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~

"No one besides Allah can rescue a soul from hardship." (Qur'an 53:58)

~

Zoya rushes through the forest, whipping her head wildly around. The footsteps continue to pound against the floor behind her, reverberating through the jungle and causing her to tremble in the darkness of the night.

She whips back around and focuses on putting one foot in front of the other as she flies through the dark forest. Terror seizes her insides and grips her heart. The sound of feet slapping on the asphalt behind her propels her legs forward at a faster speed.

But nothing, nothing can stop Zoya from recognizing the imminent doom heading her way. No matter how fast she runs on her blistered feet, no matter how loud she screams, those footsteps will eventually catch up to her. Those footsteps that take twenty steps towards her for every ten that she runs ahead; footsteps that manage to make her so breathless that her body teeters at the edge of defeat.

Abruptly, dread takes such a hold of her that she lets out a huff of air and falls forward, bruised hands hitting the ground. Scrapes and fresh cuts pierce her skin and she lets out a cry of pain. "NO!" she screams. The darkness is suffocating, pressing down on her like a gnarled hand and cutting off her supply of oxygen.

Zoya whips around and holds her scraped hands above her as a shield, squeezing her eyes shut. Suddenly, a heavy weight seems to fall on her, pressing her already bruised back into the cobbled asphalt. She screams, but a force so heavy blocks off the sound and continues to weigh itself down on her. Excruciating pain takes over and begins to numb her. Zoya writhes and thrashes, trying to grope around in the suffocating blackness of the night to pull the weight off of her and scream her throat raw.

But there is nothing there.

Zoya flies awake, breathing heavily. With wide, disoriented eyes she gazes around her bedroom.

Despite the cold sweat running in rivulets down her body, she wraps her blanket tightly around herself and begins to rock back and forth. Clamping her mouth shut to suppress the screams, she balls her hands up into fists and sets her head on her knees.

Weeping silently.

. . .

Zoya smiles in front of the cameras, her PR manager Lucas standing faithfully by her side. After thoroughly relaying her script to the frenzied press that firing Farhan was a colossal misunderstanding and that she wishes to keep subjects like her parents private, Zoya flashes a brilliant smile at the cameramen. They begin to back away from her. The moderator welcomes everyone to the gala and asks them to settle down.

After many tedious announcements and scripted speeches, the moment everyone has been waiting for arrives.

"And to speak about this project herself, I would like to invite Ms. Zoya Zameer!" the moderator announces.

Loud applause follows the moderator's announcement and Zoya makes her way to the stage in her powder blue dress, flipping her straightened hair behind her shoulder. As she approaches the podium, the applause dies down and heads turn to listen with rapt attention.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen." Pointing to the chair at the center of the stage, she turns to the moderator beside her. "Can I sit there with the mic?" A look of confusion passes over his face before he stutters out a surprised "Of course." She grabs the mic and settles down in the chair, smiling around at her audience.

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Zoya begins with the scripted line her PR manager and directors had discussed with her. "This project is very close to my heart." As she continues speaking, eyes watch her with wonder, carefully taking in her every movement, her every casual hair flip, attempting to undress the meaning behind these seemingly arbitrary acts.

"Ms. Zoya, why have you agreed to take on this project?" one reporter asks, notepad and pen ready in her hand.

Zoya smiles. "For Desis, domestic abuse is just another problem to sweep under the table. Something else to add to the growing pile of problems collecting dust in some forgotten corner. Why? Because we are raised to believe that advocating for domestic abuse is 'feminism.'" A harsh laugh escapes her. "We as children are shown a distorted image of marriage so that even when something seems odd or off, it is our normal. It's all we've been told and all we've seen in TV shows.

"Thus, domestic abuse issues are heavily underplayed and given the misleading title of feminism to make them seem more . . . arbitrary and casual. No offense to feminism," she adds hastily. "That's just how it's generally perceived.

"And those experiencing issues such as domestic violence are scared into silence. I'm just interested in washing away this wave of misconceptions and doing what I can to give more power to those powerless." She shrugs lightly and her directors nod approvingly.

Anyone watching her would take her words as a politician's words — strong and well articulated and spoken with the intention of gaining rhapsodies of praise. But anyone observing carefully — like the dark-haired man with his dimple creased in tension at the far end of the room — would gauge that her poetic words hold some experience.

Another reporter raises his hand. "You mentioned 'as Desis'. Do you really believe this is just a marginal issue?"

The PR manager's voice rings through Zoya's head. Keep your cool and stick to the script. She takes a deep breath and attempts to follow these instructions.

"Do you know what happens to people in South Asian countries, sir?" He does a double take at being addressed so directly. "They get kidnapped, they get raped, and when they're thrown back on the road after they've been used and their oppressors have tired of them, they're blamed. Do you know what happens when they come back home?" The reporter squirms slightly under Zoya's intense gaze. "People avoid speaking to them, avoid making eye contact with them. Because they don't see them as people oppressed and robbed of their peace. They see them as people who went gallivanting and lost them their honor and respect." A mirthless laugh escapes her, and something shifts in the audience. A strange thickness that wasn't there before.

