cloth dyer.”
The children look at each other. They are quite sure that the parents of their friends do not talk to each other like this. Bibi-Kuchik, Jalal’s sister, rolls her eyes and glances at her siblings.
Her brother, Bahram, is confused. He asks a question. “Father, at the mosque we are told that women should be subservient to their husbands. And that girls should not receive education. Are these teachings wrong?”
‘Abdu’llah’s face grows serious. He turns to Bahram, now just ten years old, and says, “In some areas I disagree with Mulla Ibrahim’s interpretation of the Qur’an.”
“Without thinking much about them, I might add,” Nadja interjects.
“Still, we must live in peace in this hamlet,” ‘Abdu’llah continues.
Nadja needles her husband: “Your father is saying that it’s good for business to keep our views to ourselves.”
‘Abdu’llah ignores his wife and says, “You can see what happens when someone, like Shaykh Ahmad, speaks up with a different interpretation. Most people cannot tolerate a difference of opinion when it comes to religion, and in Islam the role of women is a religious issue.”
Jalal speaks for the first time. “But if someone truly believes in something, shouldn’t he speak up? I’m thinking of mother, who is not only educated but a gifted poet. Is she not being hurt by our failing to announce her gift and publish her works? Are not many others being deprived of the beauty and elegance of her verses?”
Nadja beams at this unexpected compliment. She takes Jalal’s hand and squeezes it. Then she smugly turns to her husband for his reply.
“My son, we cannot change our culture or the attitudes of our neighbors by engaging in defiant, even heroic acts. This would serve no purpose, for our neighbors are not ready for change. Of that I am certain.” Like ‘Abdu’llah, Nadja harbors fears of retaliation, false accusations of heresy, religious persecution, even loss of business. “Perhaps when the Qa’im appears he will set the matter straight and we will no longer have to disagree with the religious authorities on these matters. They will be better informed, and women will become equals.”
‘Abdu’llah feels a need to switch topics, so he stands and gestures for Jalal to stand with him. “If I may change the subject… as you all know, in one week I will be taking Jalal to the madrisih in Mashhad. I wanted a special gift to mark this auspicious event. Finally I came up with an idea. I hope you will like it, my son.”
‘Abdu’llah walks to the other side of the large room and finds the red velvet pouch containing the sword. He carries it to Jalal and presents it to him with a slight nod of the head.
Jalal immediately knows what the pouch contains. With eager hands he removes the wooden scabbard from the pouch and marvels at its magnificence.
“Go ahead, remove the sword,” ‘Abdu’llah suggests.
Jalal grips the hilt and pulls out the glinting sword. Stunned at its beauty, he drops to his knees, holding the flat blade across the outstretched palms of his hands. He looks up at his father. “I don’t know what to say. It’s… it’s beyond my imagination.”
“It’s not imagination,” ‘Abdu’llah says. “It’s very real. It was made especially for you.”
“And I will never be without it.”
This is a Persian boy’s dream, to own a sword that will be the envy of all. He wants to take the sword and race to Ali’s home. He wants to share the magic of this blessed gift with his best friend. But he knows that the streets are dark and dangerous at this hour.
He stands, holding the heavy sword gallantly in one hand. And then it happens. His hand begins to tremble—not nerves, or fear, but some tremor erupting from the core of his body. Nadja rises, concern turning to terror as Jalal drops the sword and slowly slumps to the carpeted floor, his whole body shaking. Nadja throws herself onto him, trying to smother his convulsions
The children look at each other. They are quite sure that the parents of their friends do not talk to each other like this. Bibi-Kuchik, Jalal’s sister, rolls her eyes and glances at her siblings.
Her brother, Bahram, is confused. He asks a question. “Father, at the mosque we are told that women should be subservient to their husbands. And that girls should not receive education. Are these teachings wrong?”
‘Abdu’llah’s face grows serious. He turns to Bahram, now just ten years old, and says, “In some areas I disagree with Mulla Ibrahim’s interpretation of the Qur’an.”
“Without thinking much about them, I might add,” Nadja interjects.
“Still, we must live in peace in this hamlet,” ‘Abdu’llah continues.
Nadja needles her husband: “Your father is saying that it’s good for business to keep our views to ourselves.”
‘Abdu’llah ignores his wife and says, “You can see what happens when someone, like Shaykh Ahmad, speaks up with a different interpretation. Most people cannot tolerate a difference of opinion when it comes to religion, and in Islam the role of women is a religious issue.”
Jalal speaks for the first time. “But if someone truly believes in something, shouldn’t he speak up? I’m thinking of mother, who is not only educated but a gifted poet. Is she not being hurt by our failing to announce her gift and publish her works? Are not many others being deprived of the beauty and elegance of her verses?”
Nadja beams at this unexpected compliment. She takes Jalal’s hand and squeezes it. Then she smugly turns to her husband for his reply.
“My son, we cannot change our culture or the attitudes of our neighbors by engaging in defiant, even heroic acts. This would serve no purpose, for our neighbors are not ready for change. Of that I am certain.” Like ‘Abdu’llah, Nadja harbors fears of retaliation, false accusations of heresy, religious persecution, even loss of business. “Perhaps when the Qa’im appears he will set the matter straight and we will no longer have to disagree with the religious authorities on these matters. They will be better informed, and women will become equals.”
‘Abdu’llah feels a need to switch topics, so he stands and gestures for Jalal to stand with him. “If I may change the subject… as you all know, in one week I will be taking Jalal to the madrisih in Mashhad. I wanted a special gift to mark this auspicious event. Finally I came up with an idea. I hope you will like it, my son.”
‘Abdu’llah walks to the other side of the large room and finds the red velvet pouch containing the sword. He carries it to Jalal and presents it to him with a slight nod of the head.
Jalal immediately knows what the pouch contains. With eager hands he removes the wooden scabbard from the pouch and marvels at its magnificence.
“Go ahead, remove the sword,” ‘Abdu’llah suggests.
Jalal grips the hilt and pulls out the glinting sword. Stunned at its beauty, he drops to his knees, holding the flat blade across the outstretched palms of his hands. He looks up at his father. “I don’t know what to say. It’s… it’s beyond my imagination.”
“It’s not imagination,” ‘Abdu’llah says. “It’s very real. It was made especially for you.”
“And I will never be without it.”
This is a Persian boy’s dream, to own a sword that will be the envy of all. He wants to take the sword and race to Ali’s home. He wants to share the magic of this blessed gift with his best friend. But he knows that the streets are dark and dangerous at this hour.
He stands, holding the heavy sword gallantly in one hand. And then it happens. His hand begins to tremble—not nerves, or fear, but some tremor erupting from the core of his body. Nadja rises, concern turning to terror as Jalal drops the sword and slowly slumps to the carpeted floor, his whole body shaking. Nadja throws herself onto him, trying to smother his convulsions
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