Asia Cup Quotes

Hey.” Marcus cupped my cheek with his rough hand and lifted my face, so I would look at him. “If you wanna be free, Asia, all you have to do is see yourself through my eyes. If you could see how beautiful you are, what an amazing artist you’ve become, how you light up a room just by walking into it, you would realize that you have no reason to keep yourself locked up. You should be proud of who you are, babe. ’Cause you are amazing.

Paul Theroux on Blogging, Travel Writing, and Three Cups of Tea Speaking of books that contain an element of travel, Greg Mortenson's bestseller about Central Asia was in the news recently. Were you surprised by the allegations that Three Cups of Tea contained fabrications? No, I wasn't. One of the things The Tao of Travel shows is how unforthcoming most travel writers are, how most travelers are. They don't tell you who they were traveling with, and they're not very reliable about things that happened to them. For example, everyone loved John Steinbeck's book Travels With Charley. Turns out he didn't travel alone, his wife kept meeting him, yet she was never mentioned in the book. Steinbeck didn't go to all the places he mentioned, nor did he meet all the people he said he met. In other words, Travels With Charley is fiction, or at least half-fiction. As for Three Cups of Tea, I think that philanthropists and humanitarians are even less forthcoming about what they do. I guess this guy did build a couple of schools in Afghanistan, but a self-promoting humanitarian is not someone I have a great deal of trust or belief in. I lived for six years in Africa and I've been to Africa numerous times since then. People build schools for their own reasons—not to improve a country. The people I've known who've done great things of that type—you know, building hospitals, running schools—are very humble people. They give their lives to the project. Missionaries get a bad rap, but I've known missionaries in Africa who were very self-sacrificing and humble and who did great things. They ran schools, hospitals, libraries; they helped people. Some wrote dictionaries and translated languages that hadn't been written down. I saw a lot of missionaries in Africa that were doing that, and you would never know their names; they came and did their work, and now they're buried there. Are there travel books out there that feel especially honest to you? Many of the books I quote in The Tao of Travel feel honest. One of them, really the most heartfelt, is Christ Stopped at Eboli by Carlo Levi. Peter Matthiessen's The Snow Leopard is a very honest book. Jan Morris has written numerous books, and you can take what she says to the bank. But there are some that just don't feel right. Bruce Chatwin never rang true to me. Bill Bryson said that he would take a couple of people and make them into one composite character. Well, that's what novelists do. If you're a travel writer you have to stick to the facts.

For years now I have heard the word “Wait!” It rings in the ear of every Negro with piercing familiarity. This “Wait” has almost always meant “Never.” We must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that “justice too long delayed is justice denied.” We have waited for more than 340 years for our constitutional and God-given rights. The nations of Asia and Africa are moving with jet-like speed toward gaining political independence, but we still creep at horse-and-buggy pace toward gaining a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. Perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say, “Wait.” But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate-filled policemen curse, kick, and even kill your black brothers and sisters; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million Negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six-year-old daughter why she can’t go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her eyes when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children, and see ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky, and see her beginning to distort her personality by developing an unconscious bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five-year-old son who is asking: “Daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?”; when you take a cross-county drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading “white” and “colored”; when your first name becomes “nigger,” your middle names becomes “boy” (however old you are), and your last name becomes “John,” and your wife and mother are never given the respected title “Mrs.”; when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a Negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and are plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of “nobodiness”—then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait.

Herbs to use for a good sleep bath and no rash. My grandma on my father’s side was a biologist and botanist. She gave us herb baths all the time because she had a whole garden of medicinal plants and knew how to use them. My other grandmother, who was a nurse, did the same. It is a very common practice to wash a baby with a tea blend made from chamomile/calendula and beggar ticks (also called as Bidens, bur marigold or Spanish needle) in Russia and Central Asia. The last one is the most essential to cure diathesis, prickly heat and other dermatological problems. I take just 1 tablespoon of each herb and mix into 3 cups of boiled hot water, let it sit for an hour or so, and add to a small basin so that it makes a very weak solution. Daniella’s skin becomes very soft and clean after it. She has not had eczema or any kind of rash. I think it is mostly due to the use of the herbs. When I told a friend about the Bidens and she tried it with her newborn, her daughter slept longer by an hour or two.

