The woman walked through the dark alley of Al-Hatjan hesitantly. 19.20. The central steet of the plateau was five minutes away and she was alone, in the dark. El-Jahaara was one of the most remote villages of Afghanistan, in the middle of nowhere, hundreds of miles away from Kabul. Afghanistan was itself remote, a tiny bit of it would get zero attention.
What that happens in El-Jahaara stays in El-Jahaara.
A minute to the central street. Her body started sweating as the lights were closed.
It was getting late.
Fatimah rushed until she reached the central street. Her hair got in the way, the small holes of her yeshmak were covered. How would she get them out of the way? Her whole head was covered. What could she do?
"O glorious God, the sole wish of my soul is that-"
Oh no. The adhan. The muezzin began his prayer.
Between the bargains there was spread dead silence. Almost robotically, the people fell to their knees. Nervously, Fatimah looked for her mat. She tried to find it but she couldn't. The bakery was 15 minutes away and she had to get home by 19:30.
Oh Fatimah, oh dear Fatimah. Little did you know about what would happen next.
"Catch her!" A long scream was echoed through the now almost empty street. A man pointing at the girl and sprinting towards her with a wave of other men heading to her direction.
She ran for her life. She knew she wouldn't survive. Jury? The punishment was to go to court. Kabul was a day away. She knew she would die the moment they caught her. And she was right.
Why? Why she thought to herself. What was worth of a medication. She was pushed down, slammed into the floor. Rocks landing on a 17 year old girl's face, screaming and suffocating and struggling to take a breath.
The bandages were ripped off of her. Nothing worth of the pain. Beaten for refusing to copulate, now killed for refusing to pray. What was that life worth of? Give up, my sweet Fatimah. Give up.