I’m scared. Baba has me pinned to the ground. I can feel his knee pressing on my spine just below my neck. The bristly mat upon the floor scratches my cheek. Sobs shudder through my body, yet the sounds I release are muffled by the gag in my mouth. Ama and Nana’s hands are busy banging on the ceremonial drums. The sound quakes through the floor, vibrating through my body, until I am not even sure if my heart has stopped or not.

            Mama stands to one side. I can barely see her. But I know that as always, her head is hung.  “It is time, Izma. You are seventeen, now. We are going to carve your oath upon your back,” she whispers. “It is for your eizzat.” Honour is everything to this family, when it should be nothing.

            There is only a sheet wrapped around my bare torso. Like a new born babe, my body is completely bare. But I am a grown woman, my breasts enlarged and my body full of shame.

            “We should have done this a long time ago,” Baba growls into the small room. He says it to no one in particular, and yet in the same instance it’s blaming us all.

            I struggle against him, but he twists my arm. The joint rolls and groans in its socket. I yelp. The tears squeeze out of the corner of my eyes. I reach towards the armour that I will wear tomorrow. It stands in the corner on a dummy, heroic and strong, alone, but loose-fitting and strange when it’s upon me. It’s golden plates and red helmets glitter. Another torrent of sobs tremble through me. I have to go. If I don’t go Ibrahim will have to go. He’s just a little boy. His eyes are still wide and unmarked by the stale yellow of the tired.

            He’s in the next room, hidden behind the curtain. I can see him through the corner of my eyes, crouched down and shaking. How can I save him from this sight? Go, I want to say. Sleep at another house for tonight. But none of the villagers will let him in without an explanation. They will ask “why are you not at your sister’s celebration?” If they knew the truth, I could call them bastards. But they will never know. The tradition will live and die with us, in deep silencing scars.

           The drums keep on playing. I try to swallow against the dryness of my throat. It convulses. I have been screaming for too long. Now, I can only release sharp gasps.

            “We will draw first and engrave later,” Baba says. I hear the squeal of a lid released. They’ve opened the ink pot. I take a shuddering breath in. I slump against the mat. Perhaps if I don’t struggle so much, Ibrahim will not think it’s so bad. But the damage is already done. I have fought too hard already.

            “Ibrahim!” Baba roars. “Stop hiding and come inside. You are a man, aren’t you?”

            Between the breaths of the drumbeats, I can hear little whimpers. Baba lets go of me for a moment. I jump up, pulling apart the cloth that hides my voice.

            “No!” I rush in front of the curtain. Something warm and wet touches my feet. The putrid smell hits me next. “There’s no reason to bring Ibrahim into this, Baba.”

            I know he sees the trails of tears down my cheeks. I know he can smell his son’s fear. My naked body stands before him. My arms shake as they stretch to block his path.

            “Izma,” he sighs. And now I can see the little tremble in his chest. The tracks of sweat running from his forehead straight into his beard, highlighting the plains across his face. “It is tradition. It must be done.”

            I shut my eyes tight. I bite the inside of my lip to stop the shaking, stop the anger. “Do what you must to me, Baba. Just don’t touch him, please,” I beg.

            The silence stretches between us. The curtain is pushed aside.

            “I am here, p-p-p-Baba,” his small voice says.

            “Ibrahim! Go back!”

            “N-n-n-n-no.” His stutter’s back. My chest wracks with sobs.

            “I am here, Baba,” he repeats.

            He gets a nod out of Baba before he pulls me away. His grip is tight on my arm. “The military will take Ibrahim if you do not go in his place.”

            “I know.”

            “No warrior can ever leave this house without honour marked upon his back.”

            “I know,” I repeat. It is a tradition. I am nodding my head, but I can feel my spirit trickle out of my eyes.

            “Then you know what you must do.”

            He lets go of my arm. I stare at my place on the mat. I look around at Mama. Her eyes gleam. The ink and brush are ready in her hands. The blades are ready in Baba’s. Ama and Nana continue to play their drums. Strength, honour and tradition, that is what this family stands for.

            I take my place on the mat. I lie flat on my belly. I can see Ibrahim from here. He watches. I pull the sheet I previously discarded to hide the mounds of flesh on my chest. He will see worse things than those tonight. The hairs on my arms rise. He’s just a boy, he doesn’t need to see this. He’s wringing his hands together. He is afraid. I wish I could hug him. But even that would be going against my father’s wishes. Even that would be breaking our eizzat. 

            I lose a tight breath from my lungs. It trembles like a wet string.

            Mama is the first to come towards me. She kneels next to me and rubs a wet towel across my bare back. It’s cold. “This will wipe away the impurities from your skin.”

