They Were Never her’s

The village had no name, for it did not need one. It was merely a fragment of many—a settlement among settlements, where time had failed to move forward. In this land, men ruled without question, and women existed to serve. Across the sprawling countryside, villages thrived under one unshaken belief: a female’s purpose was to bear burdens, endure pain, and submit without complaint.

The morning sun cast a dull, golden glow over the dirt roads, where barefoot women hurried about their chores, their heads bowed, their voices kept to hushed murmurs. No one had to remind them to lower their gazes in the presence of men—it was instinct, a learned reflex drilled into them since childhood.

A sharp slap echoed from a nearby hut, followed by the scolding voice of a husband.

“Stupid woman, can’t you do anything right?”

A muffled apology. No one stopped to look. Such things were too common to warrant attention. A slap was not considered a punishment, only a correction—like a farmer adjusting his oxen’s reins.

Women dressed in dull, shapeless garments, their bodies concealed in long, faded tunics, tied at the waist with frayed cords. Their hair was bound tightly, not for beauty, but to keep it from interfering with their work. Loose hair was a sign of disorder, and disorder in a woman was a disgrace. Even the fabric of their clothing spoke of their place—rough-woven and plain, dyed in muted earth tones that ensured no attention would ever be drawn to them.

Men, on the other hand, wore garments of finer quality. Their robes were loose and comfortable, their belts fastened with silver clasps, their boots sturdy against the dusty paths. They spoke freely, laughed loudly, and walked with the confidence of those who knew the world belonged to them.

In the center of the village, children played, their laughter the only sound that felt untouched by oppression. Little boys chased one another with wooden sticks, mimicking the way their fathers carried staffs or swords. The girls, however, played only among themselves. It was the one and only time in their lives when they experienced freedom—running barefoot, giggling, weaving flower crowns with their small hands. But even in childhood, their mothers did not let them forget their purpose.

“Come, child, enough playing,” a woman called, pulling her daughter from the group. “You must learn to knead the dough properly.”

“Yes, Mama.”

There was no resistance, no protest. The girls learned from a young age that work was their destiny. They washed clothes, swept floors, prepared meals—not because they were asked, but because it was expected. By the time they reached womanhood, obedience was second nature.

A group of men stood by the well, speaking with the casual ease of those who had never known submission. One of them, a stocky man with a thick beard, smirked as he watched his wife struggle to carry a large sack of grain.

“Look at her. She’s gotten lazy since the baby.”

The others chuckled.

“If my wife ever dared complain, I’d remind her why she has a husband.”

They laughed louder. Not a single woman glanced in their direction. Women did not react to men’s conversations; their opinions were unnecessary.

Near the edge of the village, an elderly woman sat on the steps of her home, her head completely shaved—the mark of a widow. Once, she had been the wife of a respected elder. Now, she was nothing. Her gray-stained garments hung loosely on her frail frame, her feet bare, her hands rough from years of labor. She did not speak unless spoken to. She did not eat until everyone else had finished. Such was the fate of a woman without a husband.

And so, the village continued as it had for generations.

A place where a woman’s silence was her greatest virtue. A place where submission was survival.

 

Sana burst out of her house, her bare feet kicking up dust as she ran through the village. The air was cool in the early morning, the scent of baking bread drifting from clay ovens. She had no time to notice—her mind was set on gathering her friends.

She knocked eagerly on the first door. Thud thud thud!

“Safiya! Come out!” she called, grinning.

A moment later, the door creaked open, and Safiya slipped out, brushing flour from her hands. “You always come too early,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder.

“And you always take too long!” Sana laughed, grabbing her friend’s hand and pulling her toward the others.

One by one, she gathered them, their small group of girls forming in the open field at the village’s edge. But as they counted their numbers, they noticed a missing face.

“Where’s Ayah?” one of the girls asked.

The group exchanged glances before hurrying toward Ayah’s house. They had played together just yesterday, and she had laughed louder than anyone.

Sana knocked, expecting her friend to rush out excitedly. Instead, Ayah’s mother answered, her face stern and unreadable.

“Ayah won’t be playing anymore,” she said simply.

The girls hesitated.

“But why?” Sana asked.

The woman exhaled through her nose. “She’s not a child anymore. Go play elsewhere.”

The door shut before they could ask anything more.

The girls stood in silence, but none of them were surprised. This had happened before—many times. Over the years, they had gained friends, but they had lost just as many. Girls would disappear from their games, and when they saw them again, they were different.

They would be dressed like the women of the village—long tunics draped over their growing forms, and a hijab tightly wrapped around their heads, hiding every strand of hair. Their laughter would be gone, replaced with quiet nods and distant smiles. If spoken to, they would only reply with the same words:

“We are no longer children.”

Sana never understood what they meant. Why did they stop playing? Why did their voices become so quiet?

But she did not think about it too much. It was something far away—something that happened to others, not her.

Then, one afternoon, as she raced across the field, she felt something strange—a dull ache in her stomach, a stickiness between her legs. She slowed, shifting uncomfortably, before panic settled in.

Her mother’s words echoed in her mind.

“If something like this ever happens, run to me as fast as you can.”

Her heart pounded. She turned on her heel and sprinted home, the game forgotten.

Sana did not know it yet, but this was the last time she would ever run so freely.

Sana burst through the doorway, her breath ragged, her hands shaking as she grasped the fabric of her trousers. “Mama—” she gasped, pulling at her mother’s sleeve, her voice laced with panic. “Mama, look!”

