Author's Preface
Lunch had ended, but Halima lingered at the table, turning an empty wooden bowl over in her hands as she gathered her courage.
Finally, unable to hold back the question, she looked up at Amina and Yahya.
"Can I ask something?" Her voice came out quieter than intended. "I've noticed... there are almost no women here. In two weeks I've seen maybe five, not counting you, Amina. Where is everyone?"
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken weight. Amina and Yahya exchanged a long glance, the kind shared right before reopening an unhealed wound.
Yahya nodded slowly, as though accepting that this conversation was inevitable. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and measured, carrying the solemn rhythm of history passed down through generations.
"Centuries ago," he began, "our line came to believe too many daughters were being born into it. In truth, there was no real imbalance; the times were simply hard. Droughts scorched the land, wars cut down our men, and for every fallen warrior, a family was left with several sisters. Fear and hardship twisted their thinking, until daughters were no longer seen as a blessing, but as a burden the tribe couldn’t afford."
He paused, tracing a groove on the wooden table to steady himself.
"Driven by panic, the leaders of all tribes sought out an oracle. The oracle told them the balance was broken and that the excess daughters had to be removed. He convinced them that returning these children to their Creator ahead of time was no sin." Yahya’s voice strained slightly. "At first, no one dared. They feared robbing someone of their soulmate’s blessing. But fear eventually won, and the killings began."
Halima sat frozen, her breath catching in her throat.
"Years later," Yahya continued, "the Sacred Lake fell silent. People no longer saw the faces of their destined soulmates in its waters. But they didn't mourn the loss; they called it freedom. Marriages were no longer bound to the heart, but arranged for political alliances. That was when true oppression took root. The birth of a daughter became a disgrace. Some..." He winced, as though the words physically hurt him. "Some were buried at birth. Women ceased to be seen as people."
Amina reached out, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. Yahya took a breath and went on.
"In those dark times, a man was born into our royal family who would become a prophet. His name was Yahya, the name I carry in his honor. He brought us faith in the One God: La ilaha illa Allah—there is no god but Allah. Before him, we worshipped idols and desert spirits. He commanded us to abandon polytheism, for it was the ultimate ingratitude toward our Creator, and to end the killing of women. He warned that if the people refused to repent, divine retribution would follow."
"They didn't believe him," Halima murmured, already sensing the tragedy.
"They didn't," Yahya agreed, his voice laced with bitterness. "And so, daughters stopped being born. At first, our people were relieved: no burdens, more freedom to seek brides elsewhere. But relief turned to horror when it became clear that daughters had stopped being born across all tribes, and there was no one left for our sons to marry anywhere. Our line, and all the others, teetered on the edge of extinction. The punishment came to pass exactly as foretold." He exhaled slowly, resting his hands flat on the table.
"In desperation, the people returned to the prophet in repentance. He shared with them the mercy of the Almighty: Allah, Al-Ghaffar, Al-Ghafur, the Forgiving, accepts true repentance, even if their sins were as abundant as the foam of the sea. The people submitted. They began living by the laws revealed to him. And then..." A faint, sad smile touched his lips. "Alhamdulillah—praise be to God—the rains returned. The harvests recovered. The wars ceased. Daughters were born once more."
He met her eyes, the depth of that ancient sorrow reflected in his amber gaze. "But they remain rare, Halima. Even today, in our line and among neighboring tribes. That wound never fully healed. It only stopped bleeding."
Halima stared down into her bowl. The truth settled inside her like stone, suddenly explaining everything: the reverence with which this world had received her, their fiercely protective laws, the respectful bows from strangers along the camp paths, and the overwhelming devotion she couldn't quite process.
As the quiet settled back over the tent, a sharp realization struck her. She knew this story. Not the desert legend, but its core.
Her own father had wanted a son. He had never spoken it as plainly as the oracle, but every glance cast toward his daughters, every heavy silence at the dinner table had made it clear. He hadn't ended their physical lives, but he had systematically drained the life out of them, year after year, with a quiet calculation that reduced a daughter's worth to a disappointment.
The atmosphere grew suffocating. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Halima sought an escape from the weight in the room.
"So... you're Muslim?" she asked, clinging to the familiar word like an anchor.
The tent flap lifted, and Faris stepped inside, catching the tail end of her question.
"Yes, Muslim!" he answered with characteristic eagerness before anyone else could speak. "On your planet, on Earth, there are Muslims?"
"Yes," Halima said softly. "It feels strange... but warm. It's the only thing here that feels like home."
Amina and Yahya exchanged a quick look, but Faris blurted out his next question without hesitation.
"So you're Muslim too?"
Halima faltered. "I'm... an ethnic Muslim," she offered carefully. "My family never really practiced."
Faris frowned, genuine confusion on his face. "How is that possible? Why didn't your father teach you? Isn't that a father's duty to his family?"
"Faris," Amina warned, as Yahya cast his brother a sharp look.
"It's alright," Halima interrupted quietly, her tone firm. "My father wasn't a good man. He didn't believe in anything."
"A strange man," Faris muttered, shaking his head. "A father is responsible for his household..."
He was cut short as the flap lifted once more and Mansur entered. A single stern glance from the tribal leader silenced his son instantly; Faris dropped his gaze, chastened.
Mansur turned to Halima, his expression softening with genuine warmth.
"We are glad you share our faith, child. Alhamdulillah—praise be to the Almighty for this blessing." He spoke with a quiet solemnity. "There is no shame in knowing little now—perhaps this is your time to learn it deeply." He paused, a gentle thought striking him. "If you wish, you may study with Zoraida. She once taught my wife. She is a wise, devout woman who would be honored to guide you."
Halima looked down at her hands, feeling the tension in her shoulders slowly begin to melt away. The familiar phrase of gratitude—praise be to God—had felt like a distant memory on Earth, but here, it held genuine peace.
"Yes," she said, looking up with a firm nod. "I would like to learn."
Mansur smiled warmly as the ambient conversation resumed around the table.
Halima fell quiet, tracing the worn rim of her wooden bowl. In the home she had lost, faith had been used to control and belittle. Here, among strangers on an alien world, it was offered with dignity and warmth. For the first time since landing on the sand, she felt something settle within her, quiet and steady.