What went through her mind during the final minutes of her life? What feelings of terror flooded her heart as she crouched on the rock-strewn barren ravine bank just outside her native village of Charikar in Afghanistan? Powerless to prevent what was happening to her, she could only sit and wait for the end. Her only protection was the gray shawl shielding her from view. Could she distinguish the voices of the men around her shouting their condemnations?
Jim White
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An hour earlier the 22-year-old woman identified only as Najiba had experienced a sham trial by what was believed to be a Taliban “court” made up of fanatics who had predetermined her guilt. Accused of adultery, she was found guilty. The outcome was never in doubt.
Did she hear the crunch of gravel beneath the sandals of her executioner—who is reported to have been her husband—as he approached and aimed his rifle? Did she scream silently for deliverance? Did she pray?
The rifle cracked and a bullet pierced the shawl. But the woman continued to sit erect. A second shot—and still the woman did not move. And a third. Finally, the lonely figure lurched backward and toppled to the sand. And the 150 men watching from the hillside, some of them at least, cheered and chanted “Mujahideen!,” a name by which the Taliban are known. Six more times the executioner fired his rifle into her motionless body. A grainy cell-phone video recording of the execution circulated in Kabul and found its way to the internet last Saturday, July 7. It is believed that the killing took place on or about June 23, 2012.
According to some bystanders, justice was done. But others tell a different story—murder on trumped up charges. Reports conflict as to the specifics, but they generally agree that that the woman was married to one Taliban commander and she was accused of adultery with another. To save face and to exact revenge the men had her eliminated. Where was her accomplice?
Soon after the woman was killed, some reports indicate that the two Taliban commanders were themselves murdered by a third.
Men in the crowd watch as a man, identified as a member of Taliban, prepares to execute a woman accused of adultery in a village outside Kabul in this still image taken from undated footage released July 7. (Reuters TV/Reuters)
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I will leave it to military and political strategists to sort out the implications of withdrawal in the wake of such a tragic and horrific act in Parwan Province, an area generally considered secure because of its close proximity to Kabul the capital and a base of operations for the U.S. military. My thoughts take a different turn.
In my mind’s eye, I see another isolated woman likewise accused of adultery standing in fear while angry men surround her. Like the men of Parwan, they are shouting her offense as justification for the execution they envision. Some of the mob’s leaders, however, see in this event a wonderful opportunity to not only remove the adulteress from their midst, but to also remove a figurative religious thorn from their sides.
“So,” they pose to Jesus, “what do you say we should do?” Jesus stoops to think. Perhaps from that vantage point he can see beneath her shawl the terror written plain on the condemned woman’s face. The commanders smile their congratulations to one another. They have him trapped as surely as the woman, they think. If he says to kill her, where is the love and compassion he has emphasized in his preaching? If he says to spare her, where is his allegiance to the religious laws that have governed their religion since the time of Moses?
Jesus draws something or writes something in the dirt then stands to his full height. “He who is without sin among you, let him be the first to cast a stone at her.” And again he stooped. A momentary silence was broken by the thud of a dropped rock hitting the ground. Then a second and a third, followed by many all at once. Did the woman hear the sound of pebbles crunching beneath the sandals of departing men? Then, silence except for her own ragged breathing.
Finally, the voice of Jesus penetrates the void, "Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?" "No one, sir," she answers with trembling voice. "Then neither do I condemn you," Jesus declares. "Go now and leave your life of sin." Jesus pronounces not condemnation but forgiveness—and a new expectation.
The two women were so much alike: Same accusation, same isolation, same sentence, same eager expectation on the part of the men around them that execution would be the penalty exacted. But there was also a difference. Jesus.
I cannot excise from my mind the image of the terrorized woman crouching beneath her shawl in Parwan Province. “Where was Jesus for you, dear sister,” I wonder?
The Taliban may be successful in keeping the Christian witness out of Parwan Province, but they cannot ban the Spirit of the living Christ. Perhaps Jesus came to you with the same compassion that other woman experienced. As Najiba crouched in the dust waiting for the bullets, perhaps she cried out silently for salvation from anyone who would listen to her. Or maybe not.
The horror of this incident has caused a global mobilization in support of women’s rights in Afghanistan. As Afghanis contemplate the withdrawal of NATO troops next year they are right to fear what any negotiated peace with the Taliban will bring. The support of women’s rights whether in Afghanistan or Alabama is a good thing. But I am hoping that another kind of mobilization will occur.
No Christian could squat in the dust beside Najiba to be with her in her moment of death. No Christian could plead her cause or purchase her release. She was too isolated; too far from us in time and place.
But I would venture to say there is no shortage of gross injustice. Even here at home some sit in hopeless resignation awaiting their fate. The powerless have no one to speak for them; no one to plead their cause. Wherever in the world they happen to be, I hope Christ’s followers will take note of the ones sitting isolated and desperate waiting for the bullets. And I pray we will rise to our full height in their defense.
Jim White ([email protected]) is executive editor of the Religious Herald.