1 Dawn

1950 INGAR,

Capital city of Sundani.

There will come a day when you will speak

And your voices will be heard.

A day when you will live and die

And your corpse will not become meals for vultures and hungry dogs.

If you must die, let your pride live and let you voice resonate

Die not a death where your legs shake and your heart sways.

Regret a life that was never lived, and if indeed you must die, break free from your chains and rebel. – EXTRACT FROM WOMAN WRITER SHIMALI ZAYIN'S ARTICLE.

SHIMALI

I watched with amusement at the way Basmah's eyes widened as she read the last part of the article out loud. I smiled and sighed mentally preparing myself for a thirty minutes or more lecture from my ever over dramatic friend. I dropped the cup of coffee that had already gotten cold in my hands on the small table where Basmah's glasses laid and went to stand next to the window; I wanted to be prepared when they finally came to take me away. Sundani was so beautiful, I thought as i stared through the glass. I could never help the thought, every morning, when I looked through the window and saw the streets of Sundani, it took my breath away. It was definitely the most beautiful city in Africa, the heart of my country Ingar. The buildings stood tall in all of their glory, skyscrapers upon skyscrapers, each taller than the other. The streets were paved, with traffic lights on every side of the road, so at night when the lights came on, the ground looked like it was sprinkled with pixie dust. The colours of the city overwhelmed me every time. The grass was greener in Sundani, red tulip trees graced every corner of the city, the large bill boards bigger, and the ocean just outside the city, below Sundani bridge was the most beautiful sight ever, I always liked to believe, but how would I know? I had never seen anything beyond the shores of Ingar, and it didn't feel right to judge Sundani based on things that my eyes had never seen, no matter how beautiful they looked on TV. The city was quieter than usual, it was usually quiet ; people were always afraid to speak too loudly, or laugh or scream; they were less people outside too, except of course the soldiers who walked the streets like it was their runway. Whenever a single person rebelled it was as if the whole city understood that trouble was coming, and trouble would knock out anyone who stood on the streets leading to the trouble maker, so they remained in their homes, locked windows and doors. Even the children knew when to stay indoors; they saw it in the eyes of their scared mothers, and the dark eyes of their father's.

I inhaled the smell of the city, a mosaic of fresh waters, green grass and factory fumes, and clutched the iron bars of the window, it was cold. Basmah plotted on how to hide me from the tragedy which we both knew was coming , while I thought about how amusing it was that the newspapers used the words 'woman writer', I never read anywhere where it was written 'man writer', that would have been strange, but woman writer was amusing. I could imagine how they said it, 'woman writer', with distaste, disgust and disdain. They made sure their voices exuded just how unnatural it was for a woman to be a writer. Just the same way my Father had said it the day I told him I wanted to become a writer, before he promised I would marry a minister, a senator, a lawyer, or a doctor, and I wouldn't need to worry about becoming anything but a good wife. I didn't want to be just a good wife; I didn't want to be a good Ingarian wife. A good ingarian wife is a woman who has surrendered her life to her husband, his relatives and the society, nothing but a puppet. All you had to do to be good was obey husband, succumb to the whims of your in-laws, smile when you stand next to your husband in public, wear pretty dresses and don't sweat. Call me over educated, westernized, over driven or unrealistic, but I knew I would die of misery if I had to live the life of a 'good' Ingarian wife.

I had completely shut Basmah out about five minutes ago, when I had started thinking about how closed minded, submissive, and gullible the people of Ingar were, but she immediately regained my attention when she talked about how i wasn't already dead because of my parent's legacy. I clutched my hands tighter on the iron bars, until i could see my palms turning red and white, then i released them slightly, watching intently as the blood immediately rushed through. I felt disgust and disdain; I could almost taste it on the tip of my tongue. I knew my parents left a legacy but I never considered it a good one. My parents were power hungry, over ambitious politicians, conservative and gullible, and just these things had been the cause of their death. Their ugly death in the hands of their own blood, the one whom they trusted the most. I could picture the number of times my father had publicly and proudly stated that the only person he could trust was his brother, and I would roll my eyes and wonder if my father was blind. I was only nineteen then but just like my mother always said I had the wisdom of a seventy year old woman, and my brother would always follow her comment saying I complained like a seventy year old woman too.

I wasn't dead yet, not because of my parents legacy, but because General Ziba Zayin, the military ruler of Ingar, my father's brother, and my uncle didn't have enough support to kill his niece yet. Kumari and Nazi still thought that my life was important, and the General valued their opinions the most in the whole of Ingar, and if I wanted to be more optimistic, maybe the universe had kept me Alive for a special purpose.

