A Quiet Voice

Fariah Bukhari was born to an average American family. Her Aba worked in an office in the accounting department, and her Ummi stayed home so that she had more time to spend with their small daughter. Her family were devout Muslims, performing the Salah, and living a life of peace. Peace was an integral pillar of the Bukhari household. Fariah was slow to speak as a child, but Aba and Ummi did not despair, for all happened when Allah allotted it to. Though she made small sounds, she formed no true words until she was nearly four years old. That was when the Bukharis discovered that their Fariah was different. At first, as she was learning, her words made small flashes of colour, but as her vocabulary and sentences became more complex, images began to form when she spoke. Terrified that the government would come for their daughter and try to turn her into a weapon, they instead hid her.

The first time she broke the rules, Ummi was at the market getting fresh vegetables for that night’s curry. Aba was off at work. Taking the opportunity, Fariah tucked her jeans into her tall boots and slid her blue abaya on over the pretty white blouse Ummi had gotten her for her birthday. Feeling naughty, she borrowed Ummi’s sky blue hijab, the colour was so pretty against the dark tones of her abaya and pinning it in place, she went out.

The world was so much bigger than she had ever guessed. It was loud and busy, full of a thousand colours, and smells, and sounds. She closed her eyes and let them all wash over her, hardly noticing people shoving past her. It was like a rainbow scattered across the backdrop of the city. Though she wanted to experience it all, it was a bit overwhelming for someone used to staying inside, with only the familiar all around her. She didn’t stay out long, just enough to absorb some of the beauty that was outside, before returning home to hide away. She hadn’t spoken a single word after passing through the front door, and now she had a vibrant, beautiful, and real memory to cherish.

The memory bolstered her resolve to be obedient and follow the rules given to her by her parents. Home alone, she would sit in her room and whisper her memories of the world outside, forming bright illusions of all that was waiting, just outside her front door. Fariah knew it was wrong, that Aba would be angry and Ummi would scold if they knew the risk she was taking. She watched the news, clinging to any tales of people with abilities. People like her, but not quite. Some of their powers seemed terrifying, or at least that was the way the newscasters described them. There were people, young people like her, and some older too, who could control fire, or ice, or wind, who could move things with their minds or invade the thoughts of anyone they could see. They could change their shape, or heal any wound, or move super fast. It was terrifying.

She followed up on the stories, trying to find whatever was out there on how these people became what they were. Science experiments, radioactive accidents, but some, like her, just seemed to be born different. Those stories she dug further into. Chewing her lip, she followed the trail, brows furrowed. So many came into their powers during puberty, as if it was just one more hormonal switch that needed to be flipped. Many seemed to find them in desperate, terrifying situations. That wasn’t her, it wasn’t how hers had come to her. She had simply been born different. The articles talked about genetic lines, about aliens, about strange rumours of Others, terrifying words that made her shut down the search and retreat to her schoolwork.

********

Three more times she slipped out unnoticed, back to the market to take in the vibrancy and immediacy of the world outside. If people thought the silent girl in the tightly pinned hijab was strange, they never spoke of it to her. She had practice, living in silence. Containing the powers that lived within her. It was her fifth time out of the house that brought her whole world crashing down around her ears. She had been wandering through the market, much like she had on her previous visits, when a flash of colour in a storefront caught her eye. Moving past the crowds to get a closer look, her eyes widened in wonder. There in the window were the most beautiful scarves she had ever seen. She bit her lip, fingers curling with the desire to touch them, to feel the silk slide across her palm. Unable to resist the urge, she ducked inside, moving to the display like a sailor summoned by siren songs. Up close, the scarves were even more beautiful. The intricate geometrical patterns were woven in bright gold thread, and Fariah had to touch. As the material brushed her fingers, she let out a soft, delighted “Oh.”

Such a tiny sound of pleasure, followed by a flash of happy blue colour. Fariah’s hand covered her mouth as if she could scoop the slip out of the air and shove it back inside her lungs. Her eyes went to the shopkeeper, who suddenly seemed incapable of making eye contact, and she despaired. Silent tears tracking down her cheeks, she ran for home. Erratically she darted through the streets, expecting to see an unmarked vehicle full of armed agents pull up around every corner to abduct her. Even she had heard the nightmare stories of beatings in the streets and forced servitude. 

Despite her fears, she made it home unmolested and threw herself down on the couch. Her whole body shook with the storm of tears flowing from her, though she made not a sound. Her body twisted, wracked with sobs, but still, not a single noise escaped. She had already done too much today. Her watch chimed to remind her it was time for the Asr Salah, and she unrolled her prayer mat with shaking hands, begging Allah for forgiveness. When Aba and Ummi returned that evening, she confessed, her fingers flying faster than her constricted throat could have provided. 

