This is something of a prologue to a larger novel, one that has not, I believe, been translated into English. I suppose writing about a prologue – and about a female Azerbaijani writer – has value simply because of the rarity of the combination. And so, here we are.
What to make of a woman who has done something utterly distasteful but suffered punishment entirely out of whack with what she has done? Sympathy, I suppose. But it’s hard.
Leyla is involved in illegal street racing in Baku. It’s a pastime of the idle rich children of the monied political class and corrupt businessmen. Supposedly, the fact that pedestrians might be run over and killed is all part of the thrill. And Leyla loves it. It is, she thinks, the “last remaining option for rebellion”, which is a frankly reprehensible way of looking at a dangerous and thoughtless activity.
The presidential family frowned upon street racing. It was among the few offenses that couldn’t be smoothed out with money. The young drivers—none of the arrested had been older than twenty-six—were usually held at the police station, and the officers took turns giving them beatings. A common, even harmless, practice in this area of the world.
[The prison guard’s] right hand slowly wandered up Leyla’s thigh, lingered on her crotch, found its way into her underwear and there did its damage with slow determination. It only retreated to wipe off the snot that Leyla spit into his face. He might have even enjoyed Leyla’s unyielding disdain. When he was done, he hit her a few times with such force that she lost consciousness. She would wake up later with the taste of blood in her mouth and a hand on her breast.
It’s too much. It’s too much. She doesn’t deserve sexual assault as punishment for what she has done. And, unfortunately, as the only woman detained, she bears the brunt of male attention.
Leyla’s thoughts fade in and out of the present as she is assaulted and beaten, coming to rest often on her history as a ballerina. Those days are gone. Grjasnowa creates an interesting comparison of the physical duress under which a ballerina-in-training and a prisoner suffer.
And yet and yet and yet. I am sympathetic to Leyla. I am. She should not have to suffer like that. But I am of course in moral opposition to what she has done and the enjoyment she has derived from it. The violent games of the idle rich do not interest me, and if anything I support the state’s ability to round them up and teach them a lesson via fine and/or imprisonment.
But not the sexual violence lesson. Or the physical violence lesson.
And I suppose this is the point. I’m in an uncomfortable situation. I would like to believe I have a strong moral compass, but here I am conflicted. The easy answer is to say – stop the violence, stop the sexual assault, clean up the streets and give the kids something to do.
Really easy to type. Really easy.
|Title||The Legal Haziness of a Marriage|
|Publisher||Words Without Borders|
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