Over and over, early Christian writings tell us of how Christians were branded atheists by the imperial courts and executed for this capital crime. They had lost all faith in the empire and had become faithful to God alone as the one who could preserve peace and prosperity. They claimed Jesus as their only emperor (Acts 17:7), they preached the kingdom of their God, and they pledged allegiance to the slaughtered Lamb. Today, there are many things I love about “America the Beautiful,” and yet the book of Revelation sounds a clear warning that any glory we give to Babylon is glory that belongs only to God. As my friend Tony Campolo says, “We may live in the best Babylon in the world, but it is still Babylon, and we are called to ‘come out of her.’” John warns the church in Asia Minor to be “faithful unto death” (Rev. 2:10). He describes a marriage between God and God’s people. They are to be loyal to their lover, Yahweh, their faith remaining in God alone, adorned as a bride, the New Jerusalem. Describing Rome as the whoring seductress Babylon the Great, John warns the Christians that the empire will entice them with a counterfeit splendor, and he warns against flirting with her pleasures and treasures, which will soon come to ruin. They are not to be shocked and awed by Babylon’s power nor dazzled by her jewels. Rather than drinking humanity’s blood from her golden cup of suffering (17:6), they are to choose the eucharistic cup filled with the blood of the new covenant. We are faithful not to the triumphant golden eagle (ironically, also an imperial symbol of power in Rome) but to the slaughtered Lamb.

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Chapter 5 Eyebright For Eye Strain The other night, I took a break from writing and went for a walk. It was dark, but the moon was bright giving me the light I needed to see my way up the road and back. When I returned I could see a few lights on in the house, but what really stood out was my laptop that I had left open; it’s bright white light standing out. I thought, “man, I stare at that light for hours at a time!” No wonder my eyes feel tired so often. Many people do this for eight or more hours every day. When we are viewing the screens of our devices, we blink less than normal which can cause dryness and soreness. The intense focus can also be the root of headaches and other eye related symptoms. Relief can be achieved by taking frequent ‘eye breaks’ which involve looking at something in the distance every twenty minutes or so (there are even apps to remind you!), and making sure your screen is just below eye level. But the reality is many of us are spending a lot of time focusing intently on electronic devices and straining our eyes. Symptoms of eye strain range from dry, sore, or itchy eyes, to headaches, light sensitivity and blurred vision. Mother Nature in her infinite wisdom has provided us with a wild herb that works directly to reduce the discomforts of eye strain and many other eye issues. Eyebright, a tiny flowered, weedy looking herb found wild in Europe, Asia and North America can be used to treat all eye disorders. Eyebright’s tannin content, which acts as an astringent, and its anti-inflammatory and antibacterial properties, combine to make the perfect eye wash. Its 3 major antioxidant vitamins bring in eye-specific support as well:  Vitamin C, in conjunction with Eyebright’s high content of Quercetin, assists in reducing swelled and runny eyes; Vitamin E has been shown to help improve visual sharpness; and Vitamin A protects the cornea and prevents dry eyes. Eyebright is the perfect solution for eyestrain symptoms, but it can also be used for many other eye disorders including conjunctivitis and itchy or runny eyes caused by allergies. Traditionally it has been used to improve memory and treat vertigo and epilepsy. Harvesting and drying Eyebright is easy. The high tannin content makes it a fast-drying herb. Simply cut the flowering tops of the plant and dry for a day or two in an oven with just the pilot light on, or in an airy spot out of the sun for several days. The dried herb will have retained its colors, though the flowers will have diminished considerably in size. How To Use Eyebright How to make an eye bath:   Boil 2 cups of water and pour over 1 cup of dried or fresh herb and let sit for 20 minutes or more. Strain well using cheesecloth or an unbleached coffee filter, store in a sterile glass jar (just dip in the boiling water before adding the herbs and let stand, open side up), cool, lid tightly and place in refrigerator for up to a week. When you wash your face in the morning or evening, use a sterile eyecup or other small sterile container to ‘wash’ your eyes with this herbal extract. If you are experiencing a painful eye condition, it is better to warm the eye bath liquid slightly before use. You can also dip cotton balls in the solution and press one on each eye (with lid closed) as a compress. Eyebright Tea: Using the same method for making an eye bath, simply drink the tea for relief of eye symptoms due to eyestrain, colds and allergies.

