The Black Burqa part three
by Diana the Valkyrie



She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity - must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions - not in these her honour dwells -
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.
Rudyard Kipling


I was just burning some toast to go with the soggy beans for Raafid's
supper, when Sfiyah turned up, and she had someone with her. Who?
I don't know, she was dressed head to toe in a black burqa.

"Hey," Sfiyah said. "Hey hey," I replied, "what's the timing for
toast again?" She looked at what was pretty much charcoal. "About
ten minutes ago," she answered, "this is Asma. She wants to be a
Black Burqa."

I blinked. A what?

Apparently, my appearance at the masjid had led to some confusion,
mostly because Sfiyah also wore a black burqa when she went there
to douse the lights. So people already thought there were two of us,
and if two, why not three?

The great thing about a burqa, is that no-one could actually
see me.  It was like a disguise, only better. So no-one, except me
and Sfiyah, knew the secret identity of the Black Burqa. I suppose
Raafid might have guessed, but he was too intimidated by me to tell
anyone. It must be terrible to live with someone who, at any time,
might inflict painful violence on you. I know this, because that's
how I had lived for years and years.

"Who was that mysterious woman?" people were asking each other,
and the guesses were all over the place. Every woman around here
was wearing a niqab with a face veil; a burqa was only a small step
further. Who was that masked woman?

Asma spoke. "I've been through eight years of beatings. And each
time he didn't kill me, he made me stronger. And now I want to
be like you, a Black Burqa. I want to help all the women who are
being trodden on and treated unjustly. We women are supposed to be
treated like queens; too many of us get treated like serfs."

"Are you really up for it? I've lost count of the number of ribs
I've broken." I asked her. "I'm up for it," she said. "When I
finally lost it with Ibrahim, I went at him with two fists and
both feet. I nearly kicked him to death." "What was the breaking
point?" "He was beating my son Numan because he hadn't memorised
enough Quranic verses, and I didn't stop to think, that was my
son who was crying, and I had to stop Ibrahim. So I stopped him,
but by then I was in a blind fury. He tried to push me away, that
was when I broke his arm. He bent over, that was when I rammed my
knee into his face." I nodded - I'd experienced that blind fury when
Raafid slapped and then tried to marry off our 13 year old daughter.

"So I can't go back there." "Yes, you can," said Sfiyah. I nodded
again. "I went back, for the sake of my children. And it turns out
that Raafid is totally intimidated by me now. I won't say that he's
changed completely. But he'll never raise his hand to a woman again.
You'll find that Ibrahim will react the same way. A broken arm is
a powerful lesson."

Sfiyah chipped in. "We're the Black Burkas. No-one knows our secret
identities, and we stand for truth and justice for all." "Hi-yo,
Silver," I said, "Hey ho, Kemo Sabe", replied Sfiyah. Asma looked
at us as if we were both insane. We didn't explain.

"So here's the plan," said Sfiyah.

Sfiyah had big plans. She thought there must be lots of women
who've been beaten regularly, and who have experienced the same body
changes as Asma and me. Her idea was that there would be hundreds,
even thousands, of Black Burqas. That the mere appearance of a woman
in a black burqa would strike fear into the heart of any wife beater
or child abuser. Or anyone else who went against Allah's commands
for the good and kind treatment of women.

"And children," I added. Because it was the threat to my daughter
that was the straw that broke the camel's back for me, and the
beating of Asma's son had the same effect on her.

"Children," said Sfiyah, "they are our future and our joy." Asma
and I agreed. "The madrassa," said Sfiyah. Asma and I looked at
each other; we know what she meant. Most madrassas are good places,
kind to the pupils and good for their education. But some ..." She
didn't have to spell it out. We all knew that such madrassas exist.

"If the Black Burqas raid just one of them, it will have a beneficial
effect on all of them." "And," said Asma, "if that doesn't work,
we raid another." I grinned and rubbed my hands together. "Sounds
like a good plan," I said.

A week later, we met again; Sfiyah had a detailed plan. "The
target will be the 'Golden Star'". "I know that one," said Asma,
"they think that the children will be better at learning the
Quran, if they beat them for any failures. I don't understand why
any parent would sent their kids there." "Because," said Sfiyah,
"they want their sons to be Hafiz as soon as possible, because that
guarantees their entrance to Jannah - as well as their parents,
and ten other people that they choose."

"So why don't the parents memorise the entire Quran and thereby
become Hafiz?"  "Good question," said Sfiyah, "maybe that didn't
occur to them." I sniffed sceptically. "Or they can't be bothered."

Sfiyah got us back on track. "So here's the plan. We wait until after
dark, then the three of us stride into the madrassa as if we owned
it, swishing our skirts, and Asma announces 'Nobody move. The Black
Burkas are here.' All the mullahs will panic.  The two of you each
grab two mullahs and stun them, and then I kill the power, so it's
completely dark inside." "How do you stun a mullah," asked Asma.
"Elbow to the side of the head," replied Sfiyah. She thinks of
everything, every little detail.

"And then I kill the power", says Sfiyah, "and when it's dark and
they can't see you, you pull up your skirts and sleeves, and tackle
two mullahs each.  Crush one between your thighs, and the other in
a headlock with your left arm - that leaves your right arm free to
do whatever else is needed.




Read the rest of the story on https://www.amysconquest.com