Speak Dissent

         They pull you from the street in the middle of the day. A woman alone, roaming the village, is unacceptable. A sharp cuff across the face silences your protests as they throw you into the back of a white Jeep. The faces of children peek from smudged windows, watching in helpless fascination and fear as the police squad loads up and drives away.  Terror catches hold as you sit on the floorboards; the men carry guns and wicked looking knives, but ignore you as the vehicle bounces over ruts in the road.

         The sun is sinking behind dunes when the vehicle stops. Grasped by the arm you are thrown to the ground, walls of stone rise in front of you, dusted with the sand blowing across the desert plain. Iron gates screech open as you are commanded to, “Get up, walk!”

         Stumbling, your muscles stiff from the jouncing of the Jeep, you make your way into the imposing structure. More women wait in a dirty courtyard. A line is forming behind a wooden platform and the uniformed men shoving you forward stop to watch the proceedings. A different group of men walk amongst the women, choosing three they shove them forward to mount the wooden stairs. Following them, a guard, with the scarlet sash professing his elevated rank, positions each along the deck.  Ropes are fitted around their necks. When the floor drops from beneath their feet you turn your face away and vomit into the pink tinted sand.

         When the bodies stop jerking on their ropes the guards herd the women into a dark opening in the stone, you are shoved forward to join the crush. Face bright with unshed tears a woman not much older than you waddles down the corridor beside you. Her belly is huge and swollen, but her face is haunted with fear.

         The line abruptly stops before flowing forward into a gated box. The bars clang shut and a key is turned in the lock. A sob is heard before the whispered admonishment to, “Be quiet!” You disappear against the damp wall, watching as the anxious women hover over a contorted figure on the ground. The noise doesn’t stop, the stomping of feet sounds outside the cell, a warning the guards have been drawn by the noise.

         A light shines in, sweeps across the cowering women to the one straining on the floor. Rapid questions are asked, answered in spurts by the bravest of the women. Dashing back down the hall, the young guard brings back two more men. The oldest, complete with full beard and jagged scar, leans against the cell door’s bars. A match flares to life in his hand, the stench of cigarette smoke fills the corridor, “You’d better pray it’s a boy.”

         His words cut through the terror in your mind. Pulling your knees to your chest you rock back and forth against the wall, praying with all your might. But your prayers go unanswered. When the final push is made a squalling child appears. The guard invades the cell, shoving women out of his way he slices the umbilical cord tying mother to child and examines the infant. Sneering he turns away, clutching the infant child in his hand he locks the cell again.

         The mother pleads in vain; trying to drag herself across the floor she reaches a hand through the iron bars. Begging with the guard to spare her child’s life.

         “This country has no need for girls,” he says. Gently he places the squalling body on the ground, inches from the mother’s outstretched hands. He raises his boot high in the air, you cover your ears and close your eyes, but nothing can keep you from hearing the mother’s cries. The shattered body is left on the concrete when the guards leave, a reminder of how much women and girls are worth in this life.

         Inconsolable the mother lays against the bars, as close to the body of her child as possible. She won’t allow the other women to stop the flow of blood from her body and when next the guards walk by, the life has drained from the woman’s eyes. Eventually the bodies are dragged away, leaving a trail of blood along the hall.

         Each night is the same. Guards shove women, one by one, through the cell door and down the hall. Sometimes they line everyone up in the courtyard to watch the men play. Their favorite game is the random selection of a dozen women; they line them against a blood-smeared wall. Then the guards draw straws. Four are chosen from the group and a single bullet placed in a pistol. The loaded gun is spun so no one knows where the bullet is. Then three more guns are added to the pile and shuffled around. Each man chooses a gun, aims at the wall and fires. On a good night the bullet is fired quickly.

         This becomes your life. You lose track of the days. The only time that concerns you is night, you can tell when the sun is sinking beyond the prison walls. You can’t see it, entombed as you are in cellblock nine, but the echo of booted heels on heavy stone floors gives away the time of day. Cringing in dread you try to disappear against the dampness of molded bars. Here, it’s not the loneliness you hate. It’s not even the coppery tang of too much spilled blood that permeates every inch of the compound, no; the worst part is the waiting. The incessant waiting tears a hole in your chest, that, and the sound of death.