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Lentil-Mushroom Burgers For any reluctant vegan who worries that nothing will ever replace the taste or texture of a juicy beef patty, consider the lentil burger. It might not matter so much that lentils are an excellent source of protein, that they are one of the fastest-cooking legumes, or that they are consumed in large quantities all over Europe, Asia, and Africa (even Idaho!). What will impress you is how tender, juicy, and “meaty” they taste. I grew up grilling over campfires, and I know burgers. These are as delicious as they come. Sometimes I’ll even take a few patties with me on long training runs and races.        1 cup dried green lentils (2¼ cups cooked)      2¼ cups water      1 teaspoon dried parsley      ¼ teaspoon black pepper      3 garlic cloves, minced      1¼ cups finely chopped onion      ¾ cup finely chopped walnuts      2 cups fine bread crumbs (see Note)      ½ cup ground flax seed (flax seed meal)      3 cups finely chopped mushrooms   1½ cups destemmed, finely chopped kale, spinach, or winter greens      2 tablespoons coconut oil or olive oil      3 tablespoons balsamic vinegar      2 tablespoons Dijon mustard      2 tablespoons nutritional yeast      1 teaspoon sea salt      ½ teaspoon black pepper      ½ teaspoon paprika   In a small pot, bring the lentils, water, parsley, 1 garlic clove, and ¼ cup of the onion to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer, partially covered, for 35 to 40 minutes, until the water is absorbed and the lentils are soft. While the lentils are cooking, combine the walnuts, bread crumbs, and flax seed in a bowl. Add the nutritional yeast, salt, pepper, and paprika and mix well. Sauté the remaining onion, remaining garlic, the mushrooms, and greens in the oil for 8 to 10 minutes, then set aside. Remove the lentils from the heat, add the vinegar and mustard, and mash with a potato masher or wooden spoon to a thick paste. In a large mixing bowl, combine the lentils, sautéed veggies, and bread crumb mixtures, and mix well. Cool in the refrigerator for 15 to 30 minutes or more. Using your hands, form burger patties to your desired size and place on waxed paper. Lightly fry in a seasoned skillet, broil, or grill until lightly browned and crisp, 3 to 5 minutes on each side. Extra uncooked patties can be frozen on wax paper in plastic bags or wrapped individually in aluminum foil, making for a quick dinner or wholesome burger for the next barbecue.   MAKES A DOZEN 4-INCH DIAMETER BURGERS   NOTE: To make the bread crumbs, you’ll need about half of a loaf of day-old bread (I use Ezekiel 4:9). Slice the bread, then tear or cut into 2- to 3-inch pieces and chop in a food processor for 1 to 2 minutes, until a fine crumb results. The walnuts can also be chopped in the food processor with the bread.  

Among modern idols the worst is the homeland Its robe is the shroud of religion

The proconsul ordered Polycarp to deny Christ and swear to Caesar, which shows that Pliny’s policy had become official. Polycarp refused, confessing that, as Christ had been faithful to him for so many years, he would be faithful to Christ. “If you imagine that I will swear by Caesar’s fortune, as you put it, pretending not to know who I am, I will tell you plainly, I am a Christian.” The proconsul threatened to throw Polycarp to the beasts, but Polycarp retorted, “Call them. . . . Do what you want.”9 Meanwhile, Polycarp remained serene and calm, full of courage and joy. A crier then walked to the middle of the arena and announced three times over, “Polycarp has confessed that he is a Christian.” And the crowd, boiling with anger, charged, “This fellow is the teacher of Asia, the father of the Christians, the destroyer of our gods, who teaches numbers of people not to sacrifice or even worship.”10 The enraged crowd demanded his death. Soldiers bound Polycarp to the stake, stacked wood around it, and set it on fire. Encircling him, the flames did not and—according to the account—could not consume him, as if held back by a protective curtain. Meanwhile, Polycarp prayed, “I bless Thee, because thou hast deemed me worthy of this day and hour, to take my part in the number of the martyrs, in the cup of thy Christ, for ‘resurrection to eternal life’ of soul and body.” The proconsul then ordered execution by sword.

