Ali

You grew up in a small house on the outskirts of town. When your father died, the family was left without a breadwinner, and your mother married you off to a man from the next block named Ali. You heard horror stories: husbands beating, locking them in the house, forcing them to work. You were afraid, you cried at night.

On your wedding day, you shivered beneath your burqa. He took your hand—his fingers warm and gentle. He silently led you into a tiny room with a dirt floor, furnished only with an old mattress and a stove.

He worked from morning until night: carrying sacks, mending shoes, and earning extra money. He'd come home tired, but always bring food. You'd notice: he'd give you more rice, while he'd only eat flatbread. When his old scarf wore out, he'd secretly buy a new one—a beautiful blue one. He'd say, "It suits you."

He never raised his voice or tugged at your hand. Every night, he spread his mattress by the door so you could sleep warmly, and he would guard your sleep.

One day, you went outside without him to pick up his fallen clothes. The neighbors noticed. There were three of them. They were kicking you, tearing your clothes, spitting. You woke up at home, in your husband's arms.

He held you close, tears streaming down his cheeks. He kissed your broken hands and whispered, his voice breaking:

"I'm sorry I didn't save you. I swear it won't happen again. I'll save up some money, and we'll leave. Just be patient a little longer."