Free Under an Afghan Sky by Mellissa Fung Page B

my stomach.
    “Few weeks.”
    “A few weeks? How many?” I was beginning to treat him like an interview subject who was being deliberately evasive, like so many politicians I’d tried to get straight answers from over the years. He was no different.
    “Last two people, they go last night.”
    “You have other hostages?”
    “‘Hostage’ bad word,” Abdulrahman admonished me. “You are our guest.” He grinned.
    “Guest?” I almost spat out the word. “You stab your guests and throw them in holes in the ground? Is that your idea of hospitality? How many other ‘guests’ do you have right now?”
    “The two are gone. You are only guest now. Khalid going to look for more.”
    “That’s nice. Hopefully you treat them better.”
    “You are lucky. You are woman. We no leave you here yourself,” he said, ignoring the anger that was flashing in my eyes. “The two men—we leave them alone. We tie their hands, feet…” He motioned with his hands that they were handcuffed and tied to the ceiling. “We give water, biscuit; no one go there to stay with them. You are woman, we have to stay with you.”
    “Why?”
    “Muslim law.”
    I shook my head. Here we go, I thought, another discussion about Islam. I had no appetite and no interest, but it wasn’t like I had much of a choice.
    “Where does it say in the Koran that it’s okay to kidnap a woman and stab her?” I challenged.
    “Tsk, tsk.” Abdulrahman shook his head. “You no understand. We do this work for Allah. You must read Koran.”
    “I read the Bible. But I would like to read the Koran, so I can see where you get this from. Because I don’t believe Allah would be happy that you’re holding me as a prisoner.”
    “You Muslim, we no keep you here. You no Muslim, you are our guest.” He grinned again. I noticed he had a crooked set of top teeth.
    “You think Allah says it’s okay for you to kidnap me and throw me in a hole?”
    “This is very nice house, you are guest,” he said. “Allah happy.”
    Allah might have been happy, but I was getting frustrated and annoyed. “I don’t think Allah would like what you’re doing to me,” I argued. “Allah would want me to go back to Kabul, and then back to Canada.”
    “You no understand Koran. You must study Koran,” he replied, echoing Zahir. “You will understand Allah if you study Koran.”
    “I want to study the Koran. I want to know where it says in the Koran that it’s okay to do this to someone. You probably also believe that this will help you get to heaven and your seventy-two waiting girlfriends.”
    Abdulrahman smiled. “Yes. Seventy-two girlfriends.”
    “What about your wife? What happens to her when you have girlfriends?” I was getting angrier.
    “My wife is my wife. My girlfriends are my girlfriends.” He grinned again.
    “You can’t have a wife and seventy-two girlfriends at the same time.”
    “Why not? Allah say okay!”
    “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Allah wouldn’t want you to ignore your wife while you’re entertaining your girlfriends. What kind of God does that make him?”
    “Allah say okay! Allah is great!”
    As with Zahir, I realized the conversation had reached a dead end and I didn’t want to pursue it any further. Even though the Koran says women and men are equal under God, I knew that the Taliban and other Muslim fundamentalists believed in applying traditional laws to women. Women have to be covered up; they have to wear chadors or hijabs, to hide any trace of their sexuality in public. They even pray separately in mosques. Men and women are anything but equals in a Taliban-ruled Afghanistan. Women are stoned for infidelity; men are allowed to have up to four wives. No wonder they’re promised seventy-two virgins when they get to heaven.
    “You must be Muslim!” Abdulrahman said loudly. “Allah is great!” He glared at me. “This,” he gestured with his hands at the hole, “is Allah’s will. We no kill you.