Her mother turned, her face shifting from mild irritation to silent horror as her gaze fell upon the deep red stains smearing the inside of Sana’s thighs. The air in the room stilled. For a long moment, she simply stared, her lips trembling. Then, with a shuddering breath, she reached out—her rough fingers ghosting over Sana’s cheek, trailing through her dark hair, as if memorizing every inch of her child for the last time.

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling silently down her face.

“Mama…?” Sana’s voice wavered, confused.

Her mother blinked rapidly, wiping her tears away before gripping Sana’s arms. “We must hurry,” she whispered, voice thick with urgency.

She pulled Sana inside, bolting the door behind them. She didn’t have the time—nor the words—to explain. What mattered now was hiding the evidence before Sana’s father or older brother saw. No man must witness this—no man must ever know.

“Take them off,” she ordered, already gathering clean rags.

“But—”

“Now, Sana.”

Sana obeyed, standing stiffly as her mother scrubbed her skin clean. The damp cloth felt cold against her legs. It wasn’t the blood that frightened Sana—it was the way her mother was acting. There was no anger, no scolding, but there was fear.

Once Sana was clean, her mother pressed a folded cloth into her hands.

“Here. Use this.”

Sana frowned. “What is it?”

Her mother hesitated, struggling for words, before exhaling sharply. “I cannot explain it. Not well enough. We must go to your grandmother.”

She threw a shawl over Sana’s shoulders, grasped her wrist, and led her into the afternoon sun.

The home of Sana’s grandmother was dimly lit, smelling of aged wood and dried herbs. The old woman sat hunched on a low stool, her hands busy grinding spices in a stone bowl. When she looked up, her sharp eyes darted between her daughter and granddaughter, immediately sensing something had changed.

Sana’s mother leaned in, whispering into her ear. The grandmother’s face remained impassive. She merely nodded, set the bowl aside, and motioned for Sana to follow.

They entered a small room lined with neatly stacked blankets and cushions. The grandmother sat upon the bed and patted the space before her. “Come, child.”

Sana hesitated before perching awkwardly on the edge. The grandmother reached for a wooden comb and began running it through Sana’s thick hair, her movements slow and deliberate.

“You are quiet,” she murmured.

Sana swallowed. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

Her grandmother gave a low hum. “It is simple. You are no longer a child.”

Sana stiffened.

“What does that mean?”

The comb glided through her scalp, untangling knots with ease. The grandmother’s voice was patient, measured. “It means you must live as a woman now. You must learn obedience, humility, endurance. A woman carries burdens, Sana. That is her purpose.”

Sana frowned. “But—”

The grandmother’s hands shifted. She separated a small section of Sana’s hair, twisting it tightly between her fingers.

“Do not interrupt.”

Sana bit her lip as the strands were woven into a braid—so tight that it pulled at her scalp. The grandmother reached for something small—a smooth stone—and tied it to the end. The weight tugged instantly, a dull but growing ache forming on her scalp.

“Grandmother—”

“You must not complain,” the old woman said firmly. “A woman’s pain is not her own. It belongs to those she serves.”

Sana swallowed her protest.

Beside them, her mother knelt, hands trembling as she reached for another section of Sana’s hair. She copied her mother’s movements—twisting, pulling, tying a second weight. Sana flinched.

“Mama, it hurts.”

“It is supposed to,” her grandmother replied.

Tears pricked at Sana’s eyes, but she didn’t dare let them fall.

“This is the first step,” her grandmother continued. “Every woman in our family has done this. You will visit each of them, and they will give you a braid. With each one, you will grow heavier, and you will learn.”

“Learn what?” Sana whispered.

Her grandmother’s fingers gently tucked the growing braids over Sana’s shoulder.

“That a woman’s life is not her own.”

Her mother exhaled shakily, setting down the comb. She reached for a length of fabric—deep brown, matching the tunic Sana wore.

“Watch carefully,” she instructed.

With practiced hands, she wrapped the cloth around Sana’s head, pulling it tight, tucking every last strand of hair beneath its folds.

“This is how you must wear it now,” she said. “A girl may show her hair. A woman may not.”

The fabric pressed against Sana’s forehead, the weight of it unfamiliar. She touched the edge hesitantly.

“Go now,” her grandmother said. “The women are waiting.”

Sana stood, shoulders slumped under the growing weight of the braids. She stepped out into the village once more—but this time, she did not run.

Sana stepped out of her grandmother’s house, her head wrapped tightly in fabric, her two weighted braids resting against her shoulders like silent warnings. The world outside looked the same—the dusty paths, the distant chatter of the marketplace, the towering trees swaying in the evening breeze.

But everything had changed.

She was no longer just Sana. No longer a child who could run freely. She was a girl walking toward her fate.

Her mother walked beside her, silent, leading her toward the first house. The home of Aunt Farah, her mother’s younger sister.

Aunt Farah – A Kind Embrace

The door creaked open, and Aunt Farah’s face softened as she saw Sana.

“Oh, my dear,” she whispered, pulling Sana into a hug.

Her embrace was warm, a brief moment of comfort before she gently led Sana to a stool in the center of the room. The air smelled of cardamom and fresh bread, and Sana wished she could stay here forever.

Aunt Farah knelt behind her, combing her fingers through the hair that wasn’t yet braided.

“I remember when I sat on this same stool,” she murmured.

