Narisa 1

By C. Stanton Leman

Chapter 2

A few hours later, my parents returned home from work. Sharif and Amir seemed to sense that something wasn’t right so they excused themselves for the evening to give us some privacy. Both of my parents saw my quiet and sullen state and we sat down at the kitchen table to talk about it.

“What’s wrong, Josh?” Mom asked concerned, “You seem upset? What happened today? Is there anything you want to talk about?”

“I saw the morality police in action today. A girl about sixteen was almost snatched in plain sight.”

“What happened?” Dad asked. “You or Hasan weren’t involved were you?”

“No, Dad,” I confirmed. “We were just observers.”

I went on to explain the whole scenario and what had eventually happened with the girl being returned to her brother. I explained to them that what troubled me the most was the terror in that girl’s eyes and in her voice when she probably thought that her life was in jeopardy thinking that she’d be jailed, raped or possibly executed because her brother was talking with his friends.

I told them that it all seems so different and terrifying to actually see something like this happen right in front of my own eyes. In America, the only analogy I could equate to this kind of terror was an armed mugging, a carjacking or even a crazed student gunman terrorizing students in school.

Whenever we read of such events in the paper, on the Internet or saw them on CNN, we’d just shake our heads in sympathy and feel some sort of removed empathy that such things shouldn’t happen in the world.

My young life so far, has been good and I’ve never known violence of that magnitude (even the psychological kind). I almost pleadingly asked my parents, “How do I get past this? How can I deal with this and continue to stay here and not let it cripple me with fear?”

Dad exhaled a sigh as if to collect his thoughts and then began:

“Look Josh, everyone the world over lives and deals with a certain amount of fear of different types. As you said, a crazy student could come into your school and wreak death and destruction in the blink of an eye. You could be robbed at gunpoint or be in a store during an armed robbery. All these things are a real possibility in your world back home.

“There are other, more foreign and unforeseen possibilities here or in other countries. No matter where they live, people have to rise above that fear and continue to live their lives despite that fear. Living in fear isn’t living, it’s only existing. Going through life paralyzed by fear and waiting for something terrible to happen prevents a person from even trying to live and strive for their dreams. It’s easy to give up and die, but it takes real courage to face adversity and injustice and live your life despite it all.”

Mom gently laid her hand on mine and said, “Yes, there are some kids here, mostly girls, who probably may have given up trying to achieve their dreams, resigned to the fact that they may never find happiness. On the other hand, there are scores of boys and girls who quell their fears and strive to have a happy life, finish school and have a career or family: like Hasan, Sharif or Amir. If people the world over shrivel up and die in fear, then those who rule by fear have won. This is what terrorists strive for: fear is their greatest weapon. That girl’s brother stood up to that man despite the fear that he could have been arrested and prosecuted because he believed that bowing to that fear could cost his sister’s freedom or her life.”

Mom sat back in her chair and rubbed her forehead for a moment then continued, “I know it’s very painful for you right now to be struggling with this issue but I’m very proud of you, Son. Your struggle with today’s events tells us that you care. You not only care about what happens to yourself, but that you also care about the rights and dignity of others that you don’t even know. Life is precious to you and the pain you feel is in direct proportion to the depth of your love for your fellow man. It’s a very frightening thing to come face-to-face with possible life and death situations, but you may encounter many more in your lifetime. You could witness someone hurt on the street either in a car accident or possibly a shooting and sometimes these situations may not be so apparently dangerous such as a girl getting quietly sequestered in a bedroom and raped at a teenage party simply because she’s drunk and can’t defend herself. There are different types of events that hold different kinds of terror”

“Your confidence has been shaken, Josh,” Dad said, “because you somehow felt that you that maybe you could or should have done something. But it wasn’t your place do anything: it was her brother’s place to do it and he did. It’s that feeling of helplessness that is so disturbing. It’s okay to be a little scared at times. Just temper that fear with reason and understand that a certain amount of fear is a healthy thing because it keeps you from doing anything careless. Most of us are never faced with the ultimate choice of what we’d do if someone’s life were in danger. When our time comes would we lay down our life for our brother?

