The Story of Farah, Part 1.

This story came to be due to injustice, and the cascading events that followed changed the world as so many knew it.

In her country, some girls were wed far too early, and marriage was the only opportunity ever presented to them. It wasn’t that way for all, but it was the dismal way of life for others. Farah had never been given an opportunity to be educated – she had too many brothers and sisters, at home, and found herself too busy with their care to even think about trying to make an independent life for herself.

She learned to read, to write, and some English…but only because she was lucky enough to come from a family who had fought for the chance to learn. She rarely left the house, even to escort her siblings out to play or to do the shopping for her mother, unless she was covered from head to toe in a burqa.

Farah didn’t feel oppressed, or unfortunate; these things were simply part of her way of life, and of her Muslim heritage, she was deeply proud. She believed in what the Quran taught her, practiced her religion daily, and counted her blessings. She loved her brothers and her sisters, her parents, and Allah – she couldn’t imagine a more fulfilling life, even though she was hearing with increasing frequency how looked down upon she was, for her choice of dress and way of life.

She was content. Who would pity or judge her for that?

When the time came for her to be married, she was a little more wary in her happiness, but she had great trust in her family. Her father had been the one to arrange the match, with a man he’d known for a great deal of time. His son was older than her, but she hardly thought it mattered; from all she heard of him, he was well-educated, had a stable source of income, and would provide well for any children she bore.

There were many tears shed from her siblings, who told her repeatedly how they’d miss her, and she had her wedding day at the age of fifteen. She stayed with her family for a week, afterwards, while they sorted her things and helped her move in with her new husband; they were only next door, to her in-laws, but much further away from her own family.

She missed them terribly, at first…and then, she didn’t have much time to miss them.

Her days were spent with her mother-in-law. Cooking, cleaning, taking care of her in-laws’ home. She didn’t mind that, so much. She was accustomed to housekeeping. It was the screaming that she couldn’t stand. The things sometimes thrown at her. The slurs, the cruel names, being told – repeatedly – that she was the property of their son. She was to be obedient. She was to do as she was told.

Then she would go to her husband’s home (it was never hers) and wait for him to return from work.

When he’d come home, she would be all those things. Property of her husband. Obedient. She did as she was told.

She slept poorly every night, and cleaned blood out of her bed sheets every morning. Then, she would spend the rest of her day the exact same way as the last, doing as she was told.