1. Rin

1

Rin

"What do we want?"

"FOOD, WORK, FREEDOM!"

"When do we want it?"

"NOW!"

"What do we want?"

The crowd marches together, as if they are being controlled by one thing. In a way, they are.

Our need for rights.

"Food, work, freedom!" I continue to chant with the group of women and very few men, my arms hurting from holding a cardboard placard for well over an hour.

We shout out our demands. I feel myself getting swayed by the crowd as a disturbance happens somewhere far away from me. I don't relent, yelling even louder as sweat rolls down my face.

The disturbance pushes through a few of us, and I spot a hand holding something silver being raised in the air. I call out again when a gunshot crackles through the air and we all scream and cower, using our signs as shields.

"Shut up and go home!" the man causing the disturbance yells—his gun still raised in the air.

I swallow the lump in my throat, looking around me to find everyone cowering in place, too scared to run. Why? He is only one man, and we are over two hundred women. He is outnumbered.

I suck in a deep breath and stand up straight from my crouching position as he continues speaking, insulting us. I raise my sign up as high as my aching hands can go, and I chant again at the top of my voice.

"Food, work, freedom!" I scream, my eyes not leaving his, even as I watch them transform from anger to something more sinister.

My chanting does not stop, and his face falls, convincing me that maybe it is working. I look down at my sisters in arms and convince them with my eyes to get up and join me, but they don't respond. Their eyes are staring straight ahead in frozen fear.

I turn around to see what is scaring them, but he is right there in front of me, the next moment with his hand wrapped around my neck, squeezing.

I can't breathe and my eyes water. My hands drop my sign and try to pry at his fingers, but it is all futile. He raises his gun to the air and shoots before forcing the hot gun between my lips, bruising them until I relent, the barrel burning my tongue.

"If you don't stop yelling and get off the streets, I will kill you first and every single one of them will be locked behind bars for the rest of their miserable lives," he yells in my face, spit flecking my cheeks.

I groan, hoping that it sounds like I'm saying yes, like I'm trying to.

He holds me there in place for a few seconds longer before pushing me to the ground as he lets me go. "You are a woman. Act like one," he spits before turning to the crowd and beginning to scream profanities at them, too.

Not long after, we scatter, me headed back to my brother's, internally seething that it's my only option. All the while hoping he and his wife haven't heard about today, though already knowing word has spread faster than I could ever walk.

They will be even more vigilant not to let me leave again and my chest aches, breath coming in gasps as I imagine decades of being locked in those suffocating walls.

***

This isn't much better than prison here in my brother's house , I grumble internally.

Then I chide myself sharply, remembering how women are treated there and thanking Allah for the safe confines of this small room.

Still, I am stifled here. Unable to do what must be done to put an end to all the ceaseless terror. I can't forget any of the violence. Every memory drives me harder.

As always, it makes me think of Laila and that night when I accidentally forgot my bag in our classroom and when I came out to where she was waiting and heard her screams.

Saw the men in dark clothing holding her limp body as they hit her, punch after punch.

The look on their faces when they caught sight of me. Rushing me. Grabbing my top and pulling it hard against my neck, me biting them, screaming.

Of help arriving, but not before Laila's body had gone far too still.

The violence in the man's face yesterday was the same. An assurance that what he did, anything he did, would have no repercussions.

Men and their violence are the reason Laila's family won't let me see her again. Why they keep her locked up, blaming me instead of the men who did it. It's why my own family decided to do the same, and why there is going to be an even closer watch on me after I slipped out yesterday.

I sigh and sit down, letting my palms rub over my sheets, seeking comfort, though finding none.

A lone tear threatens to fall as I stare at the framed picture of twelve-year-old me and my bābā , but I wipe it away, grab the picture, and run a finger over his smiling face.

