Work In Progress: ‘The Wilted Rose’

I feel like one area that still has so much stigma attached to it, especially in the Desi culture is abuse and mental health. So many young girls and boys have had to go through horrific experiences, whether it’s at home with parents or relatives or at schools with bullies. Many turn to other means to numb their pain, others manage to make it out of their dark tunnels. My next book, a novel, inshaAllah hopes to highlight one young girls story of abuse and how she found healing through Islam. Requesting your Du’aas for this journey ahead, and here’s a short insight into Amal and her story. :)

Synopsis:

The Wilted Rose takes you on a journey through the dark tunnels of Amal’s childhood years. It lets you into her deepest secret and her diary entries of when she was a victim of her relatives abuse. Broken, wilted and worn, Amal refuses to allow the traumatizing experience to define her. And so begins her journey of hope, healing and recovery, of the many ups and downs and dead ends, with faith as her guide and God as her protector she marches forth with faith that, “Even the most wilted flower has a chance of blossoming again.”

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Excerpt:

My name is Amal, and this is my story.

August 3rd, 2000

“This is your Uncle, Zryaan Kassem.”

“You can call me, Zryaan Da’yy actually.”

Da’yy was a persian word for Uncle, apparently. I’d rather just call him, ‘The Uncle.’

I glanced at him from where I was standing next to mama. His eyes caught sight of mine. I hesitated.

“Why you so shy, Amal?” She asked, confusedly.

I refused to lift my gaze.

“Ah, this is Amal then, right. Amal Kassem. My beautiful niece.

“Well, just look at those eyes.” He hunched slightly to admire my eyes.

I folded my arms and made sure I didn’t meet his gaze.

So this was my uncle. The uncle everyone in the house had been raving on about — especially my stepfather. He seemed to really like him. The amount of times he had told me about this ‘nice uncle’ that would be moving into the house next door to us.

“Zyraan, Uncle has come all the way from Iran.. I’ve told him lots of things about you, princess.”

I forced a half smile and looked away again.

Being an introvert, I was quite anti-social. Often deemed stubborn.

I spent most of my time in my room studying, reading, listening to music to distress or messaging my friends.

Most of my 13 year old classmates were the complete opposite — except Mariyah of course, she was my bestie and also a lot like me in the sense that she was also shy, quiet and enjoyed being in her own little bubble.

That is why, I wasn’t entirely happy with an ‘uncle’ whom I had never met in my 11 years of living, nor had I heard his name (until now) — would be living in the same house — wait, my house, and for the next 4 months. Surely, mama would not allow me to stay caved in my room all day when we had a guest to host and feed and socialize with.

Urgh.

Also, my first impressions of Zryaan Uncle weren’t too impressive actually.

Firstly, he pronounced my name incorrectly. So instead of calling me Amal which is my birth name, he called me ‘Ammu.’

Ammu? I wasn’t some 5 year old who carried a teddy bear in her hands, looking all cute with puppy eyes and occasionally saying, “Ammu.” Am I?

Secondly, he has the strangest smile. He used the same weird smile when he talks to me and in my head I’m thinking, ‘Please give that jaw a break!’

“Amal?”

“Uh-yes…”

For a moment, I had gotten so lost in my thoughts and my analysis of the uncle, that I hadn’t heard mama calling me.

“Could you please serve your Uncle a drink?”

“Sure.”

Really, I just wanted to go to my bedroom and stay there.

“Close the door behind you, Amal.”

My stepfather called out. Both he and the Uncle had already immersed themselves in conversation, too complicated for me to understand. Especially, because I knew like two word of Persian.