I video called my father every day like I promised, making sure my room was in the background so he could see I was where I was supposed to be.

But during the day between classes, I was someone else.

I kept my jeans and western clothes in a locker at the gym on campus.

I would go there in my abaya, change into normal clothes and spend the day as a regular student.

Then before going home, I would change back.

I started going to cafes alone.

I would sit with a book and a coffee and just exist in public, uncovered, unafraid.

I started taking walks in parks, feeling the sun on my hair.

I started talking to people, classmates, cashiers, strangers who said hello.

I was tasting freedom in small sips.

And every sip made me thirstier.

But the guilt was always there.

Uh, every time I took off my hijab, I heard my mother’s voice.

Every time I laughed with a male classmate, I remembered the rules.

Every time I felt happy.

I wondered if I was sinning.

I was taught that Allah sees everything.

That angels record your every deed, that hell is waiting for people who disobey.

Was I going to hell? Was this freedom worth eternal punishment? I didn’t know.

I didn’t know anything anymore.

All I knew was that I couldn’t go back to being who I was before.

The cage door was open and even though I was terrified I was stepping out.

Six months into my time in London, my father’s cousin found out.

One of his daughters saw me on campus.

I didn’t know she was there.

I was sitting in the cafe with Aisha wearing jeans and a sweater, my hair uncovered and flowing down my back.

I was laughing at something.

Aisha said, “Uh, his daughter saw me and she told her father that night he was waiting for me when I came home.

His face was red with anger.

His wife and daughters were there, too.

Their faces showing a mix of shock and disappointment.

He didn’t hit me, but he shouted.

He called me names I won’t repeat here.

He said I was bringing shame on his family and my family.

He said I was acting like a He said he should have never agreed to let me stay in his house.

Then he called my father.

I sat on the floor of the living room while he spoke in rapid Arabic, telling my father everything.

That I had been removing my hijab.

That I had been wearing inappropriate clothes.

That I had been socializing with non-Muslims.

That I was out of control.

My father’s voice came through the the phone speaker.

Loud and angry.

He wanted to speak to me.

I took the phone with shaking hands.

My father didn’t shout.

His voice was cold, which was somehow worse.

He said, “I had one choice.

Come home immediately right now and get married like I was supposed to or be completely cut off from the family, disowned, dead to them.

You’re not my daughter if you continue this path.

” He said, “I should have apologized.

I should have begged for forgiveness.

I should have promised to do better.

But I didn’t.

Then I’m not your daughter, I said.

The words came out before I could stop them.

And once they were out, I couldn’t take them back.

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

Then my father spoke again, his voice hard.

You are dead to us.

Don’t ever contact this family again.

He hung up.

I sat there holding the phone, my whole body numb.

My father’s cousin was staring at me in shock like his wife and daughters looked horrified.

You need to leave this house, he said.

Tonight, now I will not have you here bringing this shame into my home.

So I left.

I packed my two suitcases.

I took the few pounds I had saved from my student allowance.

I walked out of that house at 11:00 at night in London with nowhere to go.

I had just lost my family, my country, my identity, everything I had ever known.

I sat on a bench outside a closed shop and cried, not quiet crying this time.

I sobbed.

I sobbed so hard I thought I might break into pieces.

I had wanted freedom.

I had gotten it.

But the price was everything.

I called Aisha.

Even though it was late, even though I had no right to ask, she answered on the second ring.

I could barely speak through the tears.

But I managed to tell her what happened.

Aa, say where you are, she said.

I’m coming to get you.

30 minutes later, she pulled up in her car.

She helped me put my suitcases in the trunk.

She didn’t ask questions.

She just drove.

She took me to her flat.

She lived with two other girls, all students.

They made space for me on the couch.

They gave me tea and blankets and didn’t make me explain anything.

I slept that night on a stranger’s couch, completely alone in the world.

And somehow, despite everything, I felt lighter than I had in years.

The cage was broken.