Zoya tries. She tries so hard to clamp her lips shut and heed the warning glances of Lucas and her board of directors, but second later a physical force seems to pry her mouth open and she continues.

"People don't see them as victims who have been robbed of self regard and self-respect. Instead, these victims are blamed for their every action. Because at the end of the day, in the people's eyes, the rapist is only partially at fault." Zoya sighs long and loud into the microphone, but underneath the pretense of a powerful and professional leader, her heart beats rapidly within her chest.

"More precisely, it's the woman's fault for having the organ in her body that makes her desirable to others less capable of controlling their heinous, unlawful desires. It's not the man's fault for being characterless and expelling all ghairat — or honor — from the world. Not the man who dared lay a hand on a woman's honor and dignity and ruin her self-respect.

Across the hall, Lucas stares her down and shakes his head subtly. It's an almost imperceptible movement but there all the same. The script, he mouths.

Zoya swallows, her brief silence sending an uneasy ripple throughout the audience.

She cannot be silent now. Not now, of all times.

"As I was saying, dear guests." Her voice is uncharacteristically shaky and Lucas pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "The crime of rape is split three ways: physically, emotionally, and psychologically. What we as society do is break down what is left of the oppressed by running back and blaming them for it, as if they haven't already been through enough! First they are raped by a person, then they are raped by society." Zoya lets out a bewildered laugh. "Where is the justice in that?"

For a moment, there is pin drop silence. Zoya's heart beats so persistently against her chest that she fears it may thud into the speakers through the mic in her trembling hands.

Maybe I said too much.

"But Ms. Zoya," the same reporter from before interrupts her thoughts, raising his hand hesitantly. "Do you really believe that this is just a South Asian issue?"

"It's an issue everywhere," Zoya responds in a clipped tone. "But the issue has the opportunity to be resolved much better in more developed countries. In Desi countries, however, the abuse of power is unreal. So it is only fit to solve the problem somewhere that the problem doesn't have the opportunity to be solved." She scrutinizes him with narrowed eyes. "Besides, America doesn't need me. South Asia does. Am I right?"

Her string of words thrown together seem to confuse the reporter, but he nods and quietly continues taking notes.

Another woman raises her hand. "Zoya, ma'am, we've noticed that a lot of your previous projects and initiatives have focused on women and feminism. The previous ones have been a bit more subtle, but this new one is a bit more pronounced,. We were just wondering what catalyzed this turn of events and shifted the focus of your company's campaigns."

A corner of Zoya's lips lifts. "Actually, I would like to ask you a question." Lucas and the board of directors turn to one another and shake their heads, sighing. "Can you tell me when and where — in any of my company's initiatives — we have mentioned that we're doing what we're doing for women's rights?" The reporter, like the previous one, looks startled to have been addressed so directly. "No, I don't mean to single you out, really. I'm just curious. See, this is the problem with the media. People don't have an understanding of what I say and then make strange assumptions and accusations."

The reporter opens her mouth — perhaps to say that she wasn't making any accusations — but Zoya opens her mouth as well.

In the far corner of the room, Ibitoye sighs and buries her face in her hands. Raj pats her shoulder as if to say, "there, there."

"Can you tell me, Ms. Reporter, why when a woman stands up for another woman, people call it feminism? If you pay so much attention to my projects and initiatives, you should know that I've never once mentioned I'm doing my work for women. I think you should take a look outside your window, get your head out of your notepad and pen for a second to see that the world is ugly and twisted. Because who are the oppressed? My dear, you call it feminism because you know for a fact men are rarely the oppressed.

"Just take a look, for example, at domestic violence." Zoya sets her mic aside and crosses one leg over the other. Her blood feels like it's boiling, and she clenches her fists together to contain the rage coursing through her. "I've taken on this project and suddenly I'm told that my 'feminist campaign' has become more pronounced, although I didn't mention just the wives being oppressed. But if you say that I'm standing up for women, then sure, to entertain your belief, let's say I'm standing up for only women. Even then, my speaking out and standing up for another woman shouldn't be called feminism, it's just insaaniat. Humanity. If the world suffers, why can't my company try to do what it can to help?

"To clear up your misconceptions though, let me paint you a picture of the outside world, since you don't seem to know much about it," Zoya says in a voice of forced calm. Bill exchanges a disbelieving glance with Lucas, and Zoya can tell that they're burning with frustration. This wasn't part of the script.

Zoya sits up straighter in her chair and leans forward, holding the full attention of her audience. Something in her warns her against losing her temper so quickly, but it's too late. The reporter's pen is suspended in midair, a look of shock on her face at the shift in conversation. "When a rape case is filed in Pakistan, do you know what happens? Aurat ki izzat pe aik daagh lag jaata hai. Meaning a woman's dignity is stained. People go around saying things such as "Moo kaala kar diya" — she rubbed her face in dirt. Nobody talks to her, nobody marries her, people cut off all ties with her. She becomes badnaam, blamed. If you can tell me of even a single case in Pakistan in which a woman who has been raped is married off with dignity and respect and happiness, then let me know, please."