Sana felt her hands move, twisting a new braid—not too tight, not too loose. When it was done, Aunt Farah tied a weight to the end, but when Sana looked down, she realized it wasn’t a stone.

It was a small flower.

“It is not always pain,” Aunt Farah said softly. “There is still beauty, even in this life. Find it where you can.”

Tears pricked at Sana’s eyes, but she only nodded.

Her mother gave her a brief look before they left, stepping into the next house.

Aunt Mariam – The Weight of Truth

Aunt Mariam was different. Her expression was unreadable as she motioned for Sana to sit.

“You are growing up,” she said, her voice neither warm nor cold.

She worked swiftly, braiding tightly, too tightly, until Sana winced. But Aunt Mariam did not ease her grip.

“A woman must endure,” she said firmly, tying a smooth, heavy stone to the end of the braid.

Sana exhaled sharply, but the weight was not unbearable.

“This is just the beginning,” Aunt Mariam continued. “Your burdens will only grow heavier. Do not think you are special. Every woman has walked this path, and so will you.”

She cupped Sana’s chin, forcing her to meet her gaze.

“No tears. No weakness.”

Sana swallowed hard and nodded.

Her mother placed a hand on her shoulder, guiding her out once more.

Great-Aunt Yasmin – The Cruelest Lesson

The next house was colder, darker, filled with the scent of damp wood and smoke.

Great-Aunt Yasmin sat on a cushion, her wrinkled hands resting in her lap, eyes sharp as Sana hesitantly stepped forward.

“So, it is your time,” the old woman muttered.

She motioned for Sana to kneel.

Without warning, her fingers dug into Sana’s hair, yanking it back.

“You think this is hard?” she scoffed. She twisted the braid so tightly that Sana gasped in pain.

The old woman ignored her. She tied an iron weight to the end, heavier than anything Sana had carried before. It yanked at her scalp, sending a sharp sting down her neck.

Sana clenched her teeth, her body trembling.

“Pain is all you will know now,” Great-Aunt Yasmin sneered.

Then, she dipped her fingers into a clay bowl and smeared something onto the braid.

Sana shuddered at the thick, damp texture. It was mud.

“You must remember,” Yasmin said, her voice dark, “that a woman’s journey is filled with filth, shame, and suffering. Do not think yourself clean, child. You belong to this dirt, and you will never be free of it.”

Sana held back a sob, the mud dripping down her braid.

Her mother said nothing. There were no protests, no comfort—only a brief nod of gratitude before leading Sana away.

The Final House – The Breaking Point

By the time they reached the last house, Sana could barely hold her head up.

Her scalp was screaming.

Her neck ached under the weight of the braids.

Her body felt like it was collapsing under something invisible.

The final woman—a distant cousin—looked her over, unimpressed. She made no speech, no kind words, only took a section of hair and twisted it as tight as possible. The pain was instant, sharp and unforgiving.

She grabbed a chunk of rock and tied it to the end. It was the heaviest of them all.

Sana’s head jerked back violently from the weight, and for the first time, a tear slipped down her cheek.

“Stop crying,” the cousin muttered, standing.

Sana wanted to tell her she wasn’t crying. That the tear had fallen on its own, without permission, just like the weight of the braids had forced her body to bend.

But she said nothing.

Her mother took her hand and led her back home.

With each step, Sana felt herself sinking deeper into the earth. Into the role she could no longer escape.

The braids yanked at her scalp mercilessly, pulling her head in different directions with every movement. Some weights were light, others unbearably heavy, and each one seemed to have a will of its own. The flower from Aunt Farah swayed gently, barely noticeable, while the iron weight from Great-Aunt Yasmin dragged her head backward, making her neck strain. The mud-smeared braid clung to the back of her tunic, the filth drying into a crusty reminder of her shame.

Sana clenched her jaw and kept walking. She had to.

Beside her, her mother whispered so softly that her words were barely carried by the wind.

“From today onward, you must walk with your head bowed. Never raise your chin too high. A proud woman is a disgraceful woman.”

Sana nodded, flinching as the motion sent a fresh wave of pain through her scalp.

“When you speak, keep your voice low. A woman’s voice is not meant to be heard in the same way as a man’s. If you must speak to one, keep your words short, clear, and respectful. Do not look directly into his eyes unless he asks you to.”

Sana’s lips parted slightly, but before she could ask why, her mother continued.

“You will wake before sunrise to prepare food. Your hands must always be busy—whether it is cleaning, cooking, or sewing. A woman with idle hands is an ungrateful woman.”

They passed a group of men talking by the well. Instantly, Sana’s mother fell silent, her head lowering further beneath her hijab. Sana quickly mimicked her.

The men laughed among themselves, discussing something trivial—trade, the weather, the stubbornness of livestock. They did not acknowledge the two figures passing them, nor did they need to. Women moved like shadows. Seen but not noticed.

Once they were out of earshot, her mother spoke again.

“From now on, you will eat last. When the men of the house are finished, you may take what remains. Do not complain if there is little left. A good woman is grateful for whatever is given to her.”

Sana’s stomach twisted, but she said nothing.

“You must not leave the house without permission. If you do, you will be punished.”

Sana swallowed. “What kind of punishment?”

Her mother’s expression darkened. “One that is never given twice.”

Sana’s fingers twitched against the hem of her tunic.

“You will no longer play,” her mother added. “There is no time for such foolishness. Your time will be spent working, learning, and preparing for your future household.”

Sana looked down at her hands, the same hands that had woven flower crowns, thrown pebbles across the river, and clapped joyfully during silly games with her friends. She did not know what to do with them now.