“That’s a question I hope you’ll never have to answer. Usually only soldiers have to face that moment, but we read and hear about such miracles as these every day: a mother for her child, a sibling for a sibling or an innocent bystander for someone they don’t even know like an everyday citizen, policeman or firemen. In all these cases, I’ve surmised these people don’t know or really think about what to do, they just felt in their hearts what’s right and reacted on instinct.”

“I guess you’re right.” I said contemplatively. “I guess the hard part now is resolving it in my mind and moving on even though some things are all the more real and frightening.”

Dad sat back, nodded and said, “At least now you can move forward with your eyes more open to the world around you. I know being a teenager sucks at times, but growing up and becoming an adult during times like these sucks even more.”

“Don’t I know it,” I shot back.

“Well,” Mom said as she stood, “I think we’ve given you as much advice as we can for now on the subject. Are there other questions on your mind? Will you be all right?”

“No Mom, I’ll be okay,” I answered, “I guess it’s all up to me now.”

Mom removed her hajib and started to prepare dinner as I went to my room to contemplate my next move. I couldn’t get myself out of this funk as my thoughts replayed over and over in my mind liked a looped video sequence. I then just resolved and told myself that mulling over the same obsessive thinking was getting me nowhere. How would I now handle Hasan’s and my girl-watching from now on, or the trash talk with my new male friends? All I could think of to do was just to take it as it comes and play it by ear. Mom had reassured me that she thought my instincts were good: that should be a good place to start.

Dinner was understandably quiet but somewhat more relaxed as my parents shared their work on the stone tablet and trying to release its centuries-old secrets. After dinner, I took a hot shower and went to bed although sleep came fretfully slow.

The next morning after breakfast, Hasan and I hooked up as usual for our day out. He asked me what I wanted to do and I said that I’d like to talk a bit about some things and he said okay.

We went to our knee wall and sat in silence as Hasan waiting for me to start, “Hasan?”

“Yes Josh?”

“Why do both Mom and Dad have to have their own guides? They’re both working at the university, right?”

“Well,” he began, “sometimes they’re in the same room, but at others, they may separately go somewhere else by themselves say, to the library. Whether they’re in one room or someplace else, Americans can never be left alone: even in a room. Your apartment is different because it’s considered your home. The government is just paranoid that they’ll see or take something that they’re not supposed to. It’s stupid I know, but those are the rules.”

“Why are you being so open with me?” I asked puzzled, “I mean you could get into loads of trouble for doing and saying some of the things we’ve done.”

“You could be hit by a car while crossing the street,” he said as he looked at me, “that doesn’t mean you stop crossing streets, does it?

“Look Josh,” he began to explain, “what happened yesterday really scared you. It scares us too every time we see it. We’ve got two choices: either roll over and take it and let them win or we can rebel. Granted, the way we rebel may seem small, but boys and girls looking at each other and communicating even in small, subtle ways and pushing the limits gives us hope. Hope of a somewhat normal life and it also gives us a measure of pride knowing we’re beating them at their own game. Like teenagers the world over, it’s our God-given duty to question authority, to push the boundaries to effect change and to see what we can get away with. Do you think you’re more scared than we are? Ha! We’ve got to live this way our entire lives; you get to go back to your open society in eight weeks.”

I gave a small humph and nodded in agreement as I felt the truth in his words.

“We just grow up faster here,” Hasan explained, “because we have to and the stakes are higher. The real problem is like yesterday. Sometimes a momentary slip of one’s guard is usually why kids get in trouble. Not because they’re rebelling or intentionally breaking the rules. Life is a spontaneous thing but sometimes being spontaneous is what gets you in trouble. You always have to keep your wits about you.”

“Come on,” he said as he slapped my arm, “Let’s go rebel and look at some babes.”

“Hell,” I replied with a smile, “I may even ask Doe Eye’s father for her hand.”

