Just breathe

Bilal

I looked at the card the niqabi had given me. The address matched. I walked in with my sisters.

We asked the woman in the reception area for Dr. Rehma.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.

"Not really, but she gave me this and called me here," I replied, handing out the card.

The lady asked us to wait while she dialed Dr. Rehma's number. After hanging up, she led us to the doctor's room.

Dr. Rehma's eyes lit up when she saw me, and I was pretty sure she was smiling from beneath her niqab. She gestured for us to take a seat and asked us if we would like anything to drink. Who would have guessed that a doctor with a salary of thousands of dollars would make such an offer to beggars? But then again, she was different from the day we first met.

She asked for our story in detail and listened patiently as we took turns explaining our story. She remained silent for a moment before speaking up.

"You are going to get justice. I am going to help you," she said firmly. "Power can't turn the wrongs into rights. Wrong is wrong and should be stopped."

"We are poor and weak. We're going to lose regardless. "So what's the point?" My sister reprimanded me. "How could we possibly go to court? "What will they say?" My eldest sister elaborated.

"It makes no difference," Dr. Rehma answered. "The Prophet (SAW) had said: Whoever of you sees an evil, let him change it with his hand; and if he is not able to do so, then [let him change it] with his tongue; and if he is not able to do so, then with his heart—and that is the weakest of faith." She turned to look at my sister and said, "This isn't just your fight. This is the fight for your mother, your sister, and all the other girls who are abused like your sister was."

"I am sorry we can't help you," my sister replied, getting up. "Let's go, Bilal."