“You must not cry,” her mother whispered after a pause. “Tears will not change anything. They will only make you weak. If you are weak, you will suffer more.”

Sana blinked hard, forcing herself to absorb each word, to press them deep into her mind where they would never escape.

Another group of men appeared up ahead. Her mother stiffened immediately, her grip tightening on Sana’s wrist.

“Remember,” she murmured. “Silence is survival.”

They walked past without a sound.

Sana kept her eyes low, her footsteps light, her entire existence reduced to the space between one breath and the next.

Sana sat on the woven mat inside their home, the dull ache in her scalp refusing to fade. Every small movement sent a fresh sting through her head, the braids pulling at her skin like invisible hands forcing her into submission.

She swallowed hard and looked up at her mother, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“Mama… can I take them out?”

Her mother, who had been kneeling by the hearth, stirring a pot of boiling lentils, stilled.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, slowly, she turned, her expression unreadable.

“What did you say?”

Sana hesitated. She hadn’t meant to say the wrong thing. She was just asking. Just wondering.

She reached up, her fingers brushing against one of the weighted braids.

“The braids. The weights. Can I remove them? They hurt—”

The words had barely left her lips before her mother’s hand clamped over her wrist, yanking it away from her hair.

“No.”

Sana flinched.

Her mother’s grip was firm, her voice sharper than before.

“Women do not question. Women obey.”

Sana’s throat tightened.

Her mother let go and exhaled, adjusting her hijab before speaking again, her voice lower now, but no softer.

“The braids will only be removed when your bleeding stops,” she said. “Until then, you will live with them, as every woman before you has. You will not wash them. You will not touch them. You will not complain.”

Sana’s stomach turned.

“But—but I cannot even bathe?”

Her mother shook her head.

“No bathing. No washing. Not until the women who tied them decide to untie them.”

Sana pressed her lips together, her small hands curling into her lap.

Just this morning, she had been running through the fields, laughing, her hair free and unburdened. Now, she could barely move her head without wincing.

Just this morning, she had spoken freely, shouted, played, and now… her voice had been reduced to hushed whispers.

Just this morning, she had raced through the village with light steps. Now, she was expected to walk slowly, carefully, always with her head lowered.

Her chest felt tight. Everything had changed so fast. Too fast.

Her mother placed a hand on her shoulder, firm and final.

“This is your life now, Sana. And this is only the beginning.”

The door creaked open just as Sana was folding the last piece of cloth. She did not lift her head.

Her father and older brother stepped inside, their boots pressing against the worn floorboards. The air shifted, but no words were spoken at first. Sana felt their eyes on her—on the hijab wrapped tightly around her head, on the way she sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap.

A quiet realization settled between them.

She was no longer a child.

She was now someone they could command.

Her father merely grunted, walking past her without a word. It was not acknowledgment, not approval—just acceptance of the inevitable.

Her brother, however, smirked as he shrugged off his outer robe.

“Four hands are better than one to get things done,” he mused.

Yesterday, Sana would have thrown a cloth at him, laughing as she chased him around the room.

Today, she only bowed her head lower and continued folding.

She did not respond. She did not meet his eyes.

And that was the last moment Sana was treated as anything but a servant.

The first morning was the hardest.

Her mother shook her awake long before dawn, pressing a bundle of fabric into her arms. “Wear this. Quickly.”

She obeyed, pulling the long tunic over her aching body, adjusting the hijab with clumsy fingers. There was no time to fumble—her mother was already moving, already whispering instructions.

“The men eat first. Always. Prepare the bread. Pour the tea. Stand to the side until they finish. Then clean. Then you may eat.”

Sana tried to keep up. The steam from the hot tea scalded her fingers as she poured. The bread crumbled under her nervous grip. Every task was new, yet expected to be done perfectly.

She barely ate that day.

By the third day, the punishments began.

Sana had forgotten to refill her father’s water bowl. It was a small thing, something she wouldn’t have even thought about two days ago.

But when he reached for it and found it empty, his gaze darkened.

“Useless,” he muttered.

Sana barely had time to flinch before her mother’s hand struck the back of her head.

“You shame me,” she hissed under her breath.

Sana clenched her jaw and bowed lower.

She did not cry.

By the fifth day, the weights in her hair felt like they had fused with her scalp. Her head ached constantly. She wanted to scratch, to loosen, to undo them, but the rule had been made clear. She could not touch them.

Her hijab felt tighter every day. She was not used to the heat trapped against her skin, the way sweat pooled at the nape of her neck.

“Stop fidgeting,” her mother whispered when she caught Sana adjusting it. “A woman does not fuss over discomfort. She learns to live with it.”

Sana learned.

By the seventh day, she had stopped thinking about what life had been like before.

Her body moved on its own now—waking before dawn, working without question, lowering her head, obeying every command before it was even spoken.

She no longer played. She no longer laughed. She no longer spoke unless she was required to.

She had entered womanhood.

And there was no going back.

The sound of a cough cut through the clatter of pots and the crackling fire.

Sana and her mother immediately froze.

Without hesitation, they turned from their work, stepping away from the hearth and into the center of the room. Their heads bowed low, hands neatly folded in front of them—silent, obedient.

Their master had entered.

Her brother did not acknowledge them. He did not have to. He simply stood there, stretching his arms with an air of importance, before speaking as if to the empty air.

“I need someone to carry my bags.”

