"You're pregnant?" I asked, shocked.

Amira chuckled on the other line. "I've been pregnant."

"How was I supposed to know?" I scoffed, stirring my coffee. "It's not like you actually showed your baby bump to me."

"I tried to keep it a secret for as long as possible."

"Why?"

She sighed. "Because I hate how people at the university or in public will ridicule Damon and I for getting married young. Imagine how they'd react if they knew I had a child within me."

The sadness in her voice hit me harder than I expected. Ironically, American society relished in freedom, deeming it as the most powerful quality of a successful country, yet individual decisions would always be ridiculed if it did not follow the American pattern.

A system that revolved around individuality could not comprehend the importance of family and teamwork. That was what capitalism did, what businessmen did, what ordinary people did. They chased after their ambitions like starved people in search of nourishment. They ran after their dreams even if it cost them years of sacrifice.

When Americans like Amira and I broke away from that routine, society frowned. We wanted a family before we embarked further into our life ambitions. We wanted a loving husband before we dived into the sea of monsters.

"Don't worry about what other people think," I whispered. "Because if you're happy then who are they to judge?"

"If only it were that easy."

I smiled sadly, knowing the painful truth behind her words. "Amira, don't do this to yourself. You're going to be a mother soon, so hold tight to your faith and be strong. Don't worry about everyone else."

"When did you become so wise?" she asked with a hint of jest in her voice.

"Since life swallowed me up in politics and business."

"You did marry a popular businessman," said Amira. "Ibrahim and you truly don't deserve any of this. All these lies and slandering, isn't there anything legal you can do?"

"Ibrahim is still trying, but holding a business stable during a time like this and juggling a court case isn't a walk in the park," I sighed, leaning against the counter. Grabbing my cup, I slowly sipped on the caffeinated beverage, hoping that it would awaken my mind to be productive. "His lawyer said the case would be time-consuming but they'll at least be able to appeal to the judge during their hearings."

The door creaked open, and I immediately straightened, fastening my hijab around my head. It had to be Bashir. Ibrahim was still at work until after Maghrib (sunset prayer).

I placed a hand over the speaker. "Bashir, is that you?" I asked into the long hall.

No response.

My eyebrows furrowed. How odd, I thought. He usually always jumps in to greet me and complain about homework.

A feeling of dread settled within me when even his footsteps paused in their fluid movement like the scene had frozen in place. A ballast churned in my stomach, twisting and coiling into a bundle of qualms. Bashir was never this quiet.

"Amira, I have to call you back. I think something really bad happened," I rushed, hanging up quickly as I ran towards the front door.

When my eyes fell on Bashir, a chill ran down my spine, his long hair covering his eyes and head hanging low as if in shame of a crime. His white shirt wrinkled into numerous folds, dark stains splotched against it from dirt to shoe prints to dried blood. My chest tightened.

Blood.

"Bashir, what-"

He furiously shook his head, legs bolting up the stairs as crystal tears slipped past his eyes. Our stairs creaked under his furious weight, footsteps echoing off the walls in a broken symphony as a cry ripped from his chest. The wooden door slammed shut, and deafening silence once again shook the Tarkan household, a mere whisper of doubts among a sea of madness.

What did they do to him?

Walking up the steps, I approached his closed door, each step sinking into the crimson carpet, a bright contrast the darkness that filled the halls. Although I had wandered these halls many times before, this time it felt different, felt more malicious like I would be swallowed into the same void that haunted Ibrahim's sleep.

Bashir had always been the ray of sunshine to the Tarkan family, the miracle child to a damaged home. He survived the impossible, left the battle with no scars, heeded the words of his brother obediently with no questions because he understood that some things were better left unsaid.

Yet with the new onslaught of media backlash, perhaps Bashir found himself caught in the complicated web of lies.

As I stood outside the door, my mind raced to find the source of his pain. I never had younger siblings, never had a child that I felt so deeply connected to. His pain mirrored his brother's. His sorrows sang the sad tune to his repressed memories. Bashir was so young when it all happened.