Sweet Heat Mahogany Chicken Wings 6 SERVINGS The flavor palate of Southeast Asia — sweet, sour, salty, and hot — is captured in this one-pot chicken wing orgy. The streamlined method takes about half an hour and results in the gooiest, most pungent, sticky-fingered chicken wings you can imagine. They’re the perfect food for tailgating, afternoons watching ballgames, or just hanging out. Ingredients 1 tablespoon canola oil 2 garlic cloves, minced 1 dried hot chile pepper 1 tablespoon freshly grated gingerroot 1 cup root beer, any type, purchased or homemade 1⁄3 cup soy sauce 2 pounds chicken wings, sectioned, third joint discarded 1 tablespoon dark sesame oil Instructions Heat the oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the garlic, chile pepper, and ginger, and sauté until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Add the root beer and soy sauce. Bring to a boil, add the wings, cover, and let simmer for 5 minutes. Uncover the skillet and cook at a slow simmer until the liquid reduces enough to glaze the wings, about 20 minutes. Toss gently every few minutes near the end of cooking to prevent scorching, and stir in the sesame oil. Serve hot.

We began with two buttery sweet edamame and one sugar syrup-soaked shrimp in a crunchy soft shell. A lightly simmered baby octopus practically melted in our mouths, while a tiny cup of clear, lemony soup provided cooling refreshment. The soup held three slices of okra and several slippery cool strands of junsai (water shield), a luxury food that grows in ponds and marshes throughout Asia, Australia, West Africa, and North America. In the late spring the tiny plant develops leafy shoots surrounded by a gelatinous sheath that floats on the water's surface, enabling the Japanese to scoop it up by hand from small boats. The edamame, okra, and water shield represented items from the mountains, while the shrimp and octopus exemplified the ocean. I could tell John was intrigued and amused by this artistic (perhaps puny?) array of exotica. Two pearly pieces of sea bream, several fat triangles of tuna, and sweet shelled raw baby shrimp composed the sashimi course, which arrived on a pale turquoise dish about the size of a bread plate. It was the raw fish portion of the meal, similar to the mukozuke in a tea kaiseki. To counter the beefy richness of the tuna, we wrapped the triangles in pungent shiso leaves , then dunked them in soy. After the sashimi, the waitress brought out the mushimono (steamed dish). In a coal-black ceramic bowl sat an ivory potato dumpling suspended in a clear wiggly broth of dashi thickened with kudzu starch, freckled with glistening orange salmon roe. The steamed dumplings, reminiscent of a white peach, was all at once velvety, sweet, starchy, and feathery and had a center "pit" of ground chicken. The whole dish, served warm and with a little wooden spoon, embodied the young, tender softness of spring.

committed a small oversight, and yet one that almost destroyed their venture. They had assumed that they would deliver the kerosene in bulk to various localities, and that the eager customers would line up with their own receptacles to be filled. The customers were expected to use old Standard Oil tin cans. But they did not. Throughout the Far East, Standard’s blue oil tins had become a prized mainstay of the local economies, used to construct everything from roofing to birdcages to opium cups, hibachis, tea strainers, and egg beaters. They were not about to give up such a valuable product. The whole scheme was now threatened—not by the machinations of 26 Broadway or by the politics of the Suez Canal, but by the habits and predilections of the peoples of Asia. A local crisis was created in each port, as the kerosene went unsold, and despairing telegrams began to flow into Houndsditch. In the quickness and ingenuity of his response to the crisis, Marcus proved his entrepreneurial genius. He sent out a chartered ship, filled with tinplate, to the Far East, and simply instructed his partners in Asia to begin manufacturing tin receptacles for the kerosene. No matter that no one knew how to do so; no matter that no one had the facilities. Marcus persuaded them they could do it. “How do you stick on the wire handles?” the agent in Singapore wrote to Samuel’s representative in Japan. Instructions were sent. “What color do you suggest?” cabled the agent in Shanghai. Mark gave the answer—“Red!

I often wonder how my neighbours from my old cell are doing. There are around a hundred of us women locked up here, mostly accused of adultery. But in reality many of them have been raped. Although these women are victims, they’re regarded as guilty.