Sana felt her mother stiffen slightly beside her.

“I’ll be heading to the fields later. There will be a lot of running, and I can’t be expected to carry everything myself.”

He turned on his heel and walked out, not once bothering to see who would follow his order. That was not his concern. The women would decide. The work would be done.

The silence stretched long after he left.

Then, her mother exhaled softly and turned toward Sana.

“You will go,” she murmured. “I need to stay and tend to the house. You are not yet ready to manage a home, so this will be your duty instead.”

Sana nodded without hesitation.

She would go.

But as she took a step forward, her mother’s voice stopped her.

“Wait.”

Sana turned.

Her mother was already reaching into a small wooden chest near the wall, pulling out a long strip of black fabric.

“You are going out with a man of the house,” her mother said as she unfolded the cloth. “Cover your face.”

Sana hesitated.

“Why?”

Her mother gave her a sharp look, and Sana immediately regretted the question.

“A woman’s face ruins the mood of a gathering,” she said curtly. “Men go to enjoy themselves, not to be reminded of the filth that cooks their meals and washes their clothes. If you walk uncovered among them, they will be displeased.”

She stepped forward and carefully wrapped the niqab around Sana’s head, pulling it tightly so that only her eyes remained visible. The fabric was thick and heavy, pressing against her skin like a second layer of silence.

“Do not speak unless spoken to.”

Sana nodded.

“Do not fall behind.”

Another nod.

“Keep your eyes down. If a man speaks to you, keep your answers short.”

Her mother adjusted the fabric one last time before stepping back.

“And do not complain. About anything.”

Sana swallowed hard.

Then, her mother turned, motioning toward the corner of the room. Sana followed her gaze—and felt her stomach drop.

There, stacked against the wall, were the bags. Not small pouches. Not light satchels.

Heavy. Large. Overstuffed. Twice her weight.

Her brother’s words came back to her. I’ll be doing a lot of running today.

He needed his strength. She would carry the burden.

She took a slow breath.

She did not complain.

Her mother gave her a final glance before turning back to her work.

Sana bowed her head once more, then bent down to lift the first bag.

The weight nearly crushed her where she stood.

Sana gritted her teeth, bending her knees as she struggled to lift the bag. Her arms shook from the sheer weight, her body trembling under the strain. She had carried water jugs before, stacked wood, ground flour—but this was different. This was meant to break her.

She adjusted her grip, pressing the strap against her shoulder, and reached for the second bag. It was just as heavy as the first.

Her mother did not offer to help.

“Hurry,” she murmured instead, stirring a pot over the fire. “Do not make him wait.”

Sana nodded, shifting the weight so she wouldn’t topple over. Every step toward the door felt like she was dragging her own body toward the edge of a cliff.

She pushed forward.

The moment she stepped outside, the harsh sun pressed down on her, heat trapped beneath the niqab, suffocating her in its grip. The air smelled of dust, sweat, and distant smoke from the baker’s oven.

Her brother was waiting at the entrance, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Took you long enough.”

Sana kept her eyes down.

He turned and started walking toward the fields, not once glancing back to check if she could keep up.

Sana followed. The weight of the bags yanked her shoulders down with every step, the straps digging deep into her skin. The braids in her hair, still weighed with stones, bounced and pulled at her scalp, each step a fresh jolt of pain.

But she did not cry out.

She did not falter.

She simply walked.

Because that was all she was meant to do.

Each step felt like pushing through a storm of fire.

Sana’s legs burned, her arms screamed under the crushing weight of the bags, her skin slick with sweat trapped beneath the suffocating layers of fabric. The niqab clung to her face, soaking up the moisture, making each breath thick and heavy. The tightly wound hijab dug into her scalp, pressing against the braids that already felt like hooks tearing at her skin.

Her brother walked ahead, unconcerned, moving with ease as if the very air was lighter for him. Sana struggled to keep up, each step an unbearable effort.

She could not complain.

She could not stop.

She could only move forward.

By the time they finally arrived, her vision was blurring with exhaustion. Her arms had gone numb from carrying the bags, but the pain was still there, deep and throbbing.

Her brother finally turned, giving her the first glance since they had left home.

“Put them down,” he ordered.

Sana obeyed immediately, lowering the bags as carefully as she could. The moment she released them, she staggered backward, her legs buckling.

But she caught herself before she fell.

She thought she was done. That she could sit, maybe drink some water.

She was wrong.

“Follow me.”

Sana barely had time to straighten before he turned and walked toward a large open gathering of men.

She hesitated, her breath uneven.

“Now, Sana.”

She forced herself to move, ignoring the way her muscles screamed in protest.

The group of men—all young, dressed in light tunics—sat beneath the shade of a large tree, their voices loud, laughing freely. A few had cups in their hands, some chewed on dried fruit, others tossed stones at the ground in a lazy game.

Sana’s eyes darted around, looking for the other girls, but she saw none.

Her brother stopped abruptly and turned to her.

“Join the others,” he said.

Sana froze.

“Where?” she asked, confused.

The moment the word left her lips, she regretted it.

Her brother’s expression darkened. His hand came down fast and hard, slapping across her face with such force that Sana stumbled and fell to the ground.

A sharp, searing sting spread across her cheek, the impact shocking her more than the pain.

She gasped, her hands pressing against the dirt, her hijab slipping slightly from the sudden fall.

From this angle, she finally saw them.

The women.

They were there, but not standing, not seated, not gathered together like she had imagined.

They were on all fours.

