My meticulous, dark as night eyes stared at the new media coverage, admiration filling me as my wife's soft voice cut through volumes. The media buzzed, political analysts spectating Tasneem's interview through the use of commentators and legal dissectors. They chased after her words, her statements, and her faith.

My body tensed.

"Uddin makes very drastic claims that cannot be taken seriously unless we have access to these documents," said one commentator on screen, clearly against Tasneem.

A Muslim woman sat at the panel table, a law professor from Harvard University. Her forest-green eyes ignited at the man's ignorant brush of Tasneem's argument. "Sir, that is incorrect," she politely interrupted. "You are accusing his wife of lying without proof. By law, she cannot disclose any information to the public when there is an ongoing investigation into these allegations."

The man's lips thinned, wrinkles folding across his forehead. "Yet we allow her to accuse a prominent businessman from our country?" he questioned harshly, snapping at her.

Another analyst spoke up, a white man in his mid-forties with brown hair graying at the sides. His fierce brown eyes narrowed at the other commentator, disbelief painting his features. "Slow down. Did you fail to understand the basis of Uddin's argument? She may have referenced a businessman that we do not know of, but we've done the exact same to her husband. Ibrahim Tarkan was considered guilty without any proof or testimonies."

Dropping my pen, my attention solely focused on the flat screen on the wall opposite to me, examining the panel of experts as they weighed the validity of my wife's statements. Fear growled beneath the surface, anger stalked the corners of my mind, searching for its prey in a mist of glory, a lie masked in a scandal.

This was what I feared. This was what I wanted to protect her from.

"Ibrahim Tarkan has been accused by multiple women!" exclaimed another commentator, earning thoughtful nods from other men and women around the table and glares from others. "It isn't a situation of whether he is guilty or not. It's a situation of whether he owns up to his mistake and resigns or if he'll continue to deceive the public. If Tarkan is a man of honor then he would have admitted his wrongs, not prolong this scandal for publicity."

"What does he have to gain from prolonging this? What publicity?" asked the Muslim woman from before, eyes burning with fury. "These women could have been bribed into this just like she said. There is an unseen part of this scandal, so anything is possible. Tarkan Industries recently engaged in a lawsuit against a Russian business under the premise of illegal extortion and threatening demeanor. Why is no one looking into that investigation and its connection?"

"You can't believe every word Uddin says in her interview. She is already biased and only protecting her husband. Shame on him for coercing his wife into salvaging his name."

I changed the channel abruptly, unable to listen to the constant flow of chaos, heart aching at the mention of Tasneem. She sacrificed everything, put her job, her reputation, and her stability on the line as she walked a tightrope of American politics. Her love ran deeper than the ocean that seemed to swallow us in lies.

Currents rocked me, threw me into a hurricane of disasters where all my feeble attempts of defense fell to deaf ears and blind eyes, all my efforts drained with my business. Like a scared animal, the public cornered me.

Another news station flashed images of my wife, implicating headlines labeling her like she was a product of their society rather than a normal Muslim woman begging for a chance at the truth. Ignoring all her statements, many focused on her abaya and her hijab, calling her oppressed and trapped in a marriage with me.

They jumped from one theory to the next, connecting bridges to mountains of generalizations about our lives, our homes, and our families. They ripped apart my past, using it as a foundation for this scandal. Although Tasneem shed light onto the dark reality of American politics, some chose to ignore her message and began to criticize both of us.

Just as I predicted.

But why does it hurt my chest still? Why does it feel like I lost a long battle?

My shoulders felt heavy, weighing the scale of justice on my back as bigotry followed a pursuit of corruption. Tasneem, I thought, why would you do this to yourself?

Watching America tear apart her name cut me in ways I never thought to be possible, opened old wounds that I thought I repaired. They held her on a pedestal just to force her back down, just to keep her from using her voice for change. They silenced her for the truth.

Yet I couldn't bring myself to be bitter towards her efforts.

Thomas's bright blue eyes flashed across the screen, a wide smile touching his lips as reporters crowded him. There was no stress lining his visage. There was no fear shadowing his confidence. The sun's radiance glowed his appearance in a mystical halo, a light of hope sparkling.

"Sir, can you tell us your views about Uddin's speech and Tarkan's response to it?"

"Gladly," he grinned. "My boss is innocent, and his wife is a gem to America for being able to do the impossible. In the face of defeat, she prevailed against all odds even when it meant risking her reputation and allowing her private life to be scrutinized by the media."

"So, you believe your boss is innocent of all charges?"

"If I didn't, would I be doing everything in my power to protect his legacy?" he asked instead, a knowing glint in his eyes as the reporters were dumbfounded by his sheer honesty. "Ibrahim has never given me a reason to doubt him, and in his time of need, I won't abandon him. To me, Ibrahim is more than a boss. He's my closest friend. I have no doubt in my mind that he's been framed."