What should - or can - Christians say if a Muslim asks them if they believe in Allah and the Prophet Muhammad? I was brought up to believe in Christ, the Virgin Mary and the Holy Trinity. I respect Islam and the Muslim faith, but what can I say when they ask me? If I say I believe in God and Jesus Christ rather than Allah, I’m regarded as a blasphemer. If I say I believe in Allah, I’m a traitor, like St Peter when he denied Jesus three times. These are questions I never used to think about.

It’s terrifying to think of all those thousands of people going out into the streets to shout that I should die – me, a poor insignificant woman! Against my will I’ve become a symbol of the blasphemy law.

Asia Bibi is a Pakistani wife and mother living under sentence of death. Since 2009 she has been in prison in Sheikhupura, in the province of Punjab, where she is held in appalling conditions unworthy of a democracy. Her crime? She’s a Christian who drank a cup of water from a well used by her Muslim friends.

Asia Bibi is the only woman this century to have been condemned to death for blasphemy. Her lawyer appealed against the decision, but until the date for the hearing is set by the High Court in Lahore, Asia risks being murdered at any time, or simply dying of exhaustion. A mullah in Peshawar has offered a reward of 5,000 euros to anyone who kills Asia. This sum is a fortune in Pakistan.

Yet we all know that the Islam advocated by the fundamentalists bears little resemblance to the great religion upheld by Muslims for centuries. In surat 5 of verse 32, the Koran teaches that anyone who kills an innocent person kills all humankind, and anyone who saves a life saves all humankind.

Asia Bibi is innocent. The Pakistani government knows this, but does nothing for fear of reprisals.

Pakistan is a great nation and Pakistanis are great people. They are friendly and hospitable and the Islam they follow is a religion that welcomes others, as I know from my own experience. In a population of 180 million, there is only a handful of extremists. But, by instilling terror, those few extremists are holding back the development of the entire country.

I still have my tears: they flow often enough, but I’m done with sobbing. My tears are my cellmates. They remind me that I haven’t completely given up, that I’m a victim of injustice. They remind me that I’m innocent.

And talking of my God, by whose will I’m in this prison now, how long will He make me suffer? I was a good Christian before all this, and the fact that my children miss me so much means I must have been a good mother.

My husband found me as pure as the Virgin Mary on our wedding night. And every Christmas after that his mother used to congratulate him for marrying me. I was a good wife, a good mother and a good Christian, but now it seems I’m good only to hang.

But though I’m kept in a tiny, windowless cell, I want my voice and my anger to be heard. I want the whole world to know that I’m going to be hanged for helping my neighbour. I’m guilty of having shown someone sympathy. What did I do wrong? I drank water from a well belonging to Muslim women, using ‘their’ cup, in the burning heat of the midday sun.

But I have no confidence in this justice system that lashes out against poor people like me who have nothing. If, by some miracle, I’m not killed in my cell before my appeal is heard, I’ll end up murdered anyway.

If I’m acquitted, my life won’t be worth much in Pakistan. I’ll have to be adopted by some other country, since my own no longer wants me. I’m condemned to flee my beloved native land, but the fury I’ve built up in prison over the last two years has given me the strength to want to go on living, abroad, with my family, who are also threatened with death.

My life is not worth much and the religious fundamentalists won’t be satisfied until they have exacted their cruel punishment. But I also want my story to be useful to others like me, who are unjustly condemned in the name of this law.

I wept with joy at the idea of seeing my family again and leaving the hell of prison.

Death by hanging – how horrible! And as if killing me wasn’t enough, they’d also said I had to pay a fine of 300,000 rupees! I’ve never had that much money and never will. Why are they doing this to me? Am I supposed to pay to have myself killed?

How can they rejoice at someone’s death? Human beings need to get better, they need to progress! Why am I so different? Why don’t I feel pleasure at the sight of the sufferings of others? I’m not made the same way as them; that must be why they reject me, why they want to see me gone.

The prosecutor looked very serious. He wrote in a big book, in silence. I was physically exhausted by our conversation and shaken up by having to make the effort to remember all the details of that horrible story. If I could, I’d wipe the entire thing from my memory. Better still, I’d like to go back in time and never go fruit-picking at all.