Their heads bowed so low that their foreheads almost touched the ground. Their arms shook slightly from holding their weight. And upon each of their backs… sat a man.

Sana’s breath caught in her throat.

She did not move.

She did not blink.

Her brother’s shadow loomed over her.

“Don’t make me say it again, Sana.”

Sana’s breath trembled as she stared at the sight before her. The women—motionless, silent, bent beneath the weight of their masters—did not even flinch at her presence.

Her brother clicked his tongue impatiently.

“Sana.”

She did not move. She could not.

Her hands dug into the dirt beneath her, her body frozen between exhaustion and disbelief. This wasn’t like the women at home, working in silence, serving meals, obeying orders. This was something else.

Something worse.

Her brother’s footsteps shifted closer.

“Must I repeat myself?”

A shiver ran down her spine. She knew what would happen if she disobeyed.

Slowly, she pressed her palms against the ground and forced herself up. Not to stand, but to crawl.

Her arms shook beneath her as she lifted her knees, her hijab dragging against the dirt. Every movement was foreign, humiliating, but no one laughed at her.

Because this was not a game.

This was expected.

One of the men, seated lazily on the back of another girl, nudged his companion with his elbow. He didn’t even look at Sana—only at the empty space beside him.

“She can take that spot.”

His friend chuckled. “Let’s see if she lasts long.”

Sana wanted to run.

Instead, she lowered her body, flattening her palms against the ground, her knees pressing into the dirt.

She felt the weight before she even heard the movement.

A leg swung over her back.

A shift.

A body settling atop hers.

And then—nothing.

No words. No instructions.

Just the crushing silence of acceptance.

The hours at the gathering were a blur of pain, humiliation, and exhaustion.

Sana’s arms ached from holding her weight, her knees dug into the hard ground, and the pressure of the man sitting atop her back made breathing difficult. The men spoke and laughed as if the women beneath them did not exist, shifting their weight now and then, making it even harder to endure.

Sana had no idea how long she stayed like that. Minutes? Hours? The sun sank lower, and yet no one moved. She did not dare move.

When the men finally stood, their conversations still casual and light, Sana felt her body scream in relief—but she did not collapse. She could not.

Her brother barely looked at her as he threw his bags over his shoulder.

“Get up. We’re leaving.”

She obeyed.

The walk home was just as painful as before, her body now twice as sore, her steps unsteady. She did not speak, did not ask questions, did not react.

Her mother did not ask how it went.

She didn’t need to.

The next morning, Sana woke with a sense of relief.

Her period had ended.

The moment she stepped into the kitchen, she leaned close to her mother and whispered, her voice light with a happiness she hadn’t felt in days.

“Mama. It’s over.”

Her mother paused, then nodded slowly.

“I see.”

Sana straightened, her heart racing with anticipation. Finally. The braids would be untied. The weights would be gone. She would feel light again. Free.

She stood silently, waiting for her mother to reach for the knots in her hair.

But her mother didn’t move.

Instead, she picked up a bowl and continued kneading dough, her hands firm and steady.

Sana’s smile slowly faded.

“Mama…?”

Her mother glanced at her, her expression unreadable.

“Did you think they would be removed so easily?” she asked, voice quiet.

Sana’s stomach twisted.

She did not know what that meant.

But she was about to find out.

Sana’s chest tightened. Something was wrong.

Her mother did not reach for her braids. She did not loosen the knots. She did not prepare to remove the weights. Instead, she kept kneading the dough, her hands pressing firmly into the mixture, her face calm.

“Mama,” Sana whispered, a creeping unease settling in. “I don’t understand.”

Her mother exhaled, finally setting the bowl aside. She wiped her hands on her tunic before turning to face Sana fully.

“You thought they would simply be untied?” she asked, her voice neither cruel nor kind—just matter-of-fact.

Sana swallowed, her throat dry. “Yes.”

Her mother shook her head. There was something unsettling about how unsurprised she looked.

“No, Sana. It does not work that way.”

Sana’s fingers twitched.

“Then how?”

Her mother studied her for a moment before speaking.

“Later today, all the women will gather here,” she began.

Sana stiffened.

“You will kneel in the center of the room, and one by one, they will step forward. They will speak to you—”

She paused, her eyes meeting Sana’s.

“—and they will tell you the truth about yourself.”

The truth. Something about the way she said it made Sana’s stomach drop.

“Each woman will say what she wishes. Some will offer wisdom. Others will speak harshly. Some may remind you of your place. Others may remind you of what you have lost. You will listen, you will not respond, and when they are finished—“*

Her mother reached forward and touched one of the braids, fingers brushing against the weight at the end.

“—they will take their braid and cut it at whatever length they choose.”

Sana froze.

“C-cut it?”

Her mother nodded. “At any length.”

Sana’s breath hitched.

Some of her braids barely reached past her shoulders. Some hung long down her back. Some had been tied higher, tighter, closer to her scalp.

The realization hit her like ice water.

Some would be cut neatly. Others would be hacked short. Some may be cut so close to the knot that she would be left with nothing but uneven patches.

“Why?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Because that is what happens when a girl becomes a woman, Sana.”

A strange, crawling sensation crept up her arms.

“And what if I—” She hesitated, her heart hammering. “What if I don’t want them to?”

Her mother’s face hardened.

“What you want does not matter.”

Sana’s breathing quickened.

She could already picture it. The circle of women. The whispers. The waiting. Each of them standing above her, staring down, watching as she sat there—helpless, silent, waiting to be stripped of the very thing they had forced upon her.

