the class that she hadn't meant to say whore but fallen woman. But the explanation came too late, as many of the students in the class were upset by what Wahida said.
Marika, the girl from Bosnia who sat with Raihana, and Suzi, a dark girl from Mozambique, told Wahida it was insulting to call Raihana a luder.
“It is my wish,” Wahida responded.
“Then you are stupid,” Suzi said, rubbing her seven-month-pregnant belly.
“What shit you talk,” Marika said. “She got stung by a bee and you say she is a luder? You're mad.”
“She must have done bad thing, that is why bee stung her,” Wahida responded.
Raihana felt a surge of gratitude for Marika and Suzi. They had always supported her praktik , which they thought was much better than theirs, bottling marinated herrings in the nearby factory in Glyngøre.
Afghans like Khala Soofia and Wahida made Raihana even more adamant about continuing to work for the Danish man. This stubbornness was new to her. In the past she had easily molded, not caring so much about what was right, only what was easy. Aamir hadn't been like that. He had fought the Taliban the best he could.
In the early 1990s, at the beginning of the Taliban regime, there had been a sort of relief that there was some law and order in the country, but that quickly turned bitter when the shariah was enforced.
As bad as life became for many Afghans, Raihana's life, which had revolved around home and family, didn't change much. She had to wear a burkha and Raihana accepted it without protest. There were worse things, she decided. But Aamir had been furious, and he'd started going to underground meetings with his friends who were preparing to fight for democracy and equal rights for women. He had continued to teach science and math against the Taliban laws even after he was arrested for it. He was let out from prison after being beaten and threatened. Raihana had raised bail money by selling his old truck.
Going to prison had made Aamir angrier, while Raihana grew afraid. She didn't want to fight anyone, she told Aamir. She just wanted to live a quiet life without getting into trouble. She and Aamir argued about his continued underground meetings—and now he was dead for what he had believed in. If she now wore a hi jab and abaya and behaved like a good Afghan girl as the Afghans like Khala Soofia and Wahida wanted her to, Aamir's death would become meaningless.
When she looked through the eyes of her mind into her heart, she saw hope that Aamir was still alive. She cradled the hope that suddenly he'd be here in Denmark.
In the evenings when she, Layla, and Kabir watched Hindi movies her eyes filled with tears.
“Aamir and I saw this on video at a friend's house, with the volume low so that no one would know,” she whispered once.
She never talked about Aamir, let alone discussed such a trivial part of their lives together. Layla and Kabir waited for her to say more but she didn't.
“It's a good movie,” Kabir said finally. “So, was Aamir a Raj Kapoor fan too?”
Raihana nodded. “His favorite movie was Mera Naam joker.” She didn't say anything after that and Layla and Kabir didn't press her.
“Peter called us and we just had to come,” Maria said, her eyes darting around the house, searching for evidence of that Afghan girl her father-in-law had hired. “This is a stupid idea, you know that don't you?
Brian, who was six, sternly said, “Don't call Bedstefar stupid.”
“This has nothing to do with you, go out and play with Johanna,” Maria said.
“Stop sending them away from me all the time,” Gunnar said, grabbing his grandson in a fireman's lift, which made Brian laugh out loud. “I want to spend time with my grandchildren.”
“First we have to talk,” Maria called out after Gunnar, but he was already running outside with a hysterically laughing Brian. “Lars, why don't you say something?” Maria asked her husband.
“What do you want me to say?” Lars asked, walking
Marika, the girl from Bosnia who sat with Raihana, and Suzi, a dark girl from Mozambique, told Wahida it was insulting to call Raihana a luder.
“It is my wish,” Wahida responded.
“Then you are stupid,” Suzi said, rubbing her seven-month-pregnant belly.
“What shit you talk,” Marika said. “She got stung by a bee and you say she is a luder? You're mad.”
“She must have done bad thing, that is why bee stung her,” Wahida responded.
Raihana felt a surge of gratitude for Marika and Suzi. They had always supported her praktik , which they thought was much better than theirs, bottling marinated herrings in the nearby factory in Glyngøre.
Afghans like Khala Soofia and Wahida made Raihana even more adamant about continuing to work for the Danish man. This stubbornness was new to her. In the past she had easily molded, not caring so much about what was right, only what was easy. Aamir hadn't been like that. He had fought the Taliban the best he could.
In the early 1990s, at the beginning of the Taliban regime, there had been a sort of relief that there was some law and order in the country, but that quickly turned bitter when the shariah was enforced.
As bad as life became for many Afghans, Raihana's life, which had revolved around home and family, didn't change much. She had to wear a burkha and Raihana accepted it without protest. There were worse things, she decided. But Aamir had been furious, and he'd started going to underground meetings with his friends who were preparing to fight for democracy and equal rights for women. He had continued to teach science and math against the Taliban laws even after he was arrested for it. He was let out from prison after being beaten and threatened. Raihana had raised bail money by selling his old truck.
Going to prison had made Aamir angrier, while Raihana grew afraid. She didn't want to fight anyone, she told Aamir. She just wanted to live a quiet life without getting into trouble. She and Aamir argued about his continued underground meetings—and now he was dead for what he had believed in. If she now wore a hi jab and abaya and behaved like a good Afghan girl as the Afghans like Khala Soofia and Wahida wanted her to, Aamir's death would become meaningless.
When she looked through the eyes of her mind into her heart, she saw hope that Aamir was still alive. She cradled the hope that suddenly he'd be here in Denmark.
In the evenings when she, Layla, and Kabir watched Hindi movies her eyes filled with tears.
“Aamir and I saw this on video at a friend's house, with the volume low so that no one would know,” she whispered once.
She never talked about Aamir, let alone discussed such a trivial part of their lives together. Layla and Kabir waited for her to say more but she didn't.
“It's a good movie,” Kabir said finally. “So, was Aamir a Raj Kapoor fan too?”
Raihana nodded. “His favorite movie was Mera Naam joker.” She didn't say anything after that and Layla and Kabir didn't press her.
“Peter called us and we just had to come,” Maria said, her eyes darting around the house, searching for evidence of that Afghan girl her father-in-law had hired. “This is a stupid idea, you know that don't you?
Brian, who was six, sternly said, “Don't call Bedstefar stupid.”
“This has nothing to do with you, go out and play with Johanna,” Maria said.
“Stop sending them away from me all the time,” Gunnar said, grabbing his grandson in a fireman's lift, which made Brian laugh out loud. “I want to spend time with my grandchildren.”
“First we have to talk,” Maria called out after Gunnar, but he was already running outside with a hysterically laughing Brian. “Lars, why don't you say something?” Maria asked her husband.
“What do you want me to say?” Lars asked, walking
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