I try to say a few words out loud, to see if my voice still works. Ashiq didn’t come last Tuesday, so I haven’t used it for more than ten days. I use it so little since I’ve been isolated in here that I wonder if my voice won’t give out one day. I’ve also lost a lot of weight. My health isn’t very good. My muscles don’t work the way they used to, I feel less alert, and wonder how I can ever go back to the things I used to do – fruit picking in particular is physically tiring and hurts your back. I feel like I’m 100 years old and, even if I’m one day released, I won’t be able to go back to the same life.

I fix my attention on the spider, trying to create a moment of calm, get my breath back and forget, if only for a second, how dangerous people can be. I watch it busily weaving its web, delicately and with great attention to detail. The sight is soothing. Unlike me, this spider seems to know exactly what it has to do; it does its work without a moment’s hesitation and seems so confident. This little spider doesn’t seem to have any cracks in its world, while mine is falling to pieces.

I’m cross with myself for speaking so angrily to God. God is all love and can’t be held responsible for human madness, for all the hatred in the world.

I’m such bad news that even the big black fly has flown away. It must have realised it too might be killed through contact with me, like Salman Taseer and now Shahbaz Bhatti.

Even if I could look in a mirror, I don’t know if I’d dare. I’m so afraid I wouldn’t recognise myself. Basically I think I don’t want to know; I prefer to think I’m pretty like Ashiq always says, as beautiful as the day I turned twenty.

My life belongs to the Lord, I know, and if I’m still alive today, despite everything that has happened to me, it can’t be an accident. It’s because God has given me a mission. Perhaps, through my story, I, a poor uneducated farmer’s daughter, can help others like me, and maybe save them from the death penalty. If I can stay alive, perhaps one day the blasphemy law will be changed. And even if I don’t survive much longer, I have no right to kill myself.

Now we’re all alone.’ Tahir answers me firmly: ‘No, Asia. We aren’t alone. Shahbaz Bhatti has a brother called Paul. He has taken up the torch and he’s going to fight on. I know he’s seen Pope Benedict XVI.’ ‘The Pope?’ My heart leaps inside me. ‘Yes, and he didn’t go alone. The Bishop of Faisalabad, Monsignor Joseph Coutts, went with him, and the imam of the Badshahi mosque in Lahore, Syed Muhammad Abdul Khabir Azad.’ ‘The imam went too?’ It’s one surprise after another. Ashiq says nothing, but a timid smile appears on his lips. ‘Yes, the imam went too. He’s a brave man. That’s why we mustn’t give up hope. You must stay strong, Asia. You are not alone.

The one thing that keeps me going, despite all the deprivation, anger and this terrible fear that never leaves me, is the certainty that I am innocent. The certainty that I am being treated unjustly. And the desire to bear witness, to do what I can so that my fight will help other people. I’ve got no education, I’ve always lived very simply, but today I think perhaps my life will have an impact on the life of my country.

So now you know a bit more about me, it’s you I want to speak to. You’ve read my story and you’ve learned about my country, our life that’s happy in spite of everything – or could be. I’m just one woman among all the very many women of this world, but I humbly believe that my suffering is like that of others. I long for my persecutors’ eyes to be opened, for the situation in my country to change.

Now that you know my story, tell other people you know about what has happened to me. Spread the word. I believe this is the only chance I have of not dying in this dungeon. I need you. Help me.

I’m very frightened for my family. They’re in danger too. They left our village a long time ago and my husband hasn’t been able to work since I was arrested. They’re hiding at the home of some cousins in Dingo, but my husband told me they’ll have to leave soon because it’s no longer safe for them in the village. They’ve received threats.

So my fate was to be in the hands of the President of Pakistan, Asif Ali Zardari. I knew his name because he was our president, but I didn’t have any opinions about him. I’m not educated enough to understand politics. Everything I know has been picked up here and there, listening to my father and my uncle talking about him when we saw him on flyers and posters. Women of my position don’t ask questions or join in discussions of that kind. It’s only now that I realise what a shame it is that men think women don’t need to know anything about things like that. After all, we are subject to the same laws.