Her scalp was still burning from carrying those braids, from enduring the weights. She had done everything they asked. And now they would simply cut them away, piece by piece, with no care for how she felt?

“No,” she said suddenly, her voice shaking. “No, this is—this is not fair.”

Her mother’s eyes darkened.

“Fair?” she repeated, as if the word itself was foreign.

Sana’s hands clenched into fists. Her heart pounded.

“Mama, please,” she begged before she could stop herself. “Not like this. Not in front of everyone. Please, can’t you just—just do it yourself?”

She reached up, grabbing one of the braids, trying to pull it away, as if she could undo it herself.

Her mother’s hand struck down fast, gripping Sana’s wrist, yanking it away from her hair.

“Enough.”

Sana flinched.

Her mother held her firm, her fingers digging into her skin.

“You have already forgotten your lesson,” she murmured, her voice dangerously low. “A woman does not question. A woman obeys.”

Sana’s breath shuddered.

“You will kneel, Sana,” her mother continued. “You will listen. You will accept. And if you dare disgrace yourself further—”

Her fingers tightened just slightly before she let go.

“—then you will be punished.”

Sana felt sick.

She had made a mistake.

She had spoken when she should have stayed silent.

She had begged when she should have accepted.

And now, the real humiliation had yet to begin.

The house was silent, but the air was thick with unspoken words.

Sana sat frozen, her mother’s warning still ringing in her ears.

“You will kneel, Sana. You will listen. You will accept.”

Her hands trembled in her lap, but she forced herself to stay still. She could not make another mistake.

Then, one by one, the women began to arrive.

They entered in silence—mothers, aunts, grandmothers, cousins—women of all ages, all carrying the same expression. Some looked at her with pity, others with indifference, and a few with something much colder.

Her mother guided her to the center of the room.

“Kneel.”

Sana hesitated for only a second before lowering herself to the ground. The woven mat felt rough beneath her knees, but she did not move.

She was surrounded.

The circle of women closed in, their gazes heavy.

Sana’s breathing grew uneven.

Then, the first woman stepped forward.

It began.

The First Cut

“Sana,” the voice was soft, but the words were not.

Aunt Mariam.

“A woman’s place is in hardship, and yet I see resistance in your eyes. You must learn to endure, or you will suffer more than necessary.”

Her hands reached forward, gripping one of the braids.

Sana flinched.

Aunt Mariam’s fingers tightened.

“You have no control over this life.”

The scissors snapped shut.

Sana felt a sudden weight lift, followed by the dull thud of hair hitting the floor.

She shuddered.

Aunt Mariam stepped back. Another woman took her place.

The Words Grew Harsher.

“I see fear in your eyes,” one of her older cousins murmured.

“You think you are suffering? This is nothing. A woman’s real suffering begins the day she becomes a wife.”

A harsh jerk.

Another snap of the scissors.

Another strand of hair fell away.

Sana’s scalp stung, but it was nothing compared to the burning in her chest.

The Cuts Became Cruel.

“You are weak.”

“You were always too proud.”

“I hope this teaches you humility.”

The blades hacked unevenly—some women cutting higher, closer, making sure to leave behind nothing but short, jagged patches.

Sana’s breath quickened.

The humiliation settled like a crushing weight on her back.

She wanted it to end. She needed it to end.

And then, she broke.

“No—no, please!”

The room fell silent.

Sana felt the words slip out before she could stop them.

“I have done everything you asked—everything! I have carried the weights, I have bowed, I have obeyed—”

Her voice rose, trembling with desperation.

“And still, you do this?”

Eyes narrowed.

A murmur swept through the women. Disapproval. Disgust.

“She begs?” someone whispered.

“She still does not understand?”

Her mother’s voice cut through the noise.

“Enough.”

Sana froze.

Her mother stepped forward, her face unreadable.

“You have disgraced yourself.”

Sana shook her head quickly, panic settling deep in her bones.

“No—please, I just—”

“You are unworthy of this ritual.”

Sana’s pleas hung in the air, the room growing colder with each passing second.

The murmurs of disapproval grew louder, whispers like hissing winds, carrying words that made Sana’s stomach churn.

“She dares to beg?”

“Does she not understand?”

“Such disgrace.”

Sana’s chest rose and fell rapidly, her pulse hammering in her ears. She could barely think, barely breathe. The humiliation of kneeling in the center of the room, surrounded by the women of her family, should have been enough. But now—now she had spoken when she should have been silent.

She had questioned.

She had resisted.

And for that, she would suffer.

Her mother stepped forward, her voice like a blade, slicing through the noise.

“Enough.”

The whispers ceased instantly.

The air turned thick, suffocating, pressing down on Sana’s chest like unseen hands.

Her mother looked down at her, eyes dark with something far worse than anger—disappointment.

“You have disgraced yourself.”

Sana shook her head, her throat tightening.

“No—please, I just—”

Her mother ignored her.

“A woman who cries for mercy has no place among us. A woman who questions what is given to her is unworthy of womanhood.”

Sana’s fingers dug into the rough mat beneath her. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

Her mother turned to the eldest woman in the room—Great-Grandmother Yasmin, the matriarch of their family, the one whose word was final.

The old woman watched Sana with an unreadable expression. Then, with a slow breath, she spoke the words that sealed her fate.

“She is unworthy.”

A shudder rippled through the room.

Sana felt the words like a slap to her soul.

