As I watched her stoning, I couldn't help but think of my fate if my husband hadn't saved me. When they gave Soraya's father the stones to take the first hit, I couldn't help but think that it was my father, standing there, accusing me and throwing the first hit while I'm tied, buried half deep in the ground. The pain was not from the blows, but from heartache. Soraya's heart died when they made her own sons hit her! I cried watching how the children were made to participate. How the village leaders said that with each stone, the honor of the family and of the village is restored.
I cried as much, scarring my heart deeper, watching Soraya's slow death. Every part of my body, every piece of my mind felt like it was me being stoned. It reminded myself what was fated for me if I ever return to my parents' home, if I ever start communicating with them.
I love my parents wholeheartedly. In my eyes, their doings have become the doings of love for me. This movie reminded me of the truth. When Soraya's father stated that she's not her daughter and he's no longer her father; telling everyone to finish it and screaming to kill his own flesh and blood, I realized. Where was love? Where was the thought of 'flesh and blood'? There's only the thought of 'honor' and 'love for Islam!' Nothing will compare to religion; nothing.
Soraya's death: stoned and her bloody body eaten away by dogs. A honorable mother who strived to protect her children, she was - till death. But a fool she was too. The same fool, I am. When Soraya's aunt came running to let her know that the men are plotting something against her, and to advise her that she should stop working, she denied and refused to hear it, neglecting the fore-warning. There's no difference between me and her. Despite everything I went through, pain, sorrow and agony, I still miss, wish and yearn for my parents, innocently failing to realize that this feeling can cause only one thing - my death.
If not for my husband, I might have gone back to my grave. Even if they keep me alive, I'm sure it will be triple the agony I already went through. Physically my parents may not have tortured me, but mentally they did. It is only because of Singapore's law that I was safe from physical harm - this I was made clear by my own mother, a woman herself.
So what else am I expecting for? What else am I waiting for? Why does my heart despite seeing all the agony in detail, the proof that is thrown before me, still yearn for them, for their love, for their affection? It's only because of the way they brought me and the way I spent years thinking too positively about them that the negative truth is not digesting within me. And the only reason for all this is that I love them and am grateful for everything they did, and that I know they loved me. But they love their religion more than anything else in the world, including their only heir, their very own flesh and blood.
This is my story, and Soraya's. I can only ask one question: How many more people must suffer and die to bring the truth of Islam to you?
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