The Aisha Prophecy by John R. Maxim Read Free Book Online Page B

from the hits on all those internet sites and the comments that many of them post. Not just here. It is everywhere. Name almost any country. And it isn’t only Muslim women either.”
    Mansur arched an eyebrow. “Oh? And who else?” He arched the ball toward the basket. It missed.
    Jalil took the rebound and dribbled in turn. “Well, of course, all the feminists. The usual activists. But the bulk of them seem to be ordinary women. They give their names and their ages. They are mostly young women. And many of them write, ‘I am not a Muslim, but… ’ They say if it’s not true, it ought to be true. They have seen what’s happening here on TV. They are cheering our women on.”
    The mullah had seen the TV coverage himself. Programs beamed down by satellite, impossible to jam. Groups of women, sometimes scores of them, holding candlelight vigils. They gather at the Jaam-e Jam Food Court where the word of her coming first appeared. They gather hoping that she’ll turn up there in the flesh. They stand, their lips moving in silent prayer. Others stand chanting her name.
    Many, especially the youngest among them, brazenly baring their heads. Doing so to show off an unusual hairdo that’s lately become all the rage. Hair cut short at the nape and shaped like a helmet. Shaped like, well… a female warrior’s helmet, the hair flanging out at its base. Some of them being beaten for refusing to disperse. Some of them being dragged off.
    Dragged off by whom? Sometimes by male relatives. By fathers and brothers who are against what they’re doing or are at least fearful of their safety. Beaten by whom? The Basij Militia. The same ones who show up at every student demonstration and start, as they put it, “giving moral advice,” by smashing heads and knees left and right. Always easy to pick out with their green and yellow headbands. And otherwise referred to on those satellite broadcasts as “Iran’s version of the Hitler Youth.”
    Not entirely fair, thought Mansur, but close enough. He’d been trying for a year to get that bunch disbanded. It was high on his list of priorities.
    But here again something different is happening as well. Here and there we see some of them facing off against each other. Some seem, if not in sympathy, at least more reluctant to club defenseless women and their daughters. A few have even prevented some of Colonel Jalil’s men from taking down names and addresses.
    Jalil faked past Mansur and drove to the basket. His layup went in off the backboard. He passed the ball to Mansur.
    Mansur said to the colonel, “You have a wife and a daughter. What do they say about this?”
    “To me? Not much. They are mindful of my office. But they certainly speak to each other. Only yesterday, I heard them at my daughter’s computer. My daughter was surfing the prophecy sites. New ones appear every day. I heard her marvel at how big this was growing.”
    “With pleasure?”
    “With… concern.”
    “Please speak freely,” said the mullah.
    The colonel wet his lips. “She’s enjoying it, yes. It’s my wife who is concerned. I heard my daughter say, ‘This is really getting good.’ My wife replied, ‘No, this is already trouble. It’s going to get some girls your age killed.’”
    The mullah frowned. He shot from several feet beyond the key. The ball went through the net cleanly. Then came polite applause from the opposite court. Mansur acknowledged it with a grin and a wave. He asked Jalil, “Has that happened?”
    The colonel sighed. While dribbling, he answered, “We don’t know, but I would think so. Some might have been killed by their husbands or their fathers. Honor killings happen. They are seldom reported. As you’ve seen, however, there are many who’ve been beaten. Dozens arrested in this city alone. Hundreds more have gone into hiding or they’ve fled across the border into Kurdish Iraq. Other women, sympathizers, are helping them to flee.”
    “What other women? The Nasreen