The man grabbed the woman just as she was taking off her headscarf because of the heat. The woman, panicked and tucked her bag tightly under her arm, struggling to slip away from the man’s grip, but a shattering slap sent her crashing to the ground. Then a kick landed in her side. Pain immediately twisted inside her belly, her vision went black, she retched a few dry heaves, and she wet herself.
People gathered around her. One woman took her under the arms and lifted her up. Her hands were still pressed to her stomach; she was clutching her bag tightly, pouring with sweat. She couldn’t stand straight. The woman cried out, ‘Don’t you people have any honour? Why are you hitting me? Shit on your religion.’
As soon as she said that, a heavy slap and several blows knocked her to the ground again. Her face twisted open and shut with tearful pain. She was straining.
She was in her early twenties, and her pale face was full of suffering.
The fishmonger’s pickup truck sat like a sleepy crab in the corner of the alley. The woman, like a fly sprayed with poison, writhed inside the circle formed by a wall of wretched, unpleasant legs. Bitter, heavy, dark curses rained into her ears, refusing to let her pain end.
‘Whore woman, removing your hijab in broad daylight?’
‘It’s people like you who ruin the face of religion.’
‘Go on, tell us which foreign organisation is paying you to corrupt our women?’
‘Just the other day these same people were chanting slogans in the street.’
‘No one in this neighbourhood used to see bad hijab.’
‘Has the patrol come?’
‘Go and fetch Haji!’
‘Let’s call the morality police.’
‘The patrol isn’t here. We’ll take her to the base ourselves.’
‘Once they throw her in prison and she rots there, she won’t feel like removing her hijab again.’
The woman’s tongue was dry in her mouth. She felt as though a heavy weight had fallen on her and she couldn’t move from under it. Another one of the local haji ladies grabbed her shoulder, pulled her up, spat in her face and screamed:
‘Tell us who opened the way for you into this alley? Did you come to seduce the men of the neighbourhood, you whore!’
She was a fat woman with bulging eyes, wearing a black chador pulled tight with her maqna’e up to her lower lip.
The woman tried to stand straight but her legs wouldn’t hold her; the ground felt empty beneath her feet. The pain had exhausted her. Her face contorted and she forced herself to say: ‘I swear on Imam Hussein, don’t hit me. I’m from the top of your alley…’
They beat her again, with fists and kicks, and covered her face with spit. She tried to cover whatever parts of her body she could with her hands, but she couldn’t cover everything. Her moans died in her throat. Blood poured from her mouth and nose. She clutched her bag even tighter and threw herself over it.
‘Now let’s knock on the door and call Haji himself so he can give her what she deserves.’
This came from the fishmonger at the head of the alley, who knew Haji well. Then he spat on the ground and grinned.
They knocked. Haji came to the door in a dirty, loose vest and baggy underpants. His head was bald. Under his eyes were swollen, wrinkled pouches. His belly was huge. His young son also appeared in the doorway beside his father, wearing a Real Madrid football kit and holding a ball, watching the crowd with curious eyes. He was leaning against his father.
Haji asked, ‘Where’s the woman?’ He already knew the people had caught an unveiled woman, because when they knocked they had sent him a message. He knew a woman had been seized for removing her hijab, which is why he had come to the door himself.
The crowd made way. Haji walked into the street and stood over the woman, whose hand was pressed to her stomach and who was still gripping her bag tightly. The asphalt was wet with her blood. When he reached her he delivered a kick to her flank. The woman’s face turned black, her breath caught, and she went into convulsions.
‘She’s pretending to be half-dead!’
‘These whores have seven lives like dogs.’
‘If they hanged one of them, no one else would remove their hijab.’
‘They should cut her hair and parade her through the city. Now she’s acting like a dying rat.’
The woman had curled up on the ground. Frothy blood was coming from the corner of her mouth. She was thinking of her little daughter and the fever the child was burning with. Nowhere in the port had the girl’s medicine except the pharmacy at the top of Haji’s neighbourhood. And the asphalt of the street was soaked red with her blood.