With a smirk he cocked his head and said, “I wouldn’t rebel that much!”

We both laughed as we headed off for the town square. And so things went for the next week: girl watching in the morning and football during the day. Even though my new buds didn’t want to admit it, they told me that my skills had greatly improved: and they had. Things again seemed to return to a semblance of normalcy.

_____________________

On the Sunday afternoon a week after that dreaded incident with the morality police, our three guides, my parents and I were taking a walk. Mom and Dad wanted to see where Hasan had been taking me these past three weeks.

As we neared the park where Hasan and I had spent our days playing football, we passed the row of houses on the opposite side of the street from where that group of police usually congregated to talk. I nodded to the men gathered in discussion and pointed out to Mom that they were members of the morality police. I then pointed to a teen dribbling a soccer ball and pointed out my friend Rafi to my parents as I shouted and waved saying “Hi!”

As Rafi looked and waved back, Hasan was explaining who the boy was when we turned in response to some commotion and the shrill sound of a girl screaming. We slowed our pace to a halt as we watched the events begin to unfold…

A middle-aged man in black traditional dress and wearing a black turban was dragging a very young girl who looked to be about nine or ten down the side of the road towards his group of six comrades. I couldn’t really get a good look at her because she was constantly struggling and the man’s movements seemed to always shield the girl from view. That plus the fact that with traditional Muslim dress, one can’t make out any distinct physical features on a girl such as build. At first, we just thought it was an angry parent dragging his disobedient child home to be punished.

I surmised she was very young only because she looked so small: maybe only about four and a half feet tall or so. The man had no trouble at all, despite the girl’s struggles to drag her down the street. While watching this scene unfold, Hasan pointed at Rafi, who had abandoned the soccer ball and was now running full tilt towards the commotion. Hasan exclaimed as he pointed, “Look! Rafi is running directly towards those men. I bet that’s his sister they’ve grabbed!”

I started to ease my way towards the edge of the road and Hasan grabbed my arm to silently indicate that I stay on this side of the street. By now, the group of men had the girl surrounded and appeared to be shouting taunts at her angrily as they slapped the crying little girl.

We stood watching in shock, Mom with her hands alternating between covering her mouth and her face crying openly while the males in our group stood with clinched jaws and fists.

Rafi reached the group and one of the men turned and flung him to the ground. One of the group’s sympathizers stepped back and stood guard over the boy pushing him back to the ground as he tried repeatedly to stand.

As the circle of men widened, we could see one of the men had the small girl held from behind with his left arm locking the girl’s arms behind her back while another stood in front of her. We then saw the girl’s hajib being yanked from her head and her waist-length black hair came free whipping back and forth as she struggled to get free. She let out a blood-curdling scream when we saw her abaya being ripped open as the buttons were torn free. The man holding her from behind grabbed the girl’s abaya by the collar and began to yank it down her arms and off her body shifting his hold on her arms such that he never lost hold of her.

We witnessed the girl’s abaya being flung into the street leaving her standing restrained while still being held from behind in only her panties, socks and tennis shoes. The man holding her arms then reached down and ripped her panties off in one, forceful ripping motion. He then dropped her tattered panties to the ground, let the sobbing child go and stepped back to the edge of the circle. Through the fleeting glimpses between the men, I could see and hear the slender young girl with her back to us sobbing and pleading in Farsi “Repentance! Repentance!” as she hunched over with her left hand in-between her legs covering her groin and her right arm across her chest.

(AUTHOR’S NOTE: Whenever someone is accused of a crime and begs for repentance, under Islamic law, the accused should be allowed to honestly and fervently repent and be granted a stay and the right to appeal.)

I happened to catch a glimpse of Rafi out of my peripheral vision running back down the street towards his house. By now, a crowd was beginning to gather, women crying and men shouting at the assailants as we watched in horror as several of the men picked up some rocks from the ground. I began to strain against Hasan’s grip on my arm as I saw the first stone being thrown, hitting the tiny girl right above her left hip ¾ possibly in the kidney. She reflexively turned and leaned in reaction to the blow and another stone struck the child on the forehead, above her left eye.