I had no family, no home, no safety net, but I was free.

I lived on Aisha’s couch for 3 weeks.

Her flatmates were kind to me, but I could see the strain.

Three of them in a small twobedroom flat, and now me taking up their living room with my suitcases and my mess.

I tried to be invisible.

I tried to take up as little space as possible, but I was still there, still an extra person in a place that was already too small.

During the day, I went to classes.

I kept going to university like nothing had changed.

Even though everything had changed, I sat in lectures about marketing strategies and business models and I took notes like I had a future planned out.

But really, I was just going through the motions.

My mind was somewhere else trying to figure out what I was going to do with my life.

At night, I would lie on that couch and think about my family.

I wondered if my mother was sad.

I wondered if my brothers talked about me.

I wondered if they really meant it when they said I was dead to them.

I tried calling my mother once using a different number I borrowed from one of Aisha’s flatmates or someone answered.

I think it was my oldest brother.

And when I said hello, there was just silence.

Then he hung up.

I didn’t try again.

The grief came in waves.

Sometimes I would be fine going about my day.

And then suddenly I would remember my mother’s face or the sound of my youngest brother’s laugh.

And the pain would hit me so hard I couldn’t breathe.

I cried a lot those first few weeks.

Quietly with my face pressed into the pillow so no one would hear.

I grieved for people who were still alive but might as well have been dead to me.

But mixed in with the grief was something else.

Something I hadn’t expected.

Relief.

I was free.

Actually free.

No one was monitoring me anymore.

No one was checking my phone or telling me what to wear or where I could go.

No video calls to my father.

No lying about where I was, no double life.

I could just be.

It was terrifying and wonderful at the same time.

I needed to find a place to live.

I couldn’t stay on Aisha’s couch forever.

But I had no money beyond my student loan, which barely covered my tuition and books.

I needed a job.

Aisha helped me update my CV.

She helped me practice and interview questions.

She drove me to job interviews at cafes and retail stores.

I applied to 20 places, maybe more.

Most of them said no.

Some never responded.

A few told me I didn’t have enough experience or my schedule didn’t work for them.

But finally, a small boutique clothing store near campus said yes.

part-time, minimum wage, mostly weekends and evenings.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

My first day of work felt significant in a way that’s hard to explain.

I was helping customers, folding clothes, running the register, done simple tasks.

But I was earning money, my own money, money that no man had given me or controlled.

money I earned because of my own work.

I thought about my mother who had never worked a day in her life, who had to ask my father for money anytime she needed anything, who didn’t even have her own bank account.

I was 20 years old and working in a shop, and it felt like the most powerful thing I had ever done.

Finding a place to live was harder.

With my small income from the shop and my student loan, I couldn’t afford much.

Rents in London were insane.

Even rooms in shared flats cost more than I could manage.

Aisha suggested I look into housing for vulnerable women.

There were organizations that helped women escaping difficult situations.

Women like me.

I didn’t want to think of myself as vulnerable.

own.

I wanted to think of myself as strong, as someone who had made a choice and was handling it.

But the truth was, I was vulnerable.

I had no family support, no savings, no backup plan.

I was one missed paycheck away from being on the street.

So, I went to a women’s or organization that Aisha found online.

I sat in a small office with a kind woman named Sarah who asked me about my situation.

I told her the short virgin that I had left my family because of religious and cultural differences that I was cut off financially that I was a student trying to support myself.

She didn’t ask for all the details.

She didn’t judge.

She just listened and took notes.

Two weeks later she called me.

They had a room available in a shared house with three other women.

The all of them were in similar situations.

Women who had left difficult families or relationships and were rebuilding their lives.

The rent was subsidized.

I could afford it.

I moved in the next week.

The house was in North London, about 40 minutes from my university by tube.

It was old and a bit rundown with creaky floors and temperamental heating.

My room was small, just enough space for a single bed, a desk, and a small wardrobe.

But it was mine, my own space, my own door that I could close.

