The screaming wouldn’t stop.
It was my own voice, but it felt like someone else was using my throat.
I was on my knees in my small room, tears pouring down my face like a river I couldn’t control.
My hands were shaking so badly, I had to press them against the cold floor just to make them steady.
This was the night that split my life into two pieces, the before and the after.
But let me tell you, friend, that before I explain how I got to that floor crying like a baby, I need to take you back to show you the man I used to be.
The man who thought he was doing right, but was actually doing terrible, terrible wrong.
My name is Akmed and I used to be a man who believed that everything I owned, everything I touched, and everyone in my family existed for one purpose only.
That purpose was to serve Allah and Islam with every breath, every action, every decision.
I didn’t just believe this in my head like some people believe things without really meaning it.
No, I believed it deep in my bones, in my blood, in the very center of who I was.
When I walked down the street, I walked with my chin up because I thought I was one of the most faithful men in my village.
When I prayed five times a day, I prayed louder than others so they would know how devoted I was.
When I made decisions for my family, I made them with an iron fist because I believed that strictness was the same thing as righteousness.
I had three daughters, and this is the part of my story that still makes my heart feel like it’s being squeezed by a giant hand.
Their names were Amina, Fatima, and Zanab.
Amina was my oldest and she had eyes that sparkled like stars when she laughed.
Fatima was my middle daughter and she was always singing even when she was doing chores around our small house.
Zanab was my youngest and she was shy and gentle, always hiding behind her sisters when strangers came to visit.
I loved them or at least I thought I loved them.
But my love was twisted and broken because I didn’t see them as precious gifts from God.
I saw them as tools, as objects, as things I could use to prove my devotion to Allah.
When men from Hamas came to our area, I saw them as heroes.
These were men who were willing to fight, to sacrifice, to give everything for the cause of Islam.
They carried guns and spoke about jihad in paradise.
And I hung on every word like a thirsty man drinking water.
They needed support.
They needed people to help them.
And they needed wives.
When they looked at my daughters, I didn’t feel protective like a father should feel.
I felt proud.
I felt honored.
I felt like this was my chance to show Allah that I was willing to give him everything, even my own children.
Amina was only 17 years old when I gave her to the first fighter.
His name was Khaled, and he was a commander in the Hamas group that operated in our region.
He was 35 years old, which meant he was twice her age.
But I didn’t care about that.
In my mind, age didn’t matter when you were serving Allah.
What mattered was that this man was a warrior for Islam and my daughter would be honored to be his wife.
I remember the day I told Amina about the arrangement.
She was in the kitchen helping her mother prepare food and her hands were covered in flour from making bread.
When I called her name, she came quickly, wiping her hands on her apron, and stood before me with her head bowed in respect.
I told her that she was going to marry Khaled in 2 weeks.
I expected her to be happy, to be excited, to thank me for finding her such an important husband.
But instead, her face went pale like all the blood had drained out of it.
Her lips started to tremble, and I saw tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
She opened her mouth like she wanted to say something, but no words came out.
Finally, in a voice so quiet I could barely hear it, she asked me if she could wait a little longer, if she could finish her education first, if she could have some time to prepare.
I got angry immediately.
How dare she question my decision? How dare she put her own selfish wants above the will of Allah? I raised my voice and told her that she was being disobedient, that she was showing disrespect to me and to Islam itself.
I told her that women who refused to submit to their fathers and their husbands would burn in hell forever.
I told her that she should be grateful that many girls would dream of marrying a fighter like Khaled.
My wife tried to calm me down, putting her hand gently on my arm, but I pushed it away.
I was too filled with righteous anger to listen to anyone.
Amina’s wedding happened exactly two weeks later.
It was a small ceremony, nothing fancy, because Khaled said he didn’t believe in wasting money on celebrations when that money could be used for weapons and supplies.
Amina wore a simple white dress and she didn’t smile once during the entire ceremony.
I noticed this, but I pushed the thought away from my mind.
I told myself that she was just nervous that she would be happy once she got used to her new life.
After the ceremony, Khaled took her away to a house in another village and I didn’t see her for 3 months.
6 months after Amina’s wedding, men from the same group approached me again.
This time they wanted Fatima.
She was 16 years old, still a child in many ways.
But I had learned from the Quran that girls could be married once they reached a certain age.
and Fatima had reached that age.
The fighter who wanted her was named Ibrahim and he was even more intense than Khaled.
He had scars on his face from battles and his eyes were hard and cold like stones.
When he came to our house to see Fatima, he barely looked at her.
He looked at me instead and talked about how he needed a wife who could cook and clean and bear him sons who would grow up to be fighters like him.