            I nod. Baba straddles on top of me, like I am one of his old steeds.

            “My back is marked with the oath too, Izma. It is a sign of eizzat.” He rustles my hair. I can feel the tremble in his fingers. The warm brush is next, it glides across my skin as he marks the words. When he puts the brush down I grit my teeth.

            “Son, come!” Baba yells. Ibrahim scampers towards us. “Hold down her arms.”

            “He doesn’t need to!”

            “Believe me, Izma,” Baba says. “He does.”

            I wave my hands to ward Ibrahim away. But he grabs my wrist. “He’s just a little boy!” I cry. No one listens. “How is he going to hold me down?”

            “He is not here to hold you down, though he must try. He is here to see the sacrifice his sister is making for him.”

            Ibrahim’s eyes widen. His fingers are cold against my wrists. I can feel his pounding heartbeat more than my own. I can see his eyes yellowing under the warm light of the candles. He is aging in just one night.

           His face curdles. It is warning enough.

            Where the brush had caressed, the blade cuts. I bite my lip, squeezing blood in droplets. The drums still beat. Ibrahim’s heartbeat still races towards something. Someone is screaming. The sound is getting louder and louder in my head. I thrash against Ibrahim’s brittle fingers. I push against Baba. I am a horse bucking his master.

            The screams in my head become so loud that I push them into the sound in the little room. The cooing of Mama. The grunts of Baba. The wails of Ibrahim as he tries to hold onto my wrists and the drum beats that Ama and Nana will not cease to play.

            Short shrieks of pain hit Ibrahim. Each for the words written on my back.

            Eizzat. Honour. Do not ruin our reputation.

            Between shrieks, I breathe. But the air I pull is not for breath, it is for words. “It’s okay,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “Doesn’t hurt.”

            Dawam. Strength. Show you are stronger than the rest.

            He’s still crying.

            Fadah. Sacrifice. We give you up for us all.

            “It… doesn’t hurt.”

            Shaja’at. Courage. You will die by the sword and nothing else.

            “It’s okay, Ibrahim.”

           Furzanda. Filiality. Do not betray us.

           Paaky. Purity. Do not be tempted by the masculinity of your fellow warriors.

           Protector. Save us all.

            And one for each name. Mama, Baba, Ama, Nana, Ibrahim and myself, Izma.

            When they are done, Baba began to dismount. But I have to show Ibrahim that it doesn’t hurt. That, it’s okay. That this is eizzat, no matter how twisted and painful it looks.

            “One more,” I croak. I put a trembling hand upon Ibrahim’s arm and rub it gently. I gesture to Baba with my other hand. “Azad.” Freedom. Baba will think it is for our country. It is not.

***

At the end of the last word, I fell forward at Ibrahim’s knees. Even incapacitated my heart retched for the tears that rained onto my hair. In and out of a fitful sleep, I could hear the ceremonial drums still going, the voices singing the oath on my back through the night.

            When I finally awake, I am still lying flat on my belly. My breasts are swollen and scratched raw. The crumpled sheet is still in front of me. Another, covers the rest of my body. I turn despite the burning I feel on my back. Two sets of arms come towards me, lifting me up by my arm pits. They are both weak. One belonging to Mama and the brittle set, Ama’s. They help me sit up. The base of my spine touches the floor.

            The sheet I pull tightly around me is stained with reds and browns. Some are still sticky, others are dry and rough on the fabric. The smell of iron pushes down on my body. It’s joined by the smell of piss and bile. I see the corners of the rooms have little puddles.

            But I am glad. The drums are gone. Ibrahim sleeps at my side. I stroke his soft locks of hair. At least he is safe for now.

            “The mirror, Mama,” I say. Ama and Mama hold the mirror up for me. I stare long and hard at each word, the black strokes wrapped around the puckered red cuts. I wrap my tongue around the Arabic before moving onto the next. Eizzat, dawam, fadah, courage, filiality, purity, protector, Baba, Mama, Ama, Nana. Last lie Ibrahim and Izma. They are only followed by the burning at the very base of my back where Azad sits alone. 

            Freedom. I will free us from this thing call eizzat. This tradition will be no more when I return. I will not let them touch Ibrahim with those brushes and blades.

– Amirah Mohiddin

Author’s Note: “Honour” is a short story about a young woman, Izma, who is forced to continue the family tradition of gaining honour by going to war, because if not her then her younger brother, Ibrahim, will be forced to go in her place. Izma must go through the family rites of having honour, sacrifice, filiality, purity carved into her skin before she sets out. Resigned to her fate, all Izma wants is for Ibrahim to be safe and hidden away whilst she endures the family rites. But little does she know that the rest of her family will not let her have her way for a thing as arbitrary as “honour.”