He didn't even remember his parents, nor did he remember his villainous uncle.

So, why has the past come to hurt him?

Pressing my ear to the door, I heard the cruel tragedy of a young boy with no parents. I heard the cries of a broken youth. I heard the heartbreaking sobs of a Tarkan brother.

My heart lurched in my chest, begging to comfort the child on the other side, to brush away his tears, to whisper all the happiness in the world to him. If I could, I would take both Ibrahim's and Bashir's hardships away in a heartbeat. I would shield them from a harsh reality.

But Allah never intended for that.

Hardships created remarkable people. The strength that one could endure would blossom into the faith of a solider in Islam, a faithful Muslim who strived everyday to overcome their obstacles even if the whole world was against them. In this Muslim's heart, Allah placed a drive to overcome internal and external struggles.

Allah gave us hardships to remind us that He was always watching, that He was testing us, that He would resolve everything if we only kept striving towards our future.

As I listened to Bashir's cries, I knew he needed to hear this advice more than ever. He had to be reminded of his strength.

I lightly knocked. "Bashir, open the door please."

"N-No."

"Bashir," I sighed. "Tell me what's wrong. You don't need to do this alone."

He sniffled. "Y-You don't understand."

"Then make me understand."

"No!" he yelled. "No one understands! No one knows! I don't even understand the past, so why would you know?"

Like a knife to my chest, my breath caught in my throat, a lump swelling upwards as I swallowed it down. The truth hurt. He was right. I didn't know. I didn't understand.

But I wanted to.

"Who hurt you?" I asked slowly like I was approaching a wild beast.

"L-Leave me alone!"

"I can't do that," I choked, my forehead on the door. "You know I can't."

His breath shuddered uneasily, a small growl releasing from his lips and a cry following soon after. Bashir couldn't contain his happy-go-lucky façade. He couldn't live with not knowing the unknown. As contradicting as it sounded, Bashir lost himself in the abyss of a scandal too deranged for this dunya (world).

"We're family, Bashir. We help each other. We're always there for one another. Don't let the people who wronged you take that away from you."

A brief silence followed, cold and cruel, dark and twisted. It stretched far between us like we were continents apart and divided by an ocean. Silence drowned us in our thoughts, forced us into a depth of mind that none wandered into.

Shuffling was heard from the other side, and ever so slowly, the door opened, revealing the swollen, amber eyes that lost the fire that ignited them once before. In its wake was a shell of a little boy, a dark void that consumed him, and a mixture of bruises that littered his pale skin.

His lips were cracked with dried blood, shirt drenched in filth like he had been tossed around only hours before. Bashir couldn't even open one of his eyes fully without a ring of purple masking away the acute pain he must have felt.

As much as I wanted to freak out, I knew that a calm composure was required. "Let me... " I exhaled deeply, still reeling from the fact that Bashir was beaten that badly. "Let me get the first aid kit."

* * * *

Bashir sat on the kitchen stool as I rubbed medicine on his scarped knees and elbows, cleaning the blood from his lip and face. He held an ice pack to his eyes, looking everywhere except at me and occasionally wincing from pain.

"Want to tell me what happened before Ibrahim finds out?" I asked pointedly.

He stayed silent.

"Seriously, Bashir. Ibrahim is going to be ballistic if he comes home and has no idea what happened to you."

"Fine," he mumbled, shoulders dropping from defeat. "I'll tell you."

Pulling out some band-aids, I gestured for him to continue as I treated the rest of his lacerations. Within a couple hours, Bashir was beaten to the pulp, his attackers showing no signs of regret if they left him battered and bruised. He stumbled home in shame, thinking everything was his fault.

It wasn't.

"The Tarkan scandal of harassment against women and our violent past is all over social media," said Bashir quietly, a faraway look in his eyes like he was reliving a memory. "They made up so many stories and it was all over Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, you name it. It was everywhere."

"Students did this to you?"

