philanTH-EIST-ropist

He was standing a couple of inches short of 6 feet with an aged pale dark skin drooping much like a weeping tree in autumn. A thick beard was neatly combed and the white of his entire attire was broken only by the red in the piece of cloth he had on his shoulder. Here I was standing before him and him standing before an embellished collection of Islamic literature. “You are comfortable with the floor seating or should I call for a chair? Hammad, Hammad? ...” I had to stop him there. I would much rather take the same seat as the person I would like to converse with. “So you said you had to ask me certain questions pertaining to Saaleh?” “Yes”, I continued as I made myself comfortable across from him in the small cubicle, “We gathered you gave him provisions for his way back that terrible night.” “He was a whimpering six year old raw flesh when I discovered him outside our madrassa. I asked him if he were hungry or in danger. He disclosed how badly he had been wrong

My final screams: “Amma! Allah! Amma? Allah?” Who else is left to call? Do I have the energy to call? Aah ... aaahhhh ... aaaahhhhh! Can he hear the screams in my head? Is that why he is punishing me more? Amma said Allah never burdens His caliph more than he can shoulder. Am I really that strong? Can I take this pain any longer? My fragile self was shattered ages back when he slapped me to the ground and took every bit of my free will, leaving my wretched self sobbing, and then screaming for some pre-destined help. How much more could I kick, how much more could I punch? Perhaps Amma has been right all along about my bad eating habits: “you cannot grow strong if you do not finish your lamb and vegetables”. He tore away my shirt Amma. I was too weak to fight. He ripped the clothes you bought me last time we went shopping together. You said I looked like a princess. Is that the sin my Allah is punishing me for? Molvi saab said we should not look pretty. It can seduce the minds of m