I sat on the bed that first night and looked around at the blank walls, the bare floor, the single window that looked out onto the street.

I had left a big house in Riyad with a courtyard and servants and everything I could need.

Now I was in a tiny room in a shared house in a foreign city, and I was happier than I had ever been.

The other women in the house became something like family.

There was Maria from the Philippines who had left her abusive husband.

She was quiet and gentle, always cooking food for everyone and making sure we were okay.

There was Yuki from Japan who had come to London to study and ended up estranged from her traditional family when she came out as gay.

She was funny and sarcastic and taught me how to do makeup.

And there was Fatima, a Kurdish woman from Iraq who had fled an arranged marriage and was now studying to be a nurse.

She was tough and loud and fiercely protective of all of us.

None of them judged me for leaving my family.

They understood.

They had all done the same thing in different ways.

We would sit in the kitchen late at night drinking tea and talking about our lives.

They told me their stories and I told them mine.

And we cried together.

We laughed together.

We celebrated small victories together.

Someone passing an exam, someone getting a job, someone making it through a hard day without falling apart.

They were the family I chose and they chose me back.

University continued.

I changed my major.

Business administration felt too connected to the life I was supposed to have.

Coming back to Saudi Arabia, working for my father’s company or my husband’s company, being the educated woman who still did what she was told.

I didn’t want that anymore.

I switched to fashion and media studies.

It was impractical.

It wouldn’t lead to a stable career, but it was what I actually wanted.

It was my dream, the one I had hidden under my mattress in that magazine all those years ago.

I started learning about fashion design, about styling, about the business of beauty.

Um, I took classes in photography and media.

I started a small Instagram account where I posted photos of outfits I put together from charity shops and cheap high street stores.

I wasn’t trying to become an influencer.

I was just expressing myself, showing that I existed, that I was a woman with a face and a style and something to say.

The account grew slowly.

a few dozen followers, then a few hundred.

People started commenting, mostly positive, some negative.

I got messages from other Arab and Muslim women asking how I had the courage to show my face and hair.

I got messages from Muslim men calling me a and a traitor.

I blocked the hateful ones.

I responded to the kind ones and I kept posting.

I was learning something important.

I could be seen.

I could be visible.

And the world wouldn’t end.

But freedom was complicated.

I was free to wear what I wanted, but I didn’t know what I wanted to wear.

I had spent 20 years being told exactly what to put on my body.

Now I had to figure it out for myself.

I was free to talk to whoever I wanted, but I didn’t know how to read social cues.

I didn’t understand British humor.

I didn’t know when someone was flirting with me versus just being friendly.

I was free to make my own choices.

But I had no framework for making choices.

Every decision felt huge.

What should I eat? Where should I go? What should I study? Who should I trust? I made mistakes, a lot of mistakes.

I trusted people I shouldn’t have trusted.

I went to parties where I felt completely out of place.

I tried drinking alcohol for the first time and hated it, but forced myself to finish the drink because I thought that’s what you did.

I dated a guy from my class who seemed nice but turned out to just want sex.

And when I wasn’t ready, he called me a tease and stopped talking to me.

The Western world I had dreamed about wasn’t quite what I thought it would be.

It had its own problems, its own ways of objectifying women, its own ways of making you feel like you weren’t enough.

But at least here I had choices.

I could say no.

I could walk away.

I could change my mind.

That was everything.

About 6 months after I left my family, I did something I had always wanted to do but never thought I could.

I entered a beauty pageant.

It was a small one.

Miss South Asian UK or something like that.

Nothing huge, nothing that would make me famous, but it was a pageant.

A real pageant where you got to wear an evening gown and walk on stage and be judged on your beauty and your poise.

When I saw the advertisement for it online, I stared at it for a long time.

This was my childhood dream.

the magazine under my mattress, the poses in the mirror, the secret fantasy that I would one day be the kind of woman who was celebrated for being beautiful instead of hidden.

I almost didn’t apply.