My heart swelled with pride. His eyes opened to the windows of his mind, where he showed full support towards me in front of dozens of reporters, smiling through their rash commentary to stir drama. Thomas paid no attention to their disastrous attempts to turn him against me and to skew Tasneem's interview. He spoke words of truth, of unwavering friendship.

Thomas gripped a nearby microphone. "Look, everything Tasneem said is an accurate portrayal of the struggle the Tarkans are going through. Instead of defining Tasneem as the wife of a CEO, maybe people should start listening to her as an individual because I assure you only then will people hear the real argument in her interview."

As he began to leave reporters in his dust, his persona changed. The carefree secretary full of jokes dissipated into humidity as the professional guise of American business controlled his passive visage, a hand in his trousers and another one waving at the reporters. He didn't care for theatrics when our battle had just begun.

Many continued to stalk behind Thomas's trail, but he simply smiled and carried on with his life, refusing to answer any questions until people discussed the validity of Tasneem's arguments. In a way, Thomas forced the public to heed her words with warning, with acceptance. The media had yet to accept my wife.

They labeled her. She was seen as only my wife, not as Tasneem Uddin.

Part of the reason Muslim women were discouraged by Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) from changing their names to take their husband's was to guarantee that women would keep their own identities in a highly patriarchal Arab society, so that they'd have a voice against those who sought to oppress them. It was the first of many rights that Islam guaranteed.

Although keeping one's name seemed small, it held more weight than many thought. Keeping one's name meant keeping the background one was born with, withholding one's identity, and more importantly being independent from her husband.

Tasneem didn't need my legacy. She didn't need my money. She didn't need my name because her name created her own destiny. Tasneem held the pen to her story, wrote the pages to her life, and published the accomplishments to her reputation. I had no jurisdiction over anything when it came to her.

And the Americans should have known better than to define Tasneem in my shadow. She deserved better than that.

Ring Ring.

The landline on my phone came to life, thus breaking me from my thoughts. Thomas was away for the next hour or so, and all my calls were put on hold until his return, yet this one was allowed by his substitute. I frowned, pressing a red button.

"I thought I told you to hold all my calls today," I said pointedly, not bothering to hide my distaste at his incompetence.

The timid voice of a young college intern spoke back. "I apologize, Mr. Tarkan," he practically squeaked, clearing his throat after a second as if to give himself personal reassurance. "Your secretary gave me special orders to look out for this call."

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Who is it?" I asked, dejectedly.

"The Principal of Lakewood Middle School."

Bashir's school. "Forward the line to me," I said, realizing that whatever this principal had to say was related to the bullying incident. My temper was already sizzling with newfound anger at the media's coverage about Tasneem.

"Yes, sir."

Within a minute, the blinker sprung into abrupt flashes of red before I unhooked my office landline. "Ibrahim Tarkan speaking," I said in an aloof tone, trying to mask my growing impatience and bitterness towards this man.

"Hello, Mr. Tarkan. This is Principal Dale," he spoke in a gruff voice, coarseness overpowering the articulation of his speech. "I've been informed about the horrific incident that injured a child under your guardianship."

Leaning back against my leather chair, I almost smiled at the strange formality in his voice, the detachment from his words. He didn't care that Bashir came home with bruises. He didn't care that these students verbally abused my little brother for a long time before they attacked, picking on his humanity like the vultures I fought against in this scandal. The principal only wanted to avoid a lawsuit, and truth be told, so did I.

"Horrific?" I repeated, lazily glancing at the documents before me. "I think you misinterpreted the situation."

"Sir?"

"What happened to Bashir wasn't horrific. He was beaten on a property where his protection is guaranteed. His incident is much more than horrific. It was revolting that supervisors could allow such an anticipated attack to linger for days without intervention. How did none of his teachers see the students who teased him on a daily basis right before their eyes? Why did they stay silent?" I harshly fired at him. "My brother was physically abused at your school, and the students who committed the crime still walk the campus freely. Why?"

"Mr. Tarkan, teachers are human. They don't always have eyes everywhere, and sometimes many of our male students engage in horseplay with one another. Surely, you understand."

I drew in a sharp breath. "No, I don't understand. In what world is it okay to probe at a child's painful past, to tell the child that he's useless, to remind the child that his parents died in cold blood and that he will always be an orphan? Horseplay is when you push and shove for fun, for jokes, but violence is when you tie a defenseless person to the ground with brute strength while your friends take turns throwing a bat against him and a couple of punches."

"I understand that you're upset-" he began again in the same lazy, tired tone.

"You keep saying that, but you don't! You don't understand a single thing!" I yelled, slamming a fist on my desk. "Understanding comes from actions not just words. You've done nothing to punish those boys who attacked Bashir, not even a suspension or an investigation with authorities over what happened. Inaction like this is precisely what teaches these boys that discrimination is okay, that violence is a perfect resolution, that crime comes without punishment."

