Literally stories receive quite a number of submissions from writers who have English as a second language. More often than not we have to reject them for technical reasons. Every once in a wonderful while we receive something that we cannot reject. It has been an honour and a privilege working with Freshta and we proudly present her story
Black Orange.
They are sneering at you, the white plastic bag of oranges and his hand in his right pocket. That could be your hand. You try not to think of anything, to keep your head, but something pushes you and everything comes into your eyes as on a tv screen. You remember the time when you were still in your class and you were allowed to laugh at his jokes and he always shocked you and looked with his eyes wide open at your grades. He was cool, funny, polite and a little bit lazy. Not that he doesn’t study at all. It’s just that studying was not as important as it is to you. As for most boys.
He was getting lower grades than you and was studying less than you. Now you look at him, clench your hand in your right pocket and think about the 30% you rejected. The 30% that he is buying oranges with. You know that now, if you improve your English a hundred times more than him and even if you get 120 in the international TOEFL exam, let alone the orange, you won’t have any Afghani money with which you can buy chewing gum or pay for the bus to escape home. For hours in the days when all things around are trying to suffocate you. The decree that Taliban announced strikes your head, like an axe to a green tree. “The Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan announces that girls and women are banned from working in any governmental or nongovernmental organization. Until further notice, a female has not the right to work.” And just yesterday, some educated, open minded women went out to fight for their basic right. For the right of work in 21st century! You were also there, in the protest. But what happened? The Taliban shot at you protestors, arrested some women. The women shouted, the men watched, you were angry, you were scared, you spat on a Talib’s back secretly, you cried. And what was the world’s reaction? “We strongly condemn this decision of the Taliban!” And you understood that the United Nations is only a symbol. No one cares. You are alone. An 18 year old girl in front of a cruel army that hates you and tries to eliminate you.
You fall back to the day when the guard stopped you at the Wassa’s door where you were studying computer. He allowed that young boy who was wearing smoked glasses and had long curly hair to enter. The tremor that had gripped your heart since the first day of Taliban arrival crept into your voice and you barely could say the word “why?” And he started like the black old radio of your grandfather: “It is closed until further notice. Don’t you have a TV? Last night they officially announced that all schools and educational centers are closed for girls until further notice. Only for girls. They even brought a letter yesterday. Last night, my daughter was crying until the morning. You know my daughter, my daughter studies from night to morning. She had the nickname of genius in her school. Like you, she always has a book in her arms. She finished her English last year. She teaches. What was the name of the Academy? Oh, I can’t remember. I forget. It had an English name. Old age brings a thousand errors my daughter. She’s studying for Kankor examination and pays for classes herself. But now… But don’t be sad, my daughter. Don’t be sad. Did you see that night always stays night? Has anyone seen this? Kind Allah will punish this hard, cruel people. My God, our God will order the earth to swallow these.”
If another young man had not come and interrupted the one-to one conversation between you and the guard and you were not pushed back so that the boy who arrived later than you could enter earlier, maybe he would have never stopped talking. And never stopped thinking, but you come to yourself. In fact, they bring you to yourself. You bend down and pick up your entrance card from the ground, put it on your head. You hide yourself in it. In your forced chador, your entrance card. You are ashamed of the kind guard who called you a professor. Ashamed of your new shoes and ashamed of all the male shoes who have permission to enter anywhere that your shoes don’t. Ashamed of Farhanaz’s big black backpack, for which you exchanged your white, beautiful dress. She waited 1 year and 6 months first. But no further notice came to let her go to school, and she wasn’t lucky enough to be in the first to sixth grades and so was able to study, get beaten, pick at her cuticles and be under the tents that smelled of forty kinds of student’s sweat and various perfumes of teachers in the hot sun, and in the mornings who falls asleep and is late, is made to bow and straighten herself twenty or thirty times as punishment, and listens to advice every day. She finally decided to exchange her bag for your dress and for a long time was happy that she had fooled you in that deal. Ashamed of your father, who was giving you money six days a week and was insisting that you don’t walk all that long commute. Ashamed of all those who encouraged you all this time. You are ashamed of Gabriel García Márquez, Mrs Afsana Vahidyar and Anton Chekhov, who sat in your bag and watched your failures, and you start to hate yourself. You sit on the side of the road, where the path splits in half, and you cry and decide. You get up and walk the way you just walked. Again. This time without your entrance card and looking only forward, not down. You don’t even wear the Chador where you have to wear it. You say to yourself: “Why should I listen to them when they don’t recognize me as a human and try not to let me breathe? And as soon as you arrive, you start kicking. But the door is stronger than you and nothing happens to it. Or no, maybe it is screaming from the inside. You kick, you look and nothing changes. It’s the same big black door with a handle that has been pulled too much and its color is lighter and sadder. Just like the color of the city in you. The door is so similar to you. You were also screaming inside and apparently, nothing changed and you still had the same eyes and body with the right to be nothing. You kick again and another man comes and he is afraid of you and joins the crowd of taxis and passersby who are watching this circus. A woman’s voice passes you and says, “Shit. What they’re doing with these shameless, wild girls is not even enough. And she goes…
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