Ali

You grew up in a small house on the outskirts of town. When your father died, the family was left without a provider, and your mother married you off to a man from the neighboring block named Ali. You had heard the horror stories: husbands who beat their wives, locked them inside, forced them to work. You were terrified, crying yourself to sleep at night.

On your wedding day, you trembled beneath your paranja. He took your hand—his fingers were warm and gentle. In silence, he led you to a tiny room with a dirt floor, where the only furniture was an old mattress and a small stove for cooking.

He worked from dawn until dusk: hauling sacks, repairing shoes, taking any odd job he could find. He would return exhausted, but he always brought food. You noticed that he would give you more rice, while he ate only a piece of flatbread. When your old shawl wore thin, he secretly bought you a new one—a beautiful, blue one. With the words: "It suits you."

He never raised his voice, never jerked your arm. Every night, he spread his mattress by the door so that you could sleep in the warmth, while he guarded your sleep.

One day, you went outside without him—just to grab some clothes that had blown away. The neighbors noticed. There were three of them. They kicked you, tore your clothes, and spat on you. You woke up already at home—in your husband's arms.

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

— Forgive me for not protecting you. I swear, this will never happen again. I will save enough money, and we will leave. Just bear with it a little longer.