That would be living a lie.

But if she refused the marriage, my father would demand to know why.

And if she told the truth, she would be killed.

She said she had thought about running away, about trying to escape to Kabul and finding Leila and the underground church there.

But she did not know how she could do that.

We had no money, no connections, no way to travel alone.

And if she tried to run and was caught, the punishment would be severe.

Um, so she was praying and waiting, asking Jesus to show her what to do, trusting that somehow he would make a way.

I wanted to help her, but I was 12 years old and powerless.

I had no resources, no influence, no ability to change anything.

All I could do was be there for her, keep her secret, and watch as events unfolded.

Two months before the wedding, Leila came to visit.

Her family made the trip from Kabell, saying they wanted to help with wedding preparations.

My father was pleased to have them.

Leila’s father was wealthy and respected, and his presence brought honor to our family.

Leila and Paruana spent every possible moment together during those three days.

They said they were planning wedding details, choosing decorations, discussing traditions.

No one questioned this.

It was normal for the bride and her cousin to spend time together before such an important event.

But I knew they were not just talking about the wedding.

Well, they were talking about Jesus, about faith, about what Parana should do, about whether there was any way to escape the impossible situation she was in.

I tried to find moments to be with them, to hear what they were saying, but they were careful.

They did not speak openly when anyone else was around, even me.

They knew that the more people who knew, the more danger there was.

On the last night of the visit, Leila found a moment alone with me.

We were in the courtyard or supposedly cleaning up after the evening meal.

The other women were inside.

We had maybe five minutes before someone would come looking for us.

Leila looked at me with kind eyes and asked if Parana had talked to me about her faith.

I nodded, too afraid to speak.

She asked me what I thought about it.

I said I did not fully understand it.

I said it seemed dangerous.

I said I was afraid for Paruana and for her.

Leila smiled sadly.

She said that yes, following Jesus was dangerous.

Uh especially for people like us.

In some countries, Christians could worship freely.

But in Afghanistan, in Pakistan, in Iran, in so many places, being a Christian could cost you your life.

But she said the danger was worth it because Jesus offered something that nothing else could give.

I asked her what that was.

She said freedom.

Not political freedom or physical freedom, but freedom of the soul.

Freedom from fear.

Freedom from the crushing weight of trying to earn God’s love.

Uh freedom from shame.

freedom to be yourself, to be loved as you are, to have hope beyond this life.

She said that before she became a Christian, she had felt like she was drowning.

Going through the motions of Islam, but feeling nothing, praying five times a day, but never feeling heard.

Trying to be good enough, but always failing.

living in fear of judgment, fear of hell, fear of disappointing God and family and everyone.

But when she found Jesus, all of that changed.

She said it was like someone had pulled her out of the water and let her breathe for the first time.

She was free.

not free from difficulty or danger, but free inside in the place that mattered most.

I asked her if she thought she might die for being a Christian.

She said yes, it was possible.

If her family found out, they might kill her or they might turn her over to religious authorities who would kill her.

She lived with that reality every day.

Uh but she said that dying for Christ was better than living without him.

She said that death was not the end for Christians.

It was just the doorway to being with Jesus forever.

I did not understand how someone could be so calm about the possibility of death, but I could see that Leila meant what she said.

She was not being dramatic or exaggerating.

She could truly believed that Jesus was worth dying for.

She told me that Jesus loved me too, that he was waiting for me, that when I was ready, we all I had to do was call on his name and he would save me.

She said she was praying for me every day, asking God to open my eyes and my heart.

Then someone called for us from inside the house.

Our private moment was over.

Ila hugged me quickly and whispered that I should be strong, that I should take care of Parana, that I should remember what she had told me.

The next day, Leila’s family left.

I watched Paruana say goodbye to her cousin.

Watch them embrace or watch the tears in both their eyes.

I wondered if they knew this might be the last time they saw each other.

I wondered if Leila had given Parana any advice about what to do.

I wondered if there was any hope at all.

After Leila left, Parana seemed different, more settled, more at peace.

I asked her what Ila had told her.

She said that Leila had encouraged her to remain faithful no matter what happened.

That suffering for Christ was an honor.

That even if she died or she would be with Jesus immediately in paradise.

That her death would not be the end but the beginning.

I asked if that was comforting.

She said yes and no.

She did not want to die.

She was 16 years old.

She wanted to live.

She wanted to see the world to learn to experience life beyond the walls of compounds and the control of men.

But if the choice was between denying Jesus and dying, she would choose death because Jesus was real and denying him would be denying the truth.

And she could not do that.

The wedding was now six weeks away.

My father had increased the preparations.

There were constant visitors, constant planning, constant activity.

Parana moved through it all calmly, doing what was required of her, speaking when spoken to, never complaining.

But I could see the strain in her eyes.

I could see the weight she carried.

And I began to pray.

Not the ritual prayers I had been taught, but real prayers, desperate prayers.

I prayed to Allah.

I prayed to Jesus.

I prayed to whoever might be listening.

I begged for parana to be saved.

I begged for a way out.

I begged for a miracle.

But no miracle came.

Instead, disaster came.

Four weeks before the wedding, something happened.

