I Must Run
Tonight, everything feels different.
I cannot explain it, but there is something in the air that makes me afraid. Something invisible sits heavily on my chest and makes it difficult to breathe. I have been quiet for days. I barely speak anymore, as if even my voice has become too heavy to carry.
Something is changing inside me, or perhaps something around me is slowly falling apart.
What frightens me most is not knowing.
For days, I have wondered why my parents suddenly stopped shouting at me. Why are they speaking so gently? Why have they stopped insulting me and making me feel as though I am nothing?
Before, every word they spoke carried a wound. They made me feel hopeless so often that I had almost become used to hopelessness.
I remember something I once read from Mawlana:
“The lamps are different, but the Light is the same.”
I used to think those words were beautiful.
Tonight, I wonder if there is any light left for me at all.
Everything is too quiet.
Even my little sister barely speaks to me. Sometimes I catch her looking at me, but when our eyes meet, she looks away. I know something is wrong, but whenever I try to understand it, my thoughts disappear into darkness.
I cannot sleep.
The darkness around me feels as though it has entered my body. Somewhere deep inside, there is a sound I cannot silence. It feels like a hole inside me, and I am trapped at the bottom, staring upward at a world that seems impossibly far away.
I reach for the book beside my bed.
I open it, but the words refuse to stay in my head.
I remember Viktor Frankl writing about suffering, meaning, and the possibility of finding something worth living for.
I close the book.
What do you do when someone else has already decided what your life is worth?
Morning comes, but I have not slept.
I get up and prepare breakfast for my family. While I am setting the table, my father enters the kitchen.
“Don’t make yourself too tired,” he says.
His voice is gentle.
So gentle that I almost do not recognize it.
I stare at him.
For the first time, he speaks to me without anger. I wonder what has happened.
Why is everyone suddenly kind?
When breakfast is ready, my father tells me to get dressed because they are expecting a guest.
“Who is coming?” I ask.
He does not answer.
Later, my mother enters carrying a dress.
“Wear this.”
It is beautiful.
It is white.
For the first time that morning, I smile. I hold it against myself and look in the mirror. I have never worn anything like it before.
Then the happiness slowly disappears.
Something feels wrong.
Why this dress?
Why today?
Why is everyone acting as though something important is about to happen?
I think about all the books I have read.
None of them ever told me that sometimes a beautiful dress can feel like a warning.
Three older men enter the house, followed by another man I have never seen before. He has gray hair, a long beard, and a voice so deep that fear moves through me before I even understand why.
I stay near the door and listen.
They recite words in Arabic that I cannot understand.
Then I hear questions.
“Yes.”
Another question.
“Yes.”
A third.
“Yes.”
Three questions.
Three answers.
And not one of them is meant for me.
I return to the kitchen and pretend nothing happened.
A while later, my mother calls my name.
I enter the room.
My parents are standing together.
My mother looks at me.
“Listen, daughter. You are growing up now. You have responsibilities. You must obey and listen to whatever they tell you. And you must never raise your voice.”
I stare at her.
Then she says the words that split my life into two pieces.
“Daughter, now you are married. Your husband will take care of you.”
For a moment, I think I have misunderstood her.
“What?”
She tells me that the man who came to our house has just made nikah with me.
“But I didn't know anything. How could you marry me without asking me?”
My father’s voice rises.
“We do not need your permission.”
The words hurt more than his shouting ever had.
“You are married now. You will leave this house and live with your husband.”
I begin to cry.
“Please, Dad. Don’t do this to me. I am your child.”
He looks at me without emotion.
“It is too late. You are somebody’s wife.”
I fall to his knees.
“Please.”
He grabs my hand and pulls me up.
“Don’t be stupid. Do what I told you.”
Then the man enters.
He smiles at me.
It is not a kind smile.
It is the smile of someone who believes he has been given something.
I realize how he sees me.
Not as a person.
Not as a daughter.
As property.
He reaches for my hand.
I pull away.
“Please, Dad. Don’t let him take me.”
My father shouts.
“You are his wife now. You must obey him.”
Something inside me breaks.
No one is coming.
No one will open the door and tell them that what they are doing is wrong.
The man takes me outside.
“I don't know you,” I tell him. “You are not my husband. I never accepted this.”
He looks at me angrily.
“You are mine now.”
Those words remain inside my head.
You are mine now.
As if my life can be owned.
As if my body is land someone else has been given permission to possess.
He forces me into the car.
As we drive away, I watch my home disappear through the window.
The house becomes smaller.
Then smaller again.
Until it is gone.
When we arrive at his house, he gets out of the car and turns away for a moment.
There is an opening.
A small one.
But it is enough.
I remember my childhood teacher’s words:
Whenever you feel unsafe, do not waste time thinking about what might happen.
Run.
So I run.
I run without looking back.
The man shouts for his sons. Footsteps follow me.
Two men.
Maybe three.
I run faster.
My lungs burn. My legs ache. My white dress catches against my knees, but I keep going.
I know I might be killed.
But staying feels worse than death.
As I run, I realize something.
I have spent most of my life running.
I ran from my father’s cruelty.
I ran from fear.
I ran from dreams I was never allowed to follow.
But this time, I am not running from my dreams.
I am running for my life.
Behind me, they shout.
“Stop!”
“Stop, or we will kill you!”
I keep running.
Then I hear it.
A gun being pulled from a pocket.
“Stop, or I will shoot you!”
I still do not stop.
I cannot.
There is nothing left for me to lose.
Then comes the gunshot.
Everything becomes quiet.
I fall.
The ground is cold beneath me.
I look down.
Blood is spreading across my white dress.
The same dress that made me smile that morning.
The same dress that felt like a warning.
Now I understand.
I think of my little sister.
My mother.
My father.
And all the girls whose lives have been decided in rooms where nobody ever asked what they wanted.
I was not the first.
I will not be the last.
Maybe that is what hurts the most.
I close my eyes.
I think of the books beside my bed—the pages about love, freedom, suffering, courage, and the meaning of being alive.
I once thought books were places people went to escape life.
Now I understand.
Sometimes books are the only places where another life is allowed to exist.
I remember Mawlana’s words.
The light.
I wonder if there is still any of it left.
The morning sky is above me.
Nobody is shouting anymore.
Nobody is telling me to obey.
Nobody is telling me where I belong.
For the first time in my life, there is no one left to decide where I have to go.
And I stop running.