I put my hand on my chest, now flat as a plank of wood. My belly has hollowed out, my thighs have melted away, my arms are shrinking to nothing and from looking at my hands you’d think I was dead already. I’d like to cry, but today I have no tears left. I’d like to shout, but I can tell I’ve got no voice. My feeble breath is just enough to keep me in the world. I’d tear out my hair, but I like it too much to lose it. In this place I’ve learned how to die while I’m still alive.

Zarmina was a Muslim, accused of blasphemy like me. Her story was totally absurd. She had just got married when she and her husband had a motorbike crash in Shergarh, several hours’ drive from here. Luckily they weren’t badly hurt, but when her husband lost control of the bike with Zarmina riding pillion behind him, it careered into a monument dedicated to the Prophet Muhammad. Zarmina and her husband were both accused of blasphemy and thrown into prison. And now Zarmina is dead. She was nice; I will miss her. Why have we two been accused of blasphemy, my Muslim sister who died last night and me? I don’t understand it. Have people gone mad?

In isolated villages like ours age doesn’t matter. Ageing is a part of life, like the passing of time and the changing weather.

I think of my children, who must also be feeling desperate. I’m not dead yet, but it won’t be long now. It’s been ten days since the judge passed his sentence and I know I could find myself with a rope round my neck at any moment.

Back in my cell, I still can’t believe it. The Holy Father, the Pope himself, is thinking of me and praying for me. I wonder if I deserve so much honour and attention. Why me? I’m just a poor country woman and there must be other people in the world suffering just as much as me – or worse. Thank you, thank you, God, for all the good you have done me today. For the first time I go to sleep in my cell feeling happy.

With each footstep my heart beats faster. I don’t feel the cold any more, but I’m overwhelmed by fear. I’m convinced all this bustling about is to do with me: they’re going to come and take me away to hang me, as Judge Iqbal decided more than ten weeks ago. This fear that takes me over is so strong that I lose touch with reality. What seems to me like hours is almost certainly only a few minutes.

Khalil always gives me food as though I’m worse than a dog. Misty-eyed, I note he doesn’t look the same as usual. He stares at me. He’s about to say something, laughs and tells me: ‘Your guardian angel has just been assassinated because of you. Your beloved Governor Salman Taseer, that Muslim traitor, is now bathing in his own blood. He was killed with twenty-five bullets in Islamabad for defending you. Good riddance! You’d better keep your head down!’ Salman Taseer was a good man. He was governor of my province, the largest and richest in Pakistan. With its ninety million inhabitants, they call Punjab the ‘land of the five rivers’ and ‘the land of the pure’; Salman Taseer was one of those. He wasn’t a typical politician, he wasn’t power-hungry and greedy like some, he was a humanist who was quick to oppose the Taliban and the Islamic extremists. When he heard about my death sentence, he defended me in public.

We went in. I was dazzled by a yellow light. There were a lot of people in there, making a lot of noise. A tall, heavily built man in glasses came towards me. ‘Hello, Asia, I’m Salman Taseer, the Governor of Punjab. I’ve heard about what happened to you and I know that you’ve been victimised. I’ve organised a press conference, so you can tell the whole world that you are innocent.

The governor started talking at once. He told the journalists that I’d been unjustly accused, that the law against blasphemy was open to criminal misuse against the most vulnerable religious minorities, that not only was it against the principles of Islam but it did nothing to serve that religion. Then he stopped speaking. I understood that it was my turn. I was terrified - I didn’t think I could do it. Women of my kind aren’t expected to speak at all, let alone in public, and certainly not in front of strangers. I didn’t know what to say and started to stammer something inaudible. The governor quickly came to my aid. He interrupted me and, with a little nod of encouragement, asked me to tell the journalists what had happened in the village.

I explained what had really happened with those women, who’d turned hysterical at the thought of drinking water served by a Christian; how, after the argument, I was chased by a mad crowd and beaten by several villagers who dragged me to the police station; how, once there, I was unjustly accused of having blasphemed and the police threw me into a cell, under pressure from the crowd and the village mullah. At that point in my story Salman Taseer thanked me warmly. I was relieved to have been able to tell the truth.

I, Asia Bibi, have become a pariah and anyone who gives me any kind of help or support is considered to be a blasphemer too.

Later my lawyer told me that lots of prisoners accused of blasphemy never even get to court because they are killed in their cells before they can go for trial