The Story of Farah, Part 2.

Farah had never felt oppressed, before. Having grown up in a society that the Americans constantly called sexist and wrong, she had always shaken her head and wished she could show them their side of things. She had friends who were married, with children, who were happy. She had expected her situation to be much the same.

She’d had all the freedom she’d ever needed, back at home. Freedom to praise her God, freedom to play and laugh with her siblings, freedom to feel like more than someone’s object.

She had been robbed.

Her father didn’t know – couldn’t have known. Of that much, she was sure. It was easier to feel anger on his behalf than her own, at first. A quiet, festering rage over the fact that her father had been tricked. That man, her now father-in-law, had fooled him into believing he was an honest, respectable person. He had lied, and claimed his son – her now-husband – would make a decent spouse.

They had made a slave, out of her, and she felt too worthless to feel truly angry. She could feel a lack of justice, though. She bit down and gritted her teeth, on behalf of her family.

Some time later, when she discovered she was with child…that was when she found herself capable of more.

There were complications. Stress, her doctor had said, was making the baby weaker. She could not leave the house without an escort, and so her husband went with her to the mosque, and they prayed for their child’s health. Or rather, he did.

Farah found herself otherwise distracted. It was a curious thing, the beating of drums ringing in her ears, blocking out her own thoughts…but it gave her a sense of clarity. She pretended to pray, and focused on the sound. Focused on the heat, stemming from her core.

Rage. Quietly burning away, like embers that refused to die.

The baby’s growth wasn’t any better. She wasn’t stressed, anymore. Not exactly. All she felt was the quiet churning, like her stomach was filled with lava, her thoughts turning violent, and constantly, beating and ringing in her ears –

The beat of drums. Incessant. Soothing. Maddening. Giving her clarity.

The way she was being treated wasn’t an offense to her father, her family, her unborn child. It was against her.

The realisation had her throw herself down the stairs, repeatedly, until she was bruised and bloody.

Her husband rushed her to the hospital that night, hours after he returned home from work, but not before ensuring she had a few more bruises to show for it.

Several tests were run, but Farah was reassured – she had not lost the baby.

Her husband’s child (her rapist’s child) was still growing inside her, safely, but they wanted to keep her overnight for careful observation and to tend to her wounds, just in case. Farah agreed, and pretended the lava in her stomach wasn’t about to erupt.