I still do not know exactly what.

I do not know if someone saw something they should not have seen or if one of our half siblings searched our room and found the hiding place or if someone intercepted a letter or or if God himself decided it was time for Parana’s faith to be tested.

But somehow my father found out.

I was not there when it happened.

I was in another part of the house helping my mother with laundry.

But I heard my father’s voice roaring through the compound like thunder.

I heard crashing sounds, things being thrown.

I heard Parana scream.

I dropped the wet clothes and started running toward our room.

But one of my halfb brothers grabbed me and held me back.

He said my father had forbidden anyone to interfere.

He said Parana was in serious trouble and I should stay away unless I wanted the same.

So I stood there held back by my brother’s strong grip, listening to my father rage at Parana.

I could not make out all the words, but I heard enough.

apostate kafir Christian betrayal shame death then I heard the sound of him hitting her once twice three times more I heard her crying out in pain I heard her trying to speak trying to explain I heard my father tell her to be silent to shut her lying mouth the first wife went into the room I could hear her voice joining my fathers accusing Parana, calling her terrible names, saying she had always known there was something wrong with her, that she was corrupted and evil.

My mother tried to go in, but my father shouted at her to stay out.

So, my mother stood near me, shaking violently, tears streaming down her face, unable to help her daughter.

Uh when my father finally came out of the room, his face was terrible, dark with rage, hard as stone.

He called for all the family to gather in the courtyard.

We came, all of us, the wives and children.

We stood there silent while my father made his announcement.

He said that Parana had committed the worst sin imaginable.

She had left Islam.

She had betrayed Allah and the prophet.

She had embraced the religion of the kafir, the religion of the enemies of Islam.

She had become a Christian.

Um, he said he had found evidence, letters from Leila filled with Christian blasphemy, papers with Bible verses written on them, a cross made from pieces of wood, all hidden in our room, proof of Parana’s apostasy.

He said that according to Islamic law, the punishment for apostasy was death.

An apostate was worse than a non-Muslim.

A non-Muslim had simply never accepted Islam.

But an apostate had known the truth and rejected it.

There was no mercy for such a person.

But he said to because Paruana was his daughter, he would give her a chance, one chance to repent, to renounce this Christian foolishness, to return to Islam, to beg Allah’s forgiveness.

If she would do this, he would spare her life.

The marriage would be cancelled, but she would live.

He ordered my brothers to bring Parana out.

They dragged her into the courtyard.

She looked terrible.

Her face was already swelling from where he had hit her.

Her lip was bleeding.

Her clothes were torn, but her eyes were clear.

Oh, focused.

She was not broken yet.

My father made her stand in the center of the courtyard while all of us watched.

He told her to renounce Christianity, to say the shahada, the Islamic declaration of faith to declare that there is no god but Allah and Muhammad is his messenger.

The whole courtyard was silent.

Every person there watched Parana, waiting to see what she would do, waiting to see if she would choose life or death.

Pwana stood there swaying slightly, blood dripping from her lip.

She looked at my father.

She looked at all of us gathered around.

She looked at me and our eyes met for a long moment.

Then she spoke.

Her voice was quiet but clear.

She said she could not do what he asked.

She said she had found the truth and she could not deny it.

My father’s face went dark.

He asked her if she understood what she was choosing, if she was willing to die for this foreign religion, if she was willing to bring this shame on her family.

Parana said she did not want to die.

She said she did not want to bring shame, but she said she could not deny Jesus Christ.

She said he was the son of God.

She said he had died for her sins and risen from the dead.

She said he loved her and she loved him and she could not betray that love even to save her life.

The courtyard erupted.

Some of my siblings started shouting at Parana, calling her crazy and demonpossessed.

The first wife declared that Parana should be killed immediately, that she deserved no mercy.

My mother collapsed, wailing.

My father raised his hand for silence.

When everyone quieted, he looked at Parana with an expression I had never seen before.

Not just anger, something colder, something final.

He said that Parana was no longer his daughter.

He said she had chosen hell over heaven, lies over truth, shame over honor.

He said she would be locked away until she came to her senses.

And if she never came to her senses, oh, she would die as an example to anyone else who might be tempted to leave Islam.

Then he ordered my brothers to take her back to our room and lock her in.

They grabbed her arms and dragged her away.

I watched her disappear into the house, watched the door close behind her, and I knew that everything had changed.

My sister was not just in trouble.

She was going to die.

And I was completely powerless to stop it.

My father kept parana locked in our room.

And what began that day was a slow death.

Uh not quick like a bullet or a knife, but slow and deliberate.

He was going to starve her into submission or starve her into the grave.

One way or another, he was going to break her.

The first three days, she was given no food at all, only water and not much of that.

The first wife took charge of bringing the water, and she made sure everyone knew.

She thought even that was too much mercy.

She would announce loudly each time she brought the cup to the door that Apostus deserved nothing that Paruana should be grateful for even a drop.

I was forbidden from going near the room.

My father made it very clear that anyone who tried to help Paruana, anyone who showed her sympathy, anyone who questioned his decision would face severe punishment.

He said that Paruana had chosen her path and now she would walk it alone.

