Istishhadiyah by Stephanie Ciner

Istishhadiyah

By Stephanie Ciner

“Stay beside me, Asan,” the whisper came softly from behind her veil.

He took her hand, the gentle pressure urging her forward.

“Walk faster, Sadiya. I won’t leave you.”

Her husband’s stride lengthened and she hastened to keep up. Sweat beaded above her eyebrows but she had no desire to brush it away. Her abaya-clad body brushed hundreds of human forms in the marketplace. Underneath the fabric, her skin tingled with each contact.

I possess one focus, one mission.

Despite her intentions, the everyday activities of the market engulfed her senses. She inhaled the sweet scent of fruit-ripened air as it mingled with the aroma of fresh-baked bread and fragrant spices. On every side swirled the vendors’ bright fabrics, their gold and silver bangles sparkled to attract shoppers passing by. Women chattered back and forth in Arabic or Farsi, enveloping each listener in a whirlwind of conversation. When Sadiya’s sandaled feet brushed the ground she felt a part of the earth itself, interwoven tightly with all that surrounded her. Every sensation was deep and concentrated, sparking with intensity.

How had she forgotten the incredible beauty of her city? Or what it felt like to be a part of a place so full of brilliance, a world pulsating with language and movement?

Two boys, chasing each other through the dusty street, bumped up against her legs. A slight smile crossed her face at their antics. That surprised her. She hadn’t looked upon a child in a year without the familiar stab of grief.

Today, though, she felt strangely peaceful. Alive.

She knew Asan was nervous. Tension radiated from his body like heat from the sun-blistered stones. He desired this honor for himself, but not in the same way she did.

She too shared his fury at the foreign occupation, loathed the razor-wire fences and 12-foot concrete walls dividing up neighborhoods where they’d played as children. She felt his humiliation each time he was patted down and searched by an American soldier, forced to display his ID card at every checkpoint. Asan would easily give his life if it meant fewer soldiers in his country. Die for martyrdom, istishhad. But for now she is the better choice, a female martyr. Istishhadiyah. And just as they anticipated, the checkpoint guards searched her husband but allowed Sadiya to pass through as though she was nothing more than a shadow at his side.

Her hand-made vest weighed upon her shoulders and torso, but she’d practiced wearing it the last several days. The steel balls clustered beneath her breasts, and beside them rested a C-4 plastic explosive. The detonator was only inches from her hand.

None of those items felt foreign to her body anymore, no more heavy than what she carried since Jamail’s death. She’d been in the kitchen that last afternoon, baking his favorite date cookies so that they’d still be warm when he arrived home from school. Any minute, she expected his slim eight-year-old body to bound through the door, greeting her with a cheerful salaam omi and a kiss on the right hand. She began to worry when Jamail was late and wished that her husband or one of her brothers was there so that she could leave the house accompanied by a man. Instead, her older brother came through the door with Jamail’s body. The boy had been shot twice, in the mouth and in the chest. Stray bullets from a skirmish between troops and insurgents, her brother said.

Sadiya carried a worn photograph of Jamail in her abaya. She pulled it out and glanced down at his little-boy face. A serious smile, but his eyes were laughing. How absurd, she felt like laughing as well. She hadn’t done such a thing in months. But the sky gleamed bright and beautiful, the sun smiled its warmth into her eyes. She would see him again, and soon.

Yes, her son died for nothing. But she would honor him, take herself to him.

Her husband thought only of revenge, but she imagined reunion.

Meanwhile, the war continued.

Violence is the only language they speak.

But now she has learned their language. She will repeat it back to them in elegant fluency, with her own body—her self—as the message.

Just a moment longer, my child. Don’t be afraid. Today I will be with you in paradise.

Stephanie Ciner is a junior at Eastern University studying creative writing and anthropology. She likes camping, traveling, reading, playing guitar, knitting, and cooking delicious vegan food.


	Istishhadiyah By Stephanie Ciner “Stay beside me, Asan,” the whisper came softly from behind her veil. He took her hand, the gentle pressure urging her forward. “Walk faster, Sadiya. I won’t leave you.” Her husband’s stride lengthened and she hastened to keep up. Sweat beaded above her eyebrows but she had no desire to brush it away. Her abaya-clad body brushed hundreds of human forms in the marketplace. Underneath the fabric, her skin tingled with each contact. I possess one focus, one mission. Despite her intentions, the everyday activities of the market engulfed her senses. She inhaled the sweet scent of fruit-ripened air as it mingled with the aroma of fresh-baked bread and fragrant spices. On every side swirled the vendors’ bright fabrics, their gold and silver bangles sparkled to attract shoppers passing by. Women chattered back and forth in Arabic or Farsi, enveloping each listener in a whirlwind of conversation. When Sadiya’s sandaled feet brushed the ground she felt a part of the earth itself, interwoven tightly with all that surrounded her. Every sensation was deep and concentrated, sparking with intensity. How had she forgotten the incredible beauty of her city? Or what it felt like to be a part of a place so full of brilliance, a world pulsating with language and movement? Two boys, chasing each other through the dusty street, bumped up against her legs. A slight smile crossed her face at their antics. That surprised her. She hadn’t looked upon a child in a year without the familiar stab of grief. Today, though, she felt strangely peaceful. Alive. She knew Asan was nervous. Tension radiated from his body like heat from the sun-blistered stones. He desired this honor for himself, but not in the same way she did. She too shared his fury at the foreign occupation, loathed the razor-wire fences and 12-foot concrete walls dividing up neighborhoods where they’d played as children. She felt his humiliation each time he was patted down and searched by an American soldier, forced to display his ID card at every checkpoint. Asan would easily give his life if it meant fewer soldiers in his country. Die for martyrdom, istishhad. But for now she is the better choice, a female martyr. Istishhadiyah. And just as they anticipated, the checkpoint guards searched her husband but allowed Sadiya to pass through as though she was nothing more than a shadow at his side. Her hand-made vest weighed upon her shoulders and torso, but she’d practiced wearing it the last several days. The steel balls clustered beneath her breasts, and beside them rested a C-4 plastic explosive. The detonator was only inches from her hand. None of those items felt foreign to her body anymore, no more heavy than what she carried since Jamail’s death. She’d been in the kitchen that last afternoon, baking his favorite date cookies so that they’d still be warm when he arrived home from school. Any minute, she expected his slim eight-year-old body to bound through the door, greeting her with a cheerful salaam omi and a kiss on the right hand. She began to worry when Jamail was late and wished that her husband or one of her brothers was there so that she could leave the house accompanied by a man. Instead, her older brother came through the door with Jamail’s body. The boy had been shot twice, in the mouth and in the chest. Stray bullets from a skirmish between troops and insurgents, her brother said. Sadiya carried a worn photograph of Jamail in her abaya. She pulled it out and glanced down at his little-boy face. A serious smile, but his eyes were laughing. How absurd, she felt like laughing as well. She hadn’t done such a thing in months. But the sky gleamed bright and beautiful, the sun smiled its warmth into her eyes. She would see him again, and soon. Yes, her son died for nothing. But she would honor him, take herself to him. Her husband thought only of revenge, but she imagined reunion. Meanwhile, the war continued. Violence is the only language they speak. But now she has learned their language. She will repeat it back to them in elegant fluency, with her own body—her self—as the message. Just a moment longer, my child. Don’t be afraid. Today I will be with you in paradise. Stephanie Ciner is a junior at Eastern University studying creative writing and anthropology. She likes camping, traveling, reading, playing guitar, knitting, and cooking delicious vegan food.