Basmah was becoming even more furious than she had been when she started her lecture, maybe it was because I wasn't paying much attention to her, or because she also knew that I had crossed the line and she was afraid for me, or maybe it was both. I could always tell when Basmah was scared, her hands would fidget, and she would sweat like a labourer. I wanted to calm her down, but she wouldn't shut up for a second, and when she did, she was only shut for five seconds, before she asked me how disappointed I thought Kumari and Nazi would be. I loved both men, the former my brother and the latter my fiancé, but I couldn't care less what those hypocrites thought. I had been disappointed in them for the past five years since they became ministers to General Ziba, so maybe it was time they felt real disappointment, I finally replied Basmah. I could never understand how kumari ever thought I would be okay, or that it was okay for him to work for our parents' murderer, and when Nazi had joined him, I almost considered running away to another city, far away from my so called family, but I just wasn't brave enough to finish the thought, I did make sure they knew that I would never forgive them.

"What are we going to do Shimali," Basmah asked loosening her hijab slightly and wiping her sweaty forehead with her handkerchief. Her tiny eyes looked like they hadn't seen sleep for days, and so did mine. Basmah continued pacing around my tiny bachelorette apartment, her silhouette shoes tapping and drumming on the wooden floor as she moved.

"Basmah we wait," I said thickly sounding like a character in a Victorian movie, moving away from the window to face the door. I straightened my long blue pleated gown, and braced myself for everything I knew was about to happen the moment the doors to my apartment would pull apart from each other. I stood straighter and held my head up, before turning briefly to look at Basmah who looked scared out of her brains, "they are here Basmah. Don't be scared, be brave and stick to the plan," I whispered loudly, just before the door to the house fell in front of me and a troop of soldiers in black and blue Khaki's came trooping in with riffles and bullet shields. I have to admit, I was a little shaken by the seriousness they had put into arresting a 'woman writer' but I didn't show it, even when my hands were cuffed, and not even when I was being pushed roughly out of my home, and if I did look scared, then it wasn't at all my intention. I stood straighter and feigned boldness until it felt like I was truly brave. I was brave.

BASMAH

"Don't worry Shimali, I'll call Kumari and Nazi immediately," I yelled in what sounded almost like a squeak, like a wounded cat, as I watched soldiers bundle Shimali away. As soon as I could no longer hear the distinct roars of the soldiers, I rushed to the telephone and with shaky hands, dialled Kumari's telephone line. I cleared my throat to make sure my voice didn't still sound like a ten year olds, as the telephone rang. "Kumari, your sister," I spoke as soon as the telephone was picked, but before I could finish, and just as I had sensed, Kumari already knew. My chest sank, because the tone of Kumari's voice confirmed that Shimali was in big trouble. She had openly declared and encouraged a rebellion to over throw the ruler; the punishment for such an offense in the history of Ingar was death by hanging. My stubborn, open minded, curious, and over educated Shimali was going to be hanged for speaking too freely, I couldn't bear the thought and when I opened my mouth I gasped as a tear trickled down my face. It felt like I had been holding my breath all morning, too scared to be too scared. Kumari promised to do his best to save her, again. I needed to trust him to stay sane. She was the closest thing I had to family.

Stick to the plan. I could still hear Shimali's voice long after she was gone. A part of me had hoped sticking to the plan was over now, but Shimali was a very determined woman even when things became hard and unbearable. Three months ago after I had gotten my degree in psychology and my divorce with my ex-husband Ibrahim had been finalized, Shimali asked for a favour, a hard and unbearable one. She had overheard kumari telling Nazi that the general needed a new therapist; the last one had crossed a line. Of course it was a secret, the people of Ingarian feared the general, but if they knew he had a therapist, they would fear him much less, and that was the general's biggest fear. At first I couldn't help but marvel at the thought of the general sharing his deepest concerns with a therapist, but the deeper I got into the field, I realised that ordinary men didn't need therapists; it was the rich and influential men that always secretly sought the help of therapists. You'd be surprised at the things they were willing to share with their therapists. Deeply concerning issues, for them the patients, but mostly the therapists. Which made ours the profession with the most risks of being assassinated by our clients in the whole of Ingar, and I just happen to be number one on the leader board, being the therapist of the most terrifying and disturbed man, in the whole of Ingar; the general. I was always scared for my life every single time I sat in front of the general listening to him, but it was all part of Shimali's master plan. An innocent, shy, introverted Hijabi, I was easy to trust, she had always reassured me, right before she says, "trust me." I trusted her, she was easy to trust too.