He was always so quick to offer a smile, a witty joke, or his rich, bellowing laugh when anyone needed it. The crow's feet at the corner of his eyes and always-visible dimples were my favorite features on his face. Always pleasant, and he hoped I would be the same. It was no wonder he named me Nasrin… charming and pleasant. He expected me to live up to it, but here I am, being the exact opposite of agreeable.

But what else could I be? I can't be blamed for being as incessantly curious or willful as I am because I got all those qualities from him. He let me hide out in his study with him and use his computer, and he made sure I was educated.

If I only knew then just how cruel providing an education could be. The recipe for creating an imprisoned, angry woman.

I don't realize I'm clutching the frame too hard until the cracking of the glass brings me back to reality. "I'm sorry, bābā, " I mutter, kissing the frame and placing it back on the stool.

No. I can't bring myself to regret it, or truly blame him. He simply wanted the best for his daughter. It's not his fault other people don't see the world the way he made me see it. I allow myself to stare at the photo for a little longer until I hear my brother's wife Bibi calling me to eat.

My brow furrows, since it isn't evening and the children aren't even here. Then I shiver. Anything to do with food becomes a fight, leading to a discussion of how I'll never get a husband looking like "a pregnant cow." Or how I must be stealing food from her children's plates since I never lose much weight, no matter how much she restricts my diet. As if I would ever steal from children. Not that she listens, she just keeps screaming about how disgusting I am.

Allah knows I could do without that for another week—or for the rest of my life, really.

As my māmān always said, this is the weight my body wants to be. I never really believed her before coming here, so I guess I have Bibi to thank for something.

It wasn't always like this with Bibi and me, but now the distance between us feels like a chasm. The very ideologies I am fighting against, she endorses and agrees with. But I push that thought aside and focus on thinking of my māmān.

I willfully ignore another call from Bibi, seeking solace from heavy thoughts as my māmān would, with movement. Bibi will scream no matter what I do now.

I'm mid-spin on a rather sloppy Attan dance, my kamiz flaring out, when a sharp knocking at the door of my room interrupts me. I throw a scarf over my head and scurry to the door. When I open it, Bibi's knuckle collides with my nose, and she lets out a chortle while I rub my face.

It seems unlikely it was an accident, though I suppose she does seem out of sorts.

"Forgive me, Rin. I was just excited. The children are with my mother and it's just us girls in the house," she chirps, and it takes me a moment to understand what exactly is going on.

Last time we talked, she was spitting on my face as she screamed at me for destroying her husband's reputation. Why is she suddenly being nice?

I look at her face, her freshly henna-colored hair peeking out from under her hijab and the sparkly look in her green eyes. She's excited about something, and I don't think I want to know what it is.

She's staring at me excitedly, waiting for an answer, so I wipe the surprised look off my face and replace it with a tight smile. "I'll be down in a few minutes," I say, and she nods her head, the look of pure joy still plastered on her face as I shut the door.

When I hear her footsteps retreating, I breathe out a long sigh and fall back on my bed. My ceiling fan is turning in lazy circles and I stare at it, wishing that it would break me out of the trance that is my stupid life.

The joy of dancing is rapidly retreating, the sense of freedom long ahead of it. Forever out of reach.

I know exactly what "us girls in the house" means and that there are a bucket load of chores for us—well me—to do while she leans against the kitchen door frame, throwing snacks in her mouth and spouting gossip I don't care for.

A groan leaves my lips again, and I look at the picture of bābā and me. I can hear him telling me to seize the day in a mirth-filled voice, with a loud chuckle following.

"I'm trying, bābā , I really am," I mutter in the direction of the picture before looking away.

The thought of having to live the same day over and over, stuck inside this place, sends frustration crawling through me, and I feel it about to jump out of my mouth in a scream. I swallow it down and press my warm hands to my face.

I can't let myself mess up again. My brother and his wife are barely tolerating me as it is, and none of my outbursts or angry rants will help. Especially not after I snuck out and did exactly what I was told never to do again.