The voice in my head, the one that sounded like my father, like my teachers, like everyone from my old life, told me I shouldn’t, that it was immodest, that it was shameful, that good women don’t parade themselves on stage.

But I applied anyway.

I filled out the form.

I submitted photos.

I paid the entry fee with money from my shop job.

and I got accepted.

The day of the pageant, I was terrified.

I had never been on stage before.

I had never worn an evening gown before.

I had never done my hair and makeup like that before.

Uh, Yuki helped me get ready.

She did my makeup, not too much, but enough to make my eyes stand out and my lips look full and red.

She helped me style my hair and loose curls.

She zipped up my dress, a simple navy blue gown I had bought on sale.

Nothing fancy, but it made me feel beautiful.

When I walked out on that stage, my heart was pounding so hard I thought everyone could hear it.

The lights were bright.

The audience was dark.

I couldn’t see their faces, just shapes.

But I walked.

I smiled.

I posed like I had practiced in my mirror all those years ago.

I didn’t win.

I didn’t even place in the top five.

But I did it.

I actually did it.

And when I walked off that stage, I felt like I had won something bigger than a crown.

I had won the right to be seen, the right to be myself.

But even with all this freedom, even with all these new experiences, there was still something missing.

I was free from the cage.

But I didn’t know what I was free for.

During the days, I was busy.

Classes, work, friends, exploring London.

I was constantly moving, constantly doing, constantly trying new things.

But at night, alone in my small room, the emptiness would come.

I would lie in bed and feel this void inside me.

This sense that there had to be more to life than just doing whatever I wanted, more than just experiences and fun and living for myself.

I had spent my whole life following Islam’s rules, praying five times a day, fasting, covering myself, living in fear of Allah’s punishment.

Islam gave structure to my life.

Even if it was oppressive structure, now I had no structure, no rules, no higher purpose.

I tried not to think about God.

K.

Thinking about God brought up too much pain, too much confusion.

If God was real, why did he make me a woman in a place where women were treated like property? If God was real, why were his rules so cruel? If God loved me, why did following him feel like dying? I decided I didn’t believe in God anymore.

Or if he existed, I didn’t want anything to do with him.

But the emptiness remained.

I watched my housemates.

Fatima still prayed, still identified as Muslim even though she had left her arranged marriage.

She found a way to keep her faith while rejecting the parts that hurt her.

Maria went to a Catholic church sometimes.

She said praying helped her feel less alone.

Even Yuki, who didn’t follow any religion, seemed to have some sense of purpose.

She volunteered at an LGBTQ youth center.

She said helping others gave her life meaning had nothing, just myself, just my freedom.

And it felt hollow.

I tried to fill the void with different things.

I went out more.

I partied.

I tried to date.

I bought clothes I didn’t need.

I scrolled through social media for hours, but nothing filled it.

I was free, but I wasn’t fulfilled.

I had escaped one cage, but was I just in a different kind of prison, a a prison of purposelessness I didn’t know, and I didn’t know where to find the answers.

Then one day about eight months after I left my family, something happened that would change everything.

I was at work at the boutique helping a customer find a dress.

She was a woman in her 50s, well-dressed, kind face.

We got to chatting while I was ringing up her purchase.

She asked where I was from.

I told her Saudi Arabia.

She asked how I was finding London.

I said I loved it, that it was very different from home.

She smiled at me in this warm way and said something I didn’t expect.

You have a beautiful light in you.

I can see you’ve been through difficult things, but you’re still standing.

That takes strength.

I didn’t know what to say.

No one had ever said anything like that to me before.

Then she said, “If you ever need someone to talk to, or if you’re looking for community, my church has a group for young women.

We meet every Thursday.

You’d be welcome.

” She handed me a card with the church’s name and address on it.

I took it politely and thanked her, but inside I was thinking, “No way, church.

” I left one oppressive religion.

Why would I join another one? I put the card in my pocket and forgot about it.

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