these days she could not even pluck the strings. What else to do? Long ago in school and later at college Nyawlra had kept a diary off and on. She resumed it. Writing made her feel better, almost as if she had talked to the spirit of her absent love. One night she tried to account for what she called her political catechism.
“I believe that black has been oppressed by white; female by male; peasant by landlord; and worker by lord of capital. It follows from this that the black female worker and peasant is most oppressed. She is oppressed on account of her color like all black people in the world; she is oppressed on account of her gender like all women in the world; and she is exploited and oppressed on account of her class like all workers and peasants in the world. Three burdens she has to carry. Those who want to fight for the people in the nation and in the world must struggle for the unity and rights of the working class in their own country; fight against all discriminations based on race, ethnicity, color, and belief systems; they must struggle against all gender-based inequalities and therefore fight for the rights of women in the home, the family, the nation, and the world…”
No, those were not the words in the catechism she had in mind. For whom am I writing this, anyway? she asked, and tore it to pieces.
The more she missed Kamltl and feared for his safety, the more she applied herself to organizing and healing. Involvement in other people’s suffering turned out to be the best way of coping with her personal woes, for she was able to see that these woes were not peculiar to her situation but were shared by many others.
Early one morning a woman came to see her. The woman wore a veil. A Muslim, Nyawlra thought as she received her in the chamber they had come to call the confessional. She tried to read the woman’s face, but how does one read a veiled face? Even so, she could see that the woman’s eyes were flush with sadness.
“Mother, what brings you to the shrine of the Wizard of the Crow?” Nyawlra asked her.
When she tried to answer the woman broke down and sobbed, tears flowing down her cheeks. Nyawlra waited patiently to give the woman time to recover her composure. Then the woman removed the shawl that covered her head and face. Vinjinia? Nyawlra almost forgot her own guise as the Wizard of the Crow and stopped just short of shouting the name. The face behind the veil was so swollen that the eyes were almost shut. In shock, Nyawlra did not press for a reason for the visit. She attempted no small talk, and neither did she remind her of her last visit to the shrine to seek help in finding her missing husband. She would allow Vinjinia the right to reveal as much as she wished. Nyawlra knew of visitors to the shrine who came repeatedly, each time pretending that it was their first visit. But Vin-jinia seemed too overwhelmed with sorrow to speak.
“What is the matter, woman? Did a beast attack you, or what?” Nyawlra finally asked to break the long silence.
“The beast has a name. It is called a husband. Night and day. Quarrels without reason. Fights without a truce. Marriage is a prison. Prison for life, more so when a couple has children. Even our religions sanction the prison for life for a woman.”
“The times we now live in are different from the ones gone,” Nyawlra said. “Today one can walk freely out of this prison if one so wants. Even in the past women could always go back to their parents or choose to live on their own. There were women who married other women, even.”
“Why should I walk out and leave a home we have built together?” Vinjinia asked.
“I am not asking you to wreck your home.”
“There is no home left to wreck. He has already done that by his actions!”
“What did he do?” Nyawlra asked. “What was he demanding from you? Sex?”
Vinjinia paused as if she was not quite sure where or how to begin. Should she leave out the more shameful details?
“If you want my help, you must tell me everything,” Nyawlra said, as if she had read the mind of her client. “Even if he tried to rape you. Rape is rape, even when done by a friend or a husband.”
Vinjinia felt relieved of the burden of editing her story. She went so far as to reveal her name and reminded the wizard that she had been to the shrine on two previous occasions. Her needs had been met, and that’s why she had come back yet a third time. She was unstinting in recalling all that had happened in her home since Tajirika’s return.
“I still don’t know why he is so angry with me or what he wants from me.”
“Woman,” Nyawlra called out gently, “you have a husband who assumes that he has a natural right to beat and discipline his wife. Unfortunately, he is not alone. Violence against women bedevils many a home-rich, poor, white, black, religious. In the world today, a husband measures his maleness by mauling his wife. A wife swallows insults in surly silence instead of resisting the violation of her sacred self. A sacred self soon becomes a scared slave, leading a scarred life. You have told me your story and I have listened. Now what brings you to the shrine? To tell me the story or to gather herbs for your wounds?”
“The wounding of my heart will never heal as long as the man I call my husband is alive.”
“What do you want?”
“I want him dead. Dead and buried. Give me poison for his food. Give me poison to send him to Hell. Or, better still, capture his shadow in your mirror and scratch it out.”
Her vehemence startled Nyawlra. She would never have thought that Vinjinia’s heart could harbor so much venom.
“I only poison evil in pursuit of the good.”
“What can be more evil than what he has done to me with his fists?”
“Do you want to end his life or his violence?”
“His violence can end only in death: his or mine.”
“What about making him first see the evil in his ways?”
“Tajirika is incapable of seeing the error of his ways. He can spot the mote in a woman’s eye but not the dust in his own.”
“Even if a delegation of the wise were to reason with him?”
“That would only inflame him and make him more violent after they left.”
“What about taking him to court?”
“Aburlrian courts? How many women judges and magistrates have you seen on the benches of justice? In any case, in Aburlria justice ends up in the pockets of the highest bidder. Do you think I can outbid my husband? No, I am not able to massage justice with bribes.”
“Massage justice with bribes?” Nyawlra repeated the phrase loudly, but inwardly she wondered what to do about Vinjinia’s plight without giving her any poisonous herbs, which she would never do, and without killing hope, the basis of all healing arts. Unable to settle on a course of action or words, Nyawlra’s mind drifted and she started thinking more about the woman in front of her. In some ways this woman continually amazed Nyawlra, and if the situation had not been one of pain and pity, Nyawlra might have been tempted to laugh, at least inwardly, at Vinjinia’s metamorphosis.
Is this not the same woman who used to be so prudish in reference to the body and matters of sex? Is this not the same one who used to play dumb about Aburlrian politics? Nyawlra asked herself, recalling all the arguments and disagreements they had during the days they spent together in the offices of Eldares Modern Construction and Real Estate. To Vinjinia, nothing was wrong with Aburlria. And yet, had she not just made one of the most insightful comments about justice in the Ruler’s Aburlria? Or about violence and gender inequality in the home? She had even rolled out a critical insight into religion and its tendency to gloss over domestic violence against women. Awareness of being wronged was the first step in political self-education, Nyawlra concluded.
It was while idly turning over these thoughts in her mind that she had an idea. It was not a new idea-she had thought about it before and had even considered taking it to the leadership of their movement for discussion and possible adoption as policy, but she had not yet done so. But why not try it out with Vinjinia?
“Go home now,” she told Vinjinia gently. “Leave the matter in the hands of the Wizard of the Crow. He will have to deal with a delegation of elders, wise elders of reasoned justice, wearing magic robes. As for you, take these words home with you. Know that the most potent magic emanates from the heart. Women must dig deep within themselves to decide that they will no longer allow themselves to be beaten by their husbands and boyfriends. When that happens, wife bashing will be no more. Homes shall be run on the maxim that conversation is the gateway to love and understanding. Thoughts locked up inside never solve anything. The silence of women in the face of male violence is the nursemaid of more violence. If he continues to rain fists on your body after the delegation has called on him, come back to me. But let me ask you a question I should have asked you at the start. Have you made up your mind never to be beaten again?” “Yes.”