I couldn’t stand by any longer and witness what I believed was going to be a cold-blooded and humiliating murder. I twisted sideways, jerked and broke free of Hasan’s grasp and bolted across the street towards the circle of executioners. I could hear my mother wail out a terrifying “Josh noooooo!”

I think they followed me but wasn’t sure because I was fast approaching the circle and could see the slender little girl was now prostrate on the ground as she was pelted with rocks, some the size of a hardball. She was lying on her stomach with her head turned to the side and I could see the blood from the gash on her forehead had pretty much covered her face. I lowered my shoulder and plowed right through the circle of assailants and dove on top of the young girl covering her body with mine with the top of her head tucked under my chin.

I felt the first stone hit me in my right shoulder and winced in agony at the blow. The men then moved forward and began trying to kick the girl underneath me and I tried to shift my body from side-to-side to take the blows.

The men then proceeded to vent their rage at me and began kicking me in both sides and ribs. All of a sudden, someone kicked me directly in the face and my eyes started to roll back in my head as a flash of white blinded my vision. All I could think about was to hang on — don’t pass out, if I pass out, she dies.

As a result of the blow to the face, I’d bitten the inside of my cheek and my mouth had filled with blood and saliva. I spat out the blood that filled my mouth only to be able to breathe but they must have taken it as a sign of defiance and proceeded to pummel me with kicks and stomps from all directions at once.

The little girl beneath me was grunting from my weight on top of her and from the force of the blows I was receiving. I held both of her tiny shoulders in my hands to keep myself positioned on top of her and to protect her as much as possible even though some of the kicks were landing on her sides.

There were just too many of them to fight and completely shield the girl from and I had a sinking, fleeting thought of despair that she might die despite my attempt to save her.

I could hear a siren over the crowd and after what seemed like an eternity of blows, then a gunshot. The blows stopped and then silence: a deafening and calm silence. After a few moments of silence, the rants and raves of the men above me began again as I caught sight of a uniformed policeman out of the corner of my eye pushing through our crowd of tormentors. Still being in defensive mode, when the policeman tersely yelled something in Farsi, I didn’t understand or respond. He gave me one swift, sharp blow to the ribs with a nightstick and pulled me off of the girl onto the ground next to her on my back looking up.

He grabbed my shirt at the shoulder, turned and pulled me to my knees into a kneeling position and pushed my head down towards my knees. I could see another officer drape the girl’s abaya over her body and instruct her sharply in Farsi. She responded by slowly fumbling and pulling her arms through the garment while she lay on her stomach. The policeman behind me pulled my hands behind my back and cuffed me, ratcheting the cuffs so tight they dug into my wrists.

Once the girl had the torn garment on, they pulled her to her knees and handcuffed her with her hands in front of her so she could hold the garment closed.

Nazir, Rafi’s father was now on the scene and was shouting and screaming at the officers and assailants. The officer in charge repeatedly shook his head no in response to Nazir’s orders and as he pulled me to my feet, instructed another officer to do the same with the girl. They pushed us through the boisterous crowd and led us to a paddy wagon. Opening the door, they forcefully pushed me up into the truck. An officer followed me in, followed closely behind by the girl and another officer.

We were both kneeling and handcuffed on the floor as the wagon drove off. She had her head down sobbing and bleeding as she clutched the torn garment closed to her chest. I didn’t want to look directly at her so I glanced out of the corner of my eye. I couldn’t see her face because she had her head down and her hair was covering her face.

On the way to the station, I mulled over in my mind if I was going to die. What would happen to the girl? Would she be executed anyway? As she sobbed quietly, I wondered if I’d ever learn her name, her age, or what she was being tortured for.