I can't get married as a way to escape, though that would just be another cage. I will need to keep my head low until I can get out of here, somehow. The pounding of my heart and that persistent voice mocking me for thinking I have any choices aren't helping. I must ignore reality, or I will break.

I will leave this place. I will.

Until then, having "us girls" the only ones at home will have to do.

I wash up and pin my hair under my al-amira before making my way to the kitchen, my eyebrows raised at the small feast in one corner of the wooden table. I spot a lamb kebab with onions and colorful peppers between the chunks of meat, a bowl full of qurut balls, and an even larger bowl of kabuli pulao with extra raisins, just the way I like it.

"Oh good, you're here."

Bibi's voice stops my mouth from salivating, but does nothing for the tightness in my stomach. I've barely eaten in weeks. I turn to find her holding a plate with naan .

"What can I help you with?" I ask and she shrieks with laughter, as if I have just told the funniest joke in the world.

"You're not here to help me with anything, Rin Rin. You're just here to eat."

She places the plate alongside the other delicacies. It's her special plate that she only uses when we get important guests from my brother's work. My eyes widen in realization. She's about to tell me that my time here is up. As much as I want to leave, there is nowhere else to go.

"Go on, sit down," she chirps and watches me with that weird, plastic smile.

My skin crawls with it, but maybe it's just because I haven't gotten this warm reception from her since I was a child, and even then, I didn't get special plates or this much of a meal.

"Eat," she encourages me, and I pick a qurut ball and bite into it.

I can't help the moan that leaves my mouth, and she giggles like a girl. It makes me remember when all she did was giggle as the aunties showered her with praise, letting her know she was the most beautiful bride Afghanistan had ever seen.

I thought the same, and sometimes I still do, when she smiles or in the brief moments she remembers she is not just a wife and a mother.

"Is something wrong, Bibi? Did I do something?" I ask after I've finished the entire qurut ball.

I notice that she is not eating; instead, she's holding a cup of milky chai and sipping it slowly.

She looks surprised at my question and wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead. Then, she then pulls off her hijab, and her hair falls beautifully around her face, reminding me of how much I used to love it.

Mine has always been curly, and it used to be a nightmare until I grew up and learned how to manage it. But as a child, I used to idolize her wavy brown hair.

"Not at all, Rin Rin," she simply says, using the nickname my bābā gave me. It irks me the wrong way, but I swallow the feelings down.

She laughs. "Just eat!"

I follow her urging, picking up one of the kebabs and eating the tender meat and vegetables off it.

Since I got here, our relationship has gone from bad to worse, and maybe this is her own way of trying to mend it. I should also do the same on my side.

I clear my throat and swallow my pride. "This is thoughtful, Bibi. I know this has been a struggle, and I'm sorry for the shame I have brought you."

She grunts in reply, something flashing across her face before she returns to her too-wide grin.

If she tells me to leave, I'll figure something out, though I'm not sure what I will tell the authorities if I'm caught out after curfew.

I eat in silence, taking small bites from everything placed before me, while she watches like a hawk, probably to make sure I finish all the food and don't waste a bite. After so long eating so little, I'm not sure I can fit it all into my stomach.

Nothing about this sits right with me. She isn't eating and the Bibi I know loves to snack more than anything else. I pick up my second qurut ball and take a bite, but it doesn't go down my throat as my mouth starts to feel numb. I start to tell her that I've had enough, but the words are stuck in my throat along with the food.

Her face blurs, but I can recognize the smile on her face as one that is up to no good. She drugged me?

Vaguely, I hear the sounds of my brother coming in and a surge of relief floods through me. He'll sort this out.

"Did you really have to waste that much food just to get the cow drugged?" he says in that terrible tone I hate.

The one meant to keep Bibi in check. Then my slow brain catches up with what he just said as I grasp that there will be no help coming. My heart drops to my stomach as I realize there truly is no one left I can trust.

I slump against the chair as the world spins around me.