He nodded solemnly. "I knew people realized that I was Ibrahim's little brother and the miracle child from the stories. They've been whispering for weeks, but I tried my best to ignore all the snide remarks and insults. I tried so hard, Tasneem. I didn't let their words hurt me. I didn't let them control my life, but they forced me to remember, to face the fact that I wasn't normal. They forced me."

"They beat you, Bashir."

"I know," he whispered, tears welling his eyes. "They pulled me after school. At a field nearby, four guys took turns hitting me. One guy held me down. Another put a cloth in my mouth. The other two swung fists and kicks at me."

I inhaled a sharp breath, not daring to speak.

"I tried to scream for help," he said shakily. "I tried so hard. How can I fight off so many guys on me? How can I not let them get to me if they forced me to remember that I was different? How can I even go back after all this?"

His shoulders shook, sobs ripping through him violently until he was gasping for breath. With trembling lips and a cracking voice, he continued to tell vivid descriptions of the torture he endured, of the helpless feeling that erupted as he was tied down, of the cruel smirks of his attackers and the overwhelming need for air.

My own lungs burned from his story. My eyes wept for his pain, his misery, his despair because through his entire story he did not accuse his brother for his hardships. He did not blame Ibrahim for his bullying incident. He only blamed the evil in their hearts.

"I-I tried, Tasneem," he cried, tears streaking his pale cheeks that were flushed with embarrassment. "I wanted to be strong like Ibrahim. I-I didn't want him to worry when he has so much on his plate. I didn't ask for this!"

Madness glared against the golden flecks of his eyes, vibrant and burning with an unmasked fury. His tears glistened in the dimmed lights, reflecting his heartbreak at society's judgement of a boy too young to even remember his parents and his childhood. They viciously tore Bashir apart, suffocating him in their jabs and taunts.

This little boy before me begged for a release, an escape from his nightmare.

"Bashir," I spoke softly, holding his hand. "I know you're scared. I know you're worried. I know that you don't deserve any of this. Do you understand?"

He sniffled, but nodded.

Looking deep into his eyes, I tried to portray the determination that mixed with my words, tried to offer the motherly comfort he never received. "They don't know anything, Bashir. If your classmates knew the whole story, they would sympathize with you. This is a sign from Allah that these people are not your friends. They are not worthy of your tears nor are they worthy of you."

"B-But how can I g-go back now?"

"You won't," I fiercely stated. "Look at how they hurt you. There is no way that I will allow you to go back to a school that verbally and physically abused you on school territory."

Bashir rubbed at his eyes, wincing in pain as he removed the ice pack. He squinted at me. "Why does Allah test us like this?" he asked with the innocence of a newborn.

I smiled. "Because He loves us."

"If He loves me, then why did He allow them to hurt me?"

"We don't see the whole plan, but Allah does. At this moment, yes, everything seems cruel, but in the future, we will look back and praise our strength for overcoming such an obstacle. In the future, we will grow from this event in time and we will progress into better, stronger, and more confident people. This is how Allah teaches us. He gives us trials, so that we learn from them and then we grow."

"So Allah doesn't h-hate me?" he stuttered.

I shook my head. "Quite the opposite. Those who are tested the harshest are the ones that Allah loves the most. He constantly tests us to see how devoted we are and if we remember all that He teaches in the Qur'an," I said gently. "Go rest now. That eye won't heal itself."

He cringed. "Will you tell Ibrahim?"

"He deserves to know."

"But-"

"Bashir."

"Okay," he sighed, jumping off the stool. "Just make sure you break it to him gently. He already went through enough because of me. I don't want him to suffer more."

How could such a child feel such a strong devotion to his brother? How could he be so selfless in the claws of defeat?

I underestimated how much these brothers cared for one another. They were the constellations in a midnight sky, the stars that aligned to welcome anew. Their love surpassed those from the most beautiful tales, their love whispered the secrets of undying compassion. Allah told us to cherish these relationships for good reason.

Love did not always come in the form of romance. Sometimes, it came in the form of brotherhood.

insane