Fatima begged me not to make her marry Ibrahim.
She actually got down on her knees in front of me, which was something I had never seen her do before.
She held on to my legs and cried so hard that her whole body was shaking.
She told me she was scared of Ibrahim, that she had heard stories about how he treated women, that she wanted to stay home with us.
But I was even harder with Fatima than I had been with Amina.
I grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to her feet.
And I told her that fear was a test from Allah.
I told her that if she truly had faith, she would trust that Allah would protect her.
I told her that her crying was a sign of weak faith and that she needed to be strong.
The night before Fatima’s wedding, I heard her crying in the room she shared with Zanab.
The sound went on for hours, these quiet sobs that seemed to seep through the walls of our small house.
My wife went to comfort her, and I heard them talking in whispers, but I didn’t go to check on them.
I told myself that Fatima was just being emotional, that women were naturally weak and needed men to guide them.
I convinced myself that I was doing the right thing, that I was being a good father by ensuring my daughters married men who were devoted to Islam.
Zanab was my youngest and she was only 15 when the third fighter came asking for her hand.
His name was Rashid and he was the youngest of the three men, only 22 years old.
But he was also the most violent.
Everyone in the village knew stories about Rashid, about how he had killed people without mercy, about how he enjoyed causing pain.
When he came to ask for Zanab, I saw my youngest daughter’s face turn completely white.
She didn’t cry like her sisters had.
Instead, she just stared at me with these huge, terrified eyes that seemed to be asking me a question I didn’t want to answer.
After Zanib’s wedding, my house became very quiet.
Before, there had always been noise and laughter and singing.
My daughters had filled every corner of our home with life.
Amina used to hum while she swept the floors.
Fatima used to tell jokes that made everyone laugh until their stomachs hurt.
Zanab used to ask me a thousand questions about everything she saw and heard.
But now all of that was gone.
It was just me and my wife.
And the silence between us grew bigger every day.
My wife changed after the girls left.
She used to talk to me about everything about the neighbors and the weather and what we needed from the market.
But after Zanib’s wedding, she barely spoke to me at all.
When I came home from the mosque, she would serve my food without looking at me.
When I asked her questions, she would answer with just one or two words.
At night, she would turn her back to me in bed, and I could feel the coldness coming from her like winter air.
I told myself that she was just missing the girls, that she would get over it eventually.
But deep down, in a place I didn’t want to look at, I knew it was something more than that.
The first time I visited Amina after her wedding, I saw something that made a small crack appear in the wall of certainty I had built around my heart.
She was living in a tiny house with broken windows and a roof that leaked when it rained.
When she opened the door, I almost didn’t recognize her.
She had lost weight.
So much weight that her cheeks were hollow and her eyes looked too big for her face.
There were dark circles under those eyes, like she hadn’t slept in weeks.
She invited me in, but she moved slowly like an old woman instead of a young girl who should have been full of energy and life.
I asked her how she was doing, and she said she was fine, but her voice was flat and empty.
I asked her about Khaled and she said he was away fighting most of the time, which meant she was alone in that broken house for days and sometimes weeks at a stretch.
I asked her if she was happy and she looked at me for a long moment before saying yes in a way that made the words sound like a lie.
I wanted to ask more questions, but something stopped me.
Maybe I was afraid of what she might say.
Maybe I was afraid that if I looked too closely, I would see something I couldn’t ignore.
When I left Amina’s house that day, I felt uneasy in a way I had never felt before.
It was like something was sitting on my chest, making it hard to breathe properly.
I tried to pray the feeling away.
I went to the mosque and prayed extra prayers, reading verses from the Quran that talked about paradise and reward and the importance of sacrifice.
But the uneasy feeling wouldn’t leave.
It followed me home like a shadow I couldn’t shake off.
A few months later, I saw Fatima at a family gathering.
Ibrahim had allowed her to come, but he came with her and watched her the whole time like a guard watching a prisoner.
Fatima sat in the corner, not talking to anyone, not eating any of the food that was spread out on the tables.
When I went over to speak with her, she flinched when I got close.
actually pulled back like she thought I was going to hit her.
That reaction shocked me more than anything else could have.
I had never hit my daughters when they were growing up.
I had been strict, yes, but never violent.
So why was Fatima acting like she was afraid of being hurt? I pulled Ibrahim aside and asked him if everything was all right at home.
He looked at me with those stone cold eyes and told me that Fatima was learning to be obedient, that she had been rebellious at first, but he was teaching her proper behavior.
The way he said teaching made my stomach feel sick, but I didn’t ask what he meant.
I should have asked.
I should have demanded to know.