“She will not sit with dignity. She will not be given respect.”

Great-Grandmother Yasmin’s voice, though aged, held the weight of generations.

“She will crawl to each of us. And with each step, she will speak the words of her truth.”

Sana’s stomach dropped.

“She will say—” the old woman continued, her gaze never leaving Sana. ‘I am nothing. I am dirt beneath your feet. I am not worthy of womanhood.’ “

A sharp gasp escaped Sana’s lips before she could stop it.

“And only then,” Great-Grandmother Yasmin finished, “will she receive what she came for.”

The scissors glinted in the dim light. Waiting.

Sana’s body refused to move.

She could feel every set of eyes on her, burning, waiting. They were expecting her to obey—to submit.

Her mother’s voice was quiet, but firm.

“Crawl, Sana.”

Her breath trembled.

“Now.”

Sana’s hands shook as she lowered herself forward, pressing her palms to the rough floor. The woven fibers bit into her skin, her knees scraped against the mat as she moved.

The first woman stood before her, unmoving.

Sana’s throat tightened.

“Say it.”

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

Her lips quivered as she whispered, so softly she barely heard herself—

“I… I am nothing. I am dirt beneath your feet. I am not worthy of womanhood.”

The words left her mouth like ashes.

A harsh jerk.

A sharp snip.

Another piece of her fell away.

Sana’s body tensed as the next woman stepped forward.

She crawled again.

“I am nothing. I am dirt beneath your feet. I am not worthy of womanhood.”

Another cut.

The hair that had been so carefully bound, so heavily weighed down, was now being taken from her with unforgiving hands.

Some women cut at the ends, taking little.

Others cut close to the scalp, making sure to leave behind nothing but jagged patches of uneven hair.

A few yanked before cutting, just to make it hurt more.

And Sana crawled to them all.

By the time the last strand was hacked away, her knees were raw, her body trembling.

She did not look at the floor, but she could feel the scattered locks of hair around her.

She had begged them not to take it.

And now, it was gone.

Great-Grandmother Yasmin stood, her voice calm and final.

“It is done.”

Sana’s entire body tensed as the old woman turned to the rest of the gathering.

“She is not one of us. Not yet. She will carry her shame for all to see, and she will live in disgrace until she is made worthy again.”

Sana’s breathing grew shallow.

“She will eat alone.”

Her mother nodded in agreement.

“She will sleep on the floor.”

The other women murmured in approval.

“She will not speak to men. She will not speak to young girls. She will be no example to them.”

Sana’s hands curled into tight fists.

“And she will do the work that others will not.”

Her mother stepped forward, staring down at her daughter with the coldest gaze she had ever seen.

“Your shame lasts until marriage,” she reminded her.

“Only then will you be allowed dignity.”

The words were final.

Sana did not speak.

She did not cry.

She simply lowered her head—because she knew now, truly, that she was nothing.

The floor was cold against Sana’s cheek. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep that way—curled in the corner like a discarded rag—but there was no pillow, no blanket, no comfort of any kind. Her body ached from kneeling for so long, her knees raw, her arms sore from scrubbing floors, pots, and anything else the women threw her way.

She blinked awake at the sound of footsteps, heavy against the floorboards. Her mother. It was still dark, but that didn’t matter.

“Up,” her mother said, already moving past her. “There is work to be done.”

Sana pushed herself up slowly, her arms trembling beneath her own weight. Her scalp still throbbed, every shift of movement reminding her of the uneven tufts of hair left behind.

She made her way to the washbasin outside, hands numb from exhaustion as she scrubbed the pots left from the night before. The water was freezing, cutting through her fingers like tiny blades. The dirt beneath her nails never seemed to go away no matter how hard she worked.

From inside, she could hear the others waking. The sounds of the house coming to life.

The women prepared food.

The men stretched and spoke freely.

No one called for her. Not yet.

She already knew when they would.

By the time breakfast was ready, Sana knelt by the threshold, head bowed, waiting. She was not allowed to sit at the table. She would eat last—if there was anything left.

No one looked at her.

No one acknowledged her.

Her father walked past her as if she did not exist.

Her brother barely spared her a glance before turning to their mother. “She should clean the yard today. It’s filthy.”

“She will,” her mother replied simply.

Sana lowered her gaze further.

She did not exist.

She listened in silence as the family spoke over one another, laughter mingling with conversation. Voices she had once been part of, but now had no place in.

The food was eaten.

Plates were pushed aside.

The men left.

Her mother finally turned to her. “Take what’s left.”

Sana rose carefully, her body stiff from kneeling. She sat by the remains of the meal and picked at scraps of bread and a few grains of rice. She swallowed it quickly, even as her stomach twisted in hunger.

Her mother was already handing her a rag. “Clean the floor.”

She took it without a word.

That was how it went.

She moved through the day like a shadow, silent and unseen, only acknowledged when someone needed something from her.

A pot scrubbed.

A floor wiped.

A pile of rags washed.

She had once thought she had become a woman the day she put on the hijab, the day she was forced to carry the weight of the braids.

She had been wrong.

This—this was what it meant to be nothing.

By the time the sky darkened, she could barely lift her arms.

Her brother walked past her again. “She’s useless for anything else,” he muttered.

Her mother said nothing.

Sana pressed her fingers against the floor, steadying herself as she fought the sting in her eyes.

She would not cry.

Tears would not change anything.

And so, she endured.

 

Noted: this is just the beginning soon more chapters will be coming