? I realized while writing this book that I was able to create them from nothing because of a deeply rooted sense of justice, of honor. Honor in that sense was my fuel and the source of my innovation, whether it meant using only ten minutes of Internet time to create an online campaign, or bringing tribal men together by organizing a cricket match. Finding what gives you honor will empower you with the determination and creativity you need to create anything you imagine, anything that gives you great joy.

  LONG BEFORE I WAS BORN, my mother lived in a small village in the heart of the vast rugged mountains of Balochistan, Pakistan’s largest province. Everywhere you looked, there were dry, tall mountains, dotted with wild shrubs and pink flowers. Many tribes call this land home, including mine, the Brahui, who have been part of it for nearly five thousand years. Balochistan, though mostly dry and barren, is a vast, colorful, and largely unpopulated land with a beautiful coast that boasts one of the greatest natural ports in the world, one coveted by many governments through history. Vast blue sky envelops valleys, villages, and towns. The people are shepherds, farmers, homesteaders, and local entrepreneurs. They cling to their traditions with their hearts and to their honor with pride.

  Noor Jehan means “light of the world.” True to her name, my mother grew to be an indigenous girl with a big heart and a spirit full of wonder, faith, and immense love for her tribe. She was the third of nine children, and like many children in her village, she became an adult at a very young age. Most children are given only the first two years for infancy, then three years to learn to be responsible. Around the age of seven or eight, children get busy helping their parents with daily chores, taking care of other, younger siblings, and, in the case of boys, sometimes even earning income for the family. Taking on adult responsibilities makes the majority of children look like adults. Oftentimes they are betrothed to be married at the first trace of puberty.

  For my mother, that transition from childhood to adulthood was not easy. As a free spirit, she found it hard not to run around with the wind. But responsibilities soon started to tie her down. By the age of three, she was helping her mother in the house. By the time she was eight, she was practically managing the home on her own. Every morning when my bhalla ama (literally “big mother,” grandmother) crossed the small stream that flowed near their mud haveli (the traditional family compound) to the vegetable fields to help my grandfather plant new seeds or harvest, it was my mother who swept the kitchen and washed the dishes while squatting on the dirt floor. She dunked a rag into the ashes from the previous night’s wood and scrubbed every pot and steel plate until her little arms ached. She rinsed the dishes in a clean bowl of water, then placed them in a metal basket to dry, eventually lining up the clean pots and pans neatly on the wooden shelf that my bhalla aba (grandfather) had built from a tree he once chopped. Then she swept the dirt floor with a hand broom made of dried date leaves, crouching to brush the compacted earth as if shooing away a mouse, until the dirt floor lay perfectly smooth and flawless. Finally, after she completed all these chores, she picked up her younger sister Lal Bibi (Diamond), just a toddler at the time, and walked to the fields to meet her mother so she could nurse the baby.

  Although Noor Jehan was an obedient child, she was also adventurous and sometimes impatient. Unhappy with her endless chores, she tried to finish them as quickly as possible so she could run off to the trees and find her friends. Sometimes she had to bathe the baby before taking her to nurse with her mother, and if the baby cried too hard, she would secretly pinch her on the arm to make her stop. Life was hard for everyone, and it was never too early to learn that.

  Despite the hardships, Noor Jehan had an infectious humor, boundless positivity, and a sense of possibility. She wanted to run. She wanted to do things that made her feel free. While other girls in the village played with dolls and performed weddings with them, my mother climbed up the old pomegranate tree in the yard of the mud haveli. When the wind blew dirt and the soft scent of the fresh spring water, she would climb higher and pretend to be on top of the world, the fragrant breeze licking her little face.

  She played fitu (hopscotch) with her friends, making marks on the ground and jumping in them without touching the lines. As the sun set every night, she sat with her siblings and parents listening to the stories of wild animals that her father or uncle had encountered, wonder filling every part of her, and stars filling the sky over her head.

  Then one summer day when my mother was nine years old, everything changed forever.

  IT WAS AN EARLY MORNING like all the others. The sun peeked slowly over the tip of the mountains, and the sky was its brightest blue with feathery clouds sleepily drifting through. A donkey cart stopped near the haveli. Like most donkey carts in Pakistan, this one was a simple platform over two wheels with a harness for one donke
y. The driver sat crossed-legged at the reins holding a switch. The cart was old and worn, with the odd wobble, yet was versatile enough to carry any load. It worked hard like everything else. The donkey was in about the same condition. The cart came to an unceremonious stop at the gate, and Mohim Khan, my maternal grandfather, climbed down, beaming with joy.

  Bhalla Aba was—and still is—a tall, thin man with a shorn head and a large toothless smile. Lore has it that he used to be very handsome, with great powers of influence and persuasion. Even in poverty he wore pure cotton dresses that were soaked in rice starch to make them stiff, adding to his distinguished, sharp look. “Sharam Naz,” he called out to his wife, a hint of decision in his voice. Then he called out to my mother who paused while scooping some water from the bucket where she was washing her siblings before breakfast. “Come now! We’re all going to Sindh.”

  “Sindh! Really?” my mother exclaimed in happy surprise. She and her siblings had heard about Sindh in stories told over chai or at bedtime on the charpoys, the woven wooden cots that they dragged from a corner every night to sleep under the naked sky, sandwiched warmly between rilis (traditional quilts). Never had they dreamed of going there. She saw the uncles and aunts who lived there only when they came to visit in Balochistan. So going all the way down to that foreign land was the biggest mistai (good news) she had ever heard!

  My mother excitedly washed the faces of her brothers and sisters, full of joy. She collected the bedrolls that they would spread each night on the charpoys (a task her mother usually did), and she collected cow dung and wood to make fire for the breakfast chai. Bhalla Ama and Bhalla Aba spoke in hushed tones in a dark room in a corner of the haveli.