My skin crawled, disgust rolling down my spine as the hissing flame of injustice burned deep against my mind. My body ignited with the roaring fury that deafened my ears and lined my eyes with frustration, breath coming in short pants. My knuckles ached from my outburst, but it was nothing compared to the hurt that flashed through my veins, the pity I felt for those who believed bullying was a phase, not a problem.

Bullying in no shape or form would ever be okay, and when educators allowed their students to escape the fleeting grasps of reality and shielding them from consequences, those children would then grow up with twisted mindsets, with entitlement crowning their heads. Shame was foreign to such students.

"Mr. Tarkan, please hear me out."

I tapped my fingers against my desk impatiently. "I'm listening."

"Middle school boys don't know what they're doing. They hop on their bandwagons and follow their classmates' leads. We have to be considerate of their mistakes instead of rashly punishing them," Principal Dale tried to reason, a hint of unease lingering his hoarse voice.

"You do understand that a child was physically injured, don't you?" I asked. "At least give them a punishment so that they may learn that their actions have consequences. I'm asking you as a worried guardian not as a CEO. If the roles were reversed, Bashir would have been kicked out."

"Sir," he sighed. "I can't just expel students."

"Oh? Is that not your job?" I drawled, bitterly amused. "To discipline students and maintain a safe learning environment?"

"On certain grounds, yes."

"The tax money I pay go to those security measures towards a public school education," I stated, resuming the soft tapping of my fingertips again as I patiently bid my time. I had to keep calm. I had to control at least this much of my life. "When you became a principal, you made an oath to your students, to educate, to protect, and to help them succeed regardless of their race, their sex, or their backgrounds. What gives you the right now to break all that as if it was nothing to begin with?"

"I-"

"No," I interrupted sharply, indignation fueling my veins, jaw clenched, and voice rough with authority. "Do your job. That is all I ask."

A brief silence ensued. The slow chime of a grandfather clock was heard in the background, a soft churn against the tense line, the silent ambivalence that drowned my ears under a muddle of voices, a junction of carefully crafted arguments.

I heard excuses.

Throughout the day, all I ever heard were excuses. They were shrouded under a veil of lies, of deception, of hypocrisy. Tasneem begged Americans to follow a path to honesty, yet they denied her any credibility because she was the wife of "a disgraced CEO," hence consuming the poison of hypocrites, of those that Allah warned Muslims of.

I begged Bashir's principal to find a suitable punishment for the students that tortured him, yet he used an excuse to hide away the flaws of these children, to protect them from negative consequences.

That was the issue.

We, as a society, evolved so little that we immersed ourselves into the freedom and liberty ideology, where justice reigned superiority across patriotic lands, where eagles scouted the truth behind every criminal. However, when the curtains finally closed on our little act, we abandoned all principles, all morals.

We trangressed our laws because we lost ourselves in our pride and egos. We ignored our Founding Fathers' foundations to build a new realm, one that benefited our power instead of our people. We disregarded the innate humanity that Allah gave us in a pursuit of greed.

With no punishment to atone for one's crime, they were let go.

Oh, Allah, I thought, I'm lost. I'm scared. I'm confused, but I know that I can't give up yet. After everything Tasneem, Bashir, our friends, and our families sacrificed, I can't lose this battle whether it be against Gavlik or Principal Dale. Help me bring justice to those that have wronged my loved ones if not in this world then in the next.

Principal Dale cleared his throat. "I truly apologize, Mr. Tarkan, but I'm afraid what you ask of me is much more difficult than you perceive it to be."

"I understand, but please think about what I've said," I said, keeping my tone soft and gentle, something that I wasn't used to especially when dealing with ignorance. "I don't want to ensue a difficult legal battle against the school district. I just want justice, some closure for what happened to my little brother."

"Okay, I will see what I can do."

"Thank you. Have a good afternoon, Principal Dale. Call me if there are any new developments."

"Of course," he readily agreed. "Good afternoon."

Our call ended, and I was left to wander through my thoughts like a lost soul searching for purpose. Too many legal battles were costly, and precisely the trap Gavlik wanted me to fall in. He destroyed many businesses through his malicious schemes, and if I wanted to survive another onslaught of media coverage, I would have to beat Gavlik at his own game.

My fears compelled me, constrained me, but not my wife. She saw through their guises, and she anticipated an unwelcomed response from the public. Although her shyness made her reserved, she overcame that fear for my sake. She salvaged my name, and it was my turn to do the same.

When people scorched my wife's reputation, they indirectly offended me as well. We would always be a team, a couple that were bonded by Allah and had a love that emulated those told in stories. Our names and talents diverged into different paths, but our marriage celebrated our disparity.

Tasneem was right. The time for silence passed. Now, it was time for action.