Family Love Pakistani Style

 Marquel, TPVs New York Times Shame Correspondent had a hard time finishing this article: Pregnant Pakistani Woman Is Beaten to Death by Her Family. The woman, 25, who was killed on a busy street in Lahore, had enraged family members by marrying a man who was not their choice for her, the police said. Her father was jailed and admitted his culpability. But he said he did it to preserve the honor of his family. Good job, dad, and it’s almost fathers day. Marquel decided he just had to speak to this so-called father. Marquel was unwilling to call him the father as it is universal knowledge that fathers die for their children, not vice versa.  But there was this mysterious element called honor.  What the fuck is that all about.  Only one way to find out and that way ends up in the Lahore jail, where Marquel met the soi-disant père. In jail, he didn’t seem dangerous at all. His clothes were shabby, he wore two torn plastic sandals and carried a Koran, to which he didn’t refer at all during our visit. “So what’s this all about?” I asked. He looked at me blankly. Oh, yes, Arabic. Everything I learned in Arabic, I learned on a plane headed that way from a book called, “Arabic for Dummies.” Since that was what I was talking to, my preparataion seemed adequate. I asked him what all this honor shit is all about.

 “It is most sacred to have honor,” he said.

“Well, we Americans don’t have much honor,” I said.

 “That I know well,” he said, unaware of the insult.

“So,” I continued, “I need it explained to me. What’s it all about?”

 “Your family is the source of honor. You must protect that at all costs.” he said.

“So now that you killed your daughter, you have honor?” I asked

 “Oh, yes,” he said.

“Happy father’s day,” I said.

“Thank you.” he said. “You too.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but I don’t have to kill  my kids to get honor.”

 “You are a lucky man.” he said.

“Tell me,” I said. “If you  kill your daughter, you get honor?”

 “Oh, yes,” he said in a sing song accent. “for my family.”

“So they are all proud of you.” I said.

 “Oh, yes,” he repeated.

“Sounds to me like you have the honor,” I said, “not your family.”

 “Oh, no.” he said.

“Let me see,” I said. “If you kill your daughter, you get honor. What about your son?”

 “A little less.” he said.

“Honor?” I asked.

 “Oh, yes,” he confirmed.

“What about if you kill your wife?” I asked.

 “That is honor, but even less, and it is very difficult.” he said.

“Have you tried?” I asked.

 “On occasion.” he said.

“So, a daughter, much honor, a son, a little less, and a wife, even less and more work. Is that how it goes?”

 “Oh, yes.” he said.

“I heard that thirty of your villagers came to the city where you killed her – many miles from your home.”

  “Yes, it was a great honor.” he said.

“And they just watched.” I said.

 “Oh, yes,” he said. “It is an honor to watch an honor.”

“Are you sure of that?” I asked. “Or did you just make that up?”

 “Well,” he paused. “It is good that they came.”

“And watched.” I added.

 “Some of them helped hit her with bricks.” he said.

“Some friends you have.” I said.

 “Oh, yes,” he said.

“I heard that your son took a shot at your daughter’s head but missed.” I said. “Not too good with guns? Is that a dishonor.”

 He looked downcast and couldn’t speak. “It is shameful to shoot at your sister and miss with so many looking on.”

“But then she fled and he ran her down and hit her with a brick, right?” I asked.

 “Yes,” he said, “he regained his honor.” “This honor thing really confuses me.” I said. “A lot for a daughter, less for a son, even less for a wife, and harder, and not at all if you miss.” He shook his head. “But if you then get her with a brick, the honor returns.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. I wasn’t talking to the Arab World’s Einstein, that was clear. I wasn’t sure if he would understand what I had to say. “You’re very poor,” I said.

 “Oh, yes,” he said.

“You  haven’t a drachma to your name, your live from hand to mouth, you all live in one mud-walled room, is that right?”

 “Oh, yes. All twelve of us.” he said.

“There are twelve of you in one room?” I asked. “No,” he said. “Sorry. Eleven.” I understood, but I don’t think he did. “Do you think this honor stuff is created to make poor people who don’t have shit feel like they are important?”

 “Even poor people can have honor. It is sacred. The most important thing.” he said.

“But don’t you think that this honor is more about you and less about your family?” I asked. He looked at me blankly. “I mean,” I said. “since you hardly have a rock to chew on, that honor is what the rich people want you to have so that they can be happy and they can keep you happy lying to you about how rich you are with honor?” “Oh, no, Mr. Marquel,” he said. “Honor is the most sacred wealth. With honor I am wealthy.” “But you just told me you’re poor. Which is it, 11 people in one room, or one person in 11 rooms?”

“Huh?” he asked. “I don’t understand.”

I looked at him a long time. I could feel tears in my eyes at the thought of both his daughter and his family’s existence. I finally said, “No, I don’t think you do.”

 ***