Aba and Ummi did not yell, for they had known that their daughter could not be hidden forever. There was great sorrow, though, as they prepared for what was surely to come. That night, as they ate Mujaddara in a quiet that was far tenser than it had ever been before. Fariah could barely bring herself to eat and soon fled the table to wallow in her silent tears. Exhausted from her sorrow, she slept fitfully atop her sheets, and her parents did not wake her for the evening prayers, letting her find what solace she could in unconsciousness.

The next day Aba stayed home from work. The three sat in the living room, waiting to see what would happen. Eventually, Ummi pulled out Fariah’s exercise book, and they worked on some lessons to pass the time. It was after lunch when the big black vehicle pulled into their driveway. Three agents got out, two men and a woman, and came to the door. As Aba went to answer it, Fariah and Ummi fixed their hijabs into place, fingers twisting together anxiously. Aba did his best, inviting them to sit, offering them tea, but the grim-faced agents declined curtly. “Mister Bukhari, you know why we are here.”

Aba wrung his hands, eyes pleading with Ummi who twisted the cloth of her abaya into a hard ball in her hand. “Sirs, my daughter… she is a good girl. It is not right for her to leave her family. A young girl should not go among so many strangers and men, it is not our way…” His voice trailed off, silenced simply by one of the agents raising a hand to halt his speech. Ummi’s lips moved in a silent prayer of supplication, and in her own head, Fariah joined her. Pleading with Allah for some kind of intervention, though she knew that she did not deserve it.

“Mister Bukhari, it is illegal to harbour unregistered parahumans. They are not like other citizens, their abilities need to be contained and controlled. Monitored. Your daughter-“

“My daughter is a little girl not some wild beast!” Ummi shot to her feet, body vibrating with anger. Fariah had never seen her Ummi in such a state, face flushed with fury and fists clenched. Aba immediately crossed the room, tucking an arm around his wife in an attempt to quiet and comfort her. 

“Raihan. Peace.” Despite the worry in his face, his voice was calm. 

Finally, Fariah stood. She signed to her Ummi that everything would be okay, and then to the agents that she would go get her bag. Ummi had packed it with her last night, but as she gazed into the mass of fabrics, an idea struck her. Before she was born, Ummi and Aba had attended a much more traditional mosque. Running down the hall, she flung open the storage closet, digging through the bags and boxes until she found a small chest containing the chador and niqab her Ummi had once worn. She packed several into her bag, then, with trembling hands, fixed the veil across her face. It was a small act of rebellion, but it soothed her inside. 

Bag in hand she returned to the front room where Ummi was still glaring daggers at the agents. One look at Fariah though, and she relaxed, nodding once. For her daughter, she stood up tall, strong, and proud. Stepping around the agents, Fariah moved towards the door. They fell in around her, and one of the male agents took her bag. No one said anything about her change of clothes. The woman opened the door of the vehicle for her, and Fariah reached for it, but then, startling her escort, she turned and fled back to the door where Aba and Ummi were standing with tear-stained cheeks.

She knelt at Ummi’s feet, clutching her hands in her own shaking ones. “Ana ahib’bik, Ummi.” Fariah sobbed out. I love you, Mommy. The words were barely more than a whisper, but as they escaped her lips two illusory white doves formed above them. The birds circled the small family twice before silently roosting on the lintel of the door. In her heart, she vowed those would be the last words she would speak until she was free once more.

One of the male agents had given chase, and he roughly grabbed Fariah’s arm. Aba placed a gentle hand upon the man’s wrist, shaking his head. “Please, it is not appropriate for a man not her family to touch a woman. It is not our way. She was simply overcome with emotion. She is a good girl.” The man let go with a dark look but allowed Aba to help her up. “Ana ahib’bik, my Fariah. Mashy alhal.” Fariah touched her forehead to her Aba’s hands and then returned to the vehicle, getting in without incident this time. As she watched her home disappear behind her, she couldn’t help but think Aba had been wrong. Everything was not going to be okay.

*********

Fariah did not like the so-called school. Though the staff made clear efforts to accommodate her, all she saw in them was the weapon they would make of her. They tried to reassure her that she was not being trained for a combat role, but she did not believe them. She was finally surrounded by other teenagers, people her age, with abilities like her own, but different, but she did not engage with them. Peaceful protest. It was the one thought in her mind as she rose each day, went about her assigned activities, and then returned to her room. It kept her going, one foot in front of the other when despair threatened to take hold. It kept her company, late at night, when she cried soundlessly in her room, missing Ummi and Aba with the whole of her being. 