Ibitoye, who had been banging her head silently against the wall before, now listens with curious attention.

"Not to mention how divorcées are treated after abusive marriages because the Desi world chokes at this idea. In their eyes, it doesn't exist. And if a woman recognizes that coercion and — say, decides to get a divorce — first she is emotionally divorced from her husband, then literally divorced from her husband, and then mentally divorced by society! Because outside eyes that claim to know better about her relationship don't approve of her choice."

"However, that isn't the point here," Zoya says, shrugging nonchalantly. She begins to play around with her hair to conceal her shaking hands.

She wants to stop talking, she wants her tongue to knot and twist and settle silently in her mouth. Because she knows the potential consequences of allowing this dormant volcano to erupt. But all her tongue seems to want is to keep moving and keep talking.

"Raped women in Pakistan are not married off happily. Instead, they are ridiculed by us, by society. You know what we should be saying instead? When we hear of a woman's rape, we should hunt down the oppressor and ask him what disgusting blood in his body made him want to commit such a crime. Because in rape, who has control?"

At this last statement, people shift uncomfortably in their seats. The moderator steps forward as if to ask her to stop but Zoya holds a hand up. "Please let me finish what I came here to say." He backs away reluctantly and Zoya returns to the audience, detecting her rival Zaki's stony face in the crowd. "I know all of this may seem taboo and uncomfortable to talk about, but that makes it all the more important, right?

"As I was saying, who is in control? Whose body has the power to give this crime the label of rape? that presents this crime as rape?" Zoya spreads her hands out. "Man! And still we don't call him shameless, besharam, behaya." She shrugs as if in defeat and stands, making her way off the stage.

Pin drop silence follows Zoya's talk, and she casually throws her hair behind her shoulders as she approaches her team. Delayed applause and hushed whispers erupt behind her. Some people gaze at Zoya approvingly, others give her strange looks. Zaki Ahmed's jaw is clenched so hard it seems at risk of breaking.

Zoya's team's eyes follow her, silently questioning her unplanned performance. She can already feel the wrath of Lucas and her directors but shrugs it off, busying herself in adjusting her appearance. When she runs trembling fingers through her hair, she reaches too far behind and stumbles backwards, knocking into someone. Zoya turns around.

Haroun's smoldering eyes bore into hers as he quickly backs away from her touch. As soon as they make eye contact, he drops his gaze, flustered. Unlike everyone else, though, his gaze doesn't harbor questions and anger. Instead, there is gentleness in it, a different question from the one everyone else is asking.

Are you okay?

"Sorry," Zoya whispers a second too late, stepping away to create some more distance between them. She is painfully aware of how close her back had been to his chest. Her heart thumps wildly.

The night passes excruciatingly slowly — with Zaki and Zoya shooting each other clipped smiles the entire time — and as soon as Zoya and her team step into the limo to head back home, voices erupt all at once. Angry voices.

"Zoya, what the hell was that?"

"We talked about how dangerous it is for you to get on anyone's bad side right now!"

"There was no need to say all of that."

She ignores them at first, looking outside the window, until Ibitoye tells her, "You crossed the line." Zoya lashes out at her, unable to hold back further.

"Oh my God, just shut up already. How can you be a woman and say that?" Zoya screams at Ibitoye.

"It's not about my being a woman or not being a woman. It's about not taking arbitrary comments and questions to heart. It's about looking well-rounded and composed in front of the cameras – and to hell with what you do backstage!"

Zoya bares her teeth at her. "Stop this ultra professional BS. I've been head of this company for almost six years now. I have never 'stepped a toe out of line', and the one time I speak up when it's important, you want me to stay quiet?"

"You're getting too emotional," Ibitoye says frankly and Lucas nods in agreement. "Being the CEO, you've also known for the past six years that personal and professional life should not mix. You've been doing a great job at keeping that up. But now? Lately all the magazine articles have been about your outbursts. All of them have started speculating about you and your personal life because you gave them an opportunity to. When you sat back and showed them the lack of effect their words had, you were more successful. Now you're giving them a chance to unveil you."

Zoya's chest rises and falls with her rapid breathing. Rage clouds her eyes in a furious haze, but instead of snapping out several choice words at Ibitoye, she sags back against the upholstered leather and closes her eyes, harsh memories filtering through her mind.

Her ex-husband's constant, quiet reminders about Allah's dislike of divorce. Her attempts at placating him every time his jaw tensed even the slightest. His eyes flitting carelessly over the scars decorating her body.

Zoya clenches her fists, veins popping against her skin. She desperately tries to reign in her panic, but can't stop her breath from tightening in response to the memories.

Her directors exchange dubious glances. At the far end of the limousine, Haroun watches her quietly. Observes the clenched fist, the trembling hand, the telltale thump thump of her toe rapidly tapping against the floor, knee bouncing up and down.

He averts his gaze, swallowing hard as he makes a silent duaa.

. . .