After the fact, my actions seemed to be so futile if she were to die anyway. I’d made a choice to try and prevent her from probably being killed and more than likely might forfeit my life for the effort. It would all be for naught if she were to die anyway. What I’d done may possibly have meant nothing more except to delay the inevitable.

Upon arriving at the police station, we were roughly removed from the wagon and led off in different directions. I didn’t see the tiny girl again. I was harshly hustled into an interrogation room where I sat alone cuffed to the chair.

I was in agony and every time I moved, it seemed that every muscle in my body had been assaulted. It was difficult to breathe and I was afraid that I probably had some broken ribs. My mouth felt swollen where I’d bit my cheek but the bleeding has stopped only to be replaced by a throbbing pain in my face.

I can’t remember how long I sat in that empty room secured to the chair but after what seemed like eons, two men entered and sat down opposite me at the desk. I had my head down slightly because I was battered, exhausted and it was difficult to sit up straight being cuffed to the chair.

One of the men, dressed in a suit cleared his throat and I looked up at him. He asked me in English “You are an American, yes?”

“Yes.” I replied with a wince. “I’m an American citizen.”

“Your government is no help to you here.” he replied. “You will be charged with some serious offenses for which you could be sentenced to death.”

I just sighed, thinking to myself, Tell me something I don’t know.

I remembered my Dad telling me that since there isn’t diplomatic relations with Iran; U.S. interests in Iran are taken care of by the Swiss embassy.

“Can I speak to a member of the Swiss embassy?” I asked. “Will I have a lawyer appointed for me?”

“No, you cannot speak to anyone from the Swiss embassy,” he answered. “And yes, you will be appointed someone to represent you at your trial.”

“Tell me,” he asked, “the sequence of events as you know them so that your defense can be arranged.”

He then produced a tape recorder, set it on the table in front of me and turned it on saying, “Begin.”

I recounted the events as best I could remember, what we’d witnessed and giving my reason as to why I’d tried to intervene and protect the girl ending my testimony with sitting here talking to him.

Swallowing hard, I asked him, “What am I being charged with?”

He leaned his elbows on the table and replied, “The full extent of the charges is being investigated as we speak. It may take some days before you are formally charged and stand trial. We can hold you as long as we want to determine the number and seriousness of your crimes against the state.”

“Can I see my parents?” I asked.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Fourteen,” I responded.

“No. Under the statutes of Iran,” he began, “you’re an adult male criminal and as such have no rights and cannot receive visitors. In this country, you need to prove your innocence, not the other way around as you say in your country.”

“What of the little girl?” I asked.

“Don’t concern yourself with the girl,” he answered. “Her fate will be determined in accordance with strict Islamic precepts as will yours.”

“What happens now?” I asked.

Sitting back and crossing his arms he replied, “You’ll be processed then await your trial in prison. You will be seen by a doctor to make sure you have no life-threatening injuries. How long you remain in prison awaiting trial is up to the court handling your case. It could be a matter of days, weeks or even months. There is nothing else to tell you at this time.”

With that, both men rose and my interrogator turned off and pocketed the tape recorder then left, leaving me once again alone and cuffed to the chair.

I sat there in the room alone for probably another hour when a uniformed officer released me from the chair, re-cuffed my hands behind my back and led me to another room where I was fingerprinted and photographed.

I was then taken to a dispensary where a physician examined me. He said I had four cracked ribs but didn’t bother to tape them. Once I was deemed to have no immediate life-threatening injuries, I was led away to a holding cell.

I wasn’t given any food or water and the cell contained a half-filled bucket to relieve myself in. I just curled up in a ball on the floor and tried to rest. Sleep never really came that night because it was so difficult to breathe and I ached all over. I just sort of dozed for minutes at a time only to be awakened by a throbbing pain somewhere in my body.

The following morning I was rousted from the cell, put in an enclosed truck and we drove for about twenty minutes before coming to a stop. After a few moments, the truck began to move slowly and stopped again about two minutes later. The door was opened and I was temporarily blinded by the sunlight as I was pulled from the truck and led into the prison. Once inside, I was given prison garb, a tin cup and plate along with a wool blanket and led away down a series of corridors.