She was an unsettling presence in the school. Where other young people would chatter, hum to themselves, make small noises… she was silent. If she fidgeted beneath the voluminous folds of her chador, they could not see it. If she smiled or frowned beneath the niqab, they could not tell. Face and body covered, a voice silenced, she followed only the rules that she could not avoid. She attended her classes. She did the written assignments. She sat in the cafeteria. Through all of this, she refused to speak. Even her prayers were silent, as she unrolled her mat and bowed towards Mecca. The familiarity of the routine soothed her, and the knowledge that Allah was there, ever-present, bolstered her courage when it threatened to fail.

She found her supposed ‘freedoms’ curtailed further, the more she refused. Library access and recreation time were taken away. She sat in isolation, not that the other teenagers seemed to want to associate with her anyway. She was sent to discuss her behaviour with a counselor. With less leeway to demonstrate her protestations, she stopped eating. Civil disobedience. Mahatma Gandhi. She was not speaking. Not eating. Not interacting with other humans. If they thought threats of a prison cell would be effective, then they were more foolish than they were evil. They had already taken away her life by bringing her here. They could not take away her will. She would stand strong in the face of their oppression. Even a gilded cage was still a cage, and forced service was slavery, whether they knew it or not.

At the moment, she was sitting across from the counselor again. On the wide wooden desk between them sat her textbooks, the words ‘My voice is not your weapon’ scrawled across one in angry black lettering; ‘You can cage me, but I will not be a slave’ across another; and the last, simply ‘Am I not a human being?’. The counselor was doing their best to look patient, but the veneer was cracking. Behind her niqab, Fariah’s lips twitched, though her eyes simply stared blankly back at the agent of her incarceration. That’s what she considered all of the adults in the facility. Kidnappers. Jailors. The kids who bought into the programming? Brainwashed. She prayed for them with each salat. What would they take from her next? Her prayer mat? Her chador and niqab? She had nothing else for them to punish her with. They held nothing that she wanted aside from her freedom.

“Defacing school property is against the rules, Miss Bukhari.” The counselor sounded tired. Good. Fariah was tired. Tired of being a prisoner. Tired of having her rights stripped away as if they did not matter. “We have been extremely accommodating thus far. Despite what you seem to think, we are not monsters here at the Academy. We are making the world a better and safer place, for ordinary citizens and powered individuals. We have made adjustments for your dietary requirements, you are allowed to choose your own… clothing. We have even altered your class schedules so that they flow around your prayer times. We have bent over backwards trying to make this transition easier for you. Despite all this, you refuse to cooperate with us.” The counselor rubbed the sides of their head as if it pained them greatly. “One last chance, Miss Bukhari. That’s all I can offer. We have been very gentle with you, even though you clearly do not believe that.”

*****

Escape. She had dreamed of it for so long, but hadn't thought it possible. It existed on the edge of her consciousness like a dream. Little else occupied her mind during the long days at the Academy. The counselor was talking about 'the incident' as they insisted on calling it. Fariah's fingers tucked beneath her niqab, tracing the healing cut across her neck. She had been so close. Another ten seconds and she would have had her voicebox, muting herself permanently. Rendering herself silent forever. 

Angrily she cut off the counselor, gesturing angrily in the air. It is not an incident. I chose this. I will not be this weapon.

The counselor gave her a sad smile, shaking their head. "You do not have to be a weapon. We have discussed other options. You could perform other jobs."

Once more Fariah broke in. I will not trick others into believing this is right. This is not a good place. These are not good people. I will not help more children become weapons. Her teeth flashed in a silent snarl. Assisting in the violence of others does not separate me from the sin. For the rest of the session, she remained silent. Refusing to engage.

That night, she finally made her escape. Whispering quietly, she wrapped herself in the world around her, sneaking past the guards and out of the building, following a route she had overheard another student whispering about. Making it out of the building was... easier than expected. Suspiciously so. Once out she ran, the sound of her feet loud as gunshots in her ears. She couldn't maintain the mirage for very long, she had to get out. Away. The rumble of a passing truck caught her attention, and she watched as it rolled to a stop. With a prayer of thanks to Allah, she climbed aboard, wrapping herself in her abaya. Two days. Two days she traveled across the country; tired, terrified, hungry. All she could think of was getting back to her Aba and Ummi. All she could do was pray, thankful that she was free, and wondering if getting away had been too simple.