         The screams aren’t the worst; it’s the begging that penetrates your brain. The begging that laces the darkness with another’s pain. The endless pleas sink into your nightmare life. The constant, “Please, anything, I’ll do anything you want, tell you anything you want to know.” But it never stops, even when a scream is abruptly broken off. It’s like the flame of a candle; another life casually snuffed out when watching it writhe is no longer fun.

         When the screeching ends, you try to shrink, blend into the walls, hoping they choose someone else. Praying they don’t take you. Because even in the dark, where food is thrown in, where you feed like ravenous animals for scraps upon the floor, even then, you still breathe.

         But you aren’t always lucky; sometimes you’re visible as you pull your tattered shirt in front of your face. A fragile attempt to hide the brightness of your skin as they shine a light inside, a lottery where the winner gives others pleasure and dies.

          They drag you screaming down the blood trail hall. No matter how you flop around, you’re caught like a fish on a line. They enjoy their job, you know they do, when they shove a body from the elevated table and strap you down in its place. They never wince at the sight of that battered child; they’re too busy anticipating your own trial.

         You pray to God, endless murmurs to incite His mercy. A plea that they are quicker than usual and your suffering doesn’t last all night. For once in the oppressiveness of this new life, you pray for a quick end. As the heavy leather is pulled tight around your legs, when they stretch your arms above your head, the ferocious gleam that shines in their eyes warns you that their rabid actions will be more painful this time.

         Your only hope is that you are too entertaining, too attractive as a captive for their demented games. If you’re a favorite you’ll live longer. The tortures they inflict upon your body will be less damaging. Perhaps you’ll keep all your fingers and toes, unlike some of the other girls. Perhaps they’ll only remove a few or amuse themselves by threatening to.

         When the door opens again a burly guard is led in, a man in cap, holy book in hand follows closely. You fight your bonds and thrash about. You know what comes next. The ceremony is over quickly, your answers neither asked for nor needed. Laughter follows the guards as they file out. You are alone but for the shadow lurking along the wall. The burly man, AK-47 in hand. He stays, because now, through sins you’ve yet to commit, you belong to him.

         The whisper of a zipper sounds; the dampness of the air falls upon your opened thighs as your long skirt is yanked aside. You writhe and fight but to no avail. You cannot buck him from upon you, your movements only incite further wrath upon you as he strikes out. You scream as you are impaled. The movements fast and brutal, you scream as an unknown man rapes you upon the bloody table that serves as your marriage bed.

         When he’s done you stare listlessly into space waiting without curiosity for what will come next. This is the last insult; you must be nearing the end. He pulls a white cloth from the pocket of his shirt, wipes the blood from between your legs and moves away to the door. Pounding against the metal, it opens and more men file in. The cloth is passed from hand to hand. Confirmation they desire to pass the final judgment upon your uncovered head. “Virgin.” They say, “What a lucky man. Take her out behind the shed. Get it up and you can do her again before you put a bullet in her head.”

         Tucking in his shirt he morosely shakes his head. Then, untying the restraints holding you to the metal bed, he drags you from the room. Your feet dig into the concrete of the hall, another bloody trail marking the end. No light awaits you through the open door, only a shallow hole. Only a stretch of dirt to cover the stench of your body as you rot beneath the sun greets you.

         The door opens; a hand at the back of your head shoves you through. A mound of dirt shows under the light beneath the dilapidated shed. Tears roll unchecked down the ragged cheeks of your face. Sobs heave and choke you. There’s no mercy in this godforsaken place.

         “Stand with your heels against the edge,” Your new husband commands. You bow your head, there’s nothing left for you in this world. An invisible hand clenches like a vice around your chest, restricting what’s left of your breath. “Lift your head, it always goes better on the face.”

         The gun is leveled between your eyes, you want to plead, demand to know why, but you already know. Only virgins go to heaven in this part of the world. As the gun is cocked you close your eyes. You want to speak a final line, something to make them remember you by, but some things are worse than the bullet destined to lodge between your eyes. You are silent and stand hunched on the edge of death, a prayer forms in your mind. Lips move silently in the dark of night.

         In cellblock nine, eyes turn to your corner of the crowded cell. The knowledge runs like water through the cowed. Sorrow that another innocent is gone. A prayer is murmured for your departed soul, even as eyes close in blissful thanks that the gunshot that splits the sky was for you.