He said that anyone who pitted her was weak in their faith, but I could hear her through the door at night.

Uh, I would lie on a mat in the main room with the other women and children, and I would listen to Parana crying in that locked room.

Sometimes she would call out for water.

Sometimes she would weep.

Sometimes she would pray.

I could hear her whispering the name of Jesus over and over like a lifeline she was clinging to.

On the fourth day, my father opened the door to speak with her.

He brought her out into the courtyard where the whole family was gathered once again.

She looked weak already.

Three days without food had taken their toll.

Her face was gaunt.

Her eyes were hollow.

She could barely stand.

My father asked her if she was ready to renounce Christianity and return to Islam.

The question was simple.

The answer would determine whether she lived or died.

Parana stood there trembling.

She opened her mouth to speak.

And for a moment I thought she might give in.

I thought hunger and fear might have broken her.

Part of me desperately wanted her to break on to say whatever my father needed to hear to live.

But then she shook her head, just a small movement, but definite.

No, my father’s jaw tightened.

He asked her again, his voice hard.

Would she renounce this foolishness? Would she return to the true faith? Would she save herself? Again, Paruana shook her head and this time she spoke.

Her voice was barely a whisper.

But in the silent courtyard, we all heard it.

She said Jesus was Lord.

She said she would not deny him.

Hada.

I saw something change in my father’s face in that moment.

Until then, I think some part of him believed she would eventually break, that she was just being stubborn, that hunger and isolation would bring her to her senses.

But now he understood that she was serious.

She truly had left Islam.

She truly believed in this Christian God and she was willing to die for it.

His response was cold and deliberate.

He said that Parana would be taken back to the room from now on.

She would receive only enough water to keep her alive and small amounts of bread every few days.

Not enough to maintain her strength, just enough to prolong her suffering.

He said she would stay there until she repented or until she died.

However long that took, he said he would check on her regularly, give her chances to reconsider.

But if she continued in her stubbornness, she would waste away in that room as a lesson to the entire family about the price of apostasy.

Uh then my brothers dragged her back to the room and locked the door again.

I heard the key turn.

I heard the board being nailed across the door for extra security, and I knew that my sister had just been sentenced to death, a slow, agonizing death by starvation.

The house felt different after that, darker, heavier.

Everyone moved through their routines, but there was a shadow over everything.

We all knew what was happening behind that locked door.

We all knew a girl was dying there.

That and we all knew we could do nothing about it.

My mother was destroyed.

She stopped eating herself.

She stopped speaking.

She would sit for hours staring at nothing, tears running down her face.

At night, I would hear her crying quietly into her blanket.

She had lost one daughter already in a way and now she was watching her other daughter die.

I tried to talk to my mother once to ask if there was anything we could do.

Could she convince my father to show mercy? Or could she help Paruana escape somehow? But my mother just shook her head.

She said there was nothing anyone could do.

My father had made his decision.

Parana had made her choice and now we had to watch it play out.

I asked my mother if she believed Paruana deserved this.

She looked at me with such pain in her eyes and said no.

She said Parana was a good girl, a kind girl, the best daughter anyone could ask for.

She said she did not understand this Christianity or why Parana would choose it.

But she said no daughter deserved to be starved to death by her own father.

But even saying that was dangerous.

If my father heard my mother speaking sympathetically about Paruana, he would punish her too.

So after that conversation, my mother stayed silent.

She kept her grief and her doubt to herself.

The first wife had no such doubts.

She told anyone who would listen that Paruana was getting exactly what she deserved.

She said apostates were worse than dogs.

She said my father was being merciful by giving parana chances to repent.

She said that in a truly Islamic society, Parana would already be dead.

I hated the first wife.

I had never felt such hatred before.

Every time she spoke about Paruana with that satisfied tone, every time she brought the meager water and bread to the locked room and announced what she was doing like she was performing a great service, I wanted to scream at her.

I wanted to tell her she was evil.

Uh, I wanted to hurt her the way she was hurting Parana, but I was 12 years old and powerless.

So, I said nothing.

I just hated her in silence and prayed that somehow she would be punished for her cruelty.

The days turned into weeks.

Every few days, my father would open the door and bring parana out.

He would ask her the same question.

Was she ready to renounce Christianity and return to Islam? And every time, weak and starving, Paruana would refuse.

I watched her deteriorate.

Uh each time I saw her, she looked worse, thinner, weaker, more like a skeleton than a person.

Her skin turned gray.

Her hairs began to fall out.

Her eyes sank deeper into her skull.

She could barely stand without support, but her spirit did not break.

That was the thing that amazed and terrified me.

No matter how much she suffered, no matter how close to death she came, she would not deny Jesus.

She would shake her head or whisper his name or simply stay silent.

Uh but she would not say what my father wanted to hear.

After about a month, my father brought Amula to the house, the same one who had come before, the religious scholar known for his strict interpretation of Islam.

My father wanted this moola to witness Parana’s apostasy and to try one more time to convince her to return to the faith.

They brought Parana out into the courtyard.

She could no longer walk on her own.

My brothers had to carry her.

She looked like she was already dead.

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