They brought me to a processing room where I was examined for contraband including a rough finger up my butt. I was then led to a shower where I was allowed a cold shower, told to change clothes and give my personal clothes to the jailer. After completing my assigned tasks I was led to another building that was nearly completely dark inside and put into a cell.

The cell was of large stone construction with a stone floor. The roughly six-by-six cell was dark, damp and had the dank, musty odor of mildew with a soiled, uncovered mattress on the floor in the corner along with a half-filled bucket for a toilet and a partially used roll of toilet paper. The sound of the large, wooden cell door closing and being locked reverberated throughout the hall and it seemed to have an eerie, ominous sound of finality to it: almost like I might never leave here.

Setting my things on the floor, I was so exhausted from being beaten and going without sleep for two days I curled up under the blanket and painfully fell to sleep in exhaustion.

I awoke in painful agony the next morning (I think) with stomach cramps from not having eaten and was hungry. I called out for a guard and after several minutes, he stood before the door holding two buckets and gestured for my plate. I held it up to the bars and he dropped a ladleful of gruel onto the plate with a plop. He then filled my cup with water, turned and left without saying a word. This slop tasted disgusting and I heaved as I ate but I had to get something in my stomach. I gagged my way through my “meal,” drank my water sparingly saving a good portion for later and fell back onto the mattress.

I lay on my back trying to control my breathing to reduce the agony in my chest and fell off to sleep again. I don’t know how long I slept, but it was dark out and was suddenly awakened by a loud banging on the door. I struggled to my feet, only to receive another helping of my earlier meal.

While struggling to get through my meal, I estimated I’d been here about two days and started to cry wondering if and when I’d meet my fate. I clenched my jaw and swallowed hard to bring myself under control, but my desperation gave way to the pain and fatigue and I simply eased myself back down on the mattress and struggled to rest and hopefully heal.

I guess the human body knows what it needs to heal and survive because it seemed to have mostly shut down and my third day was pretty much like my first two in that my aching body wouldn’t let me concentrate on anything else but sleep to escape the pain, but through the foggy haze I remember crying a lot. This forced recuperation was fraught with fits of nightmares, mental struggle and more crying. It wasn’t until the fourth day that I could mentally focus enough to begin to consider my plight.

The sudden and loud banging on my cell door by my jailer bringing me my morning swill woke me from a fretful sleep. I must be either going crazy or have resigned myself to my fate because I was actually eating this gunk without gagging. I always sipped my water, rationing myself until the next meal.

As my head began to clear, I started pondering my fate. At first, my mind went through a stage of confusion as panic set in and I cried for several hours certain that my short life was over. All I could think about was the fear of dying and that I never would have dreamed two months ago when I thought I had everything: a life, a loving family, a girlfriend, school, sports and a group of guys I considered my pals. Now, I was alone in a foreign and hostile country in a prison cell awaiting my probable death.

Once I’d cried myself out of my pity party, I began to seriously consider what might happen and what exactly my situation was. I remembered my dad telling me that in the study of history, the writings and artifacts that reveal the past prove one thing: that no one single act is an isolated incident. Everyone’s actions have a cascading affect on the world and those around them. People’s lives and sometimes history are changed by the actions of one person or group of people. I wondered what ripples I’d made and their effects on the people involved.

I thought of my parents. They’ve spent their entire lives immersing themselves in their love for this culture, its history and language. Now I feared I’d ruined their life’s work. It had been hard enough for them since Iran essentially closed itself off in 1979, but because of their expertise they’d become world-leading scholars in this field of study. How could they continue to research and study Persian history and culture when I had ruined any chance of collaboration with the very seat of their interest? Would their world-renowned reputations be tainted and ruined? Could their stature in the world of Persian academia help me in some way, possibly gaining me some mercy or would their life’s work all come to naught as a result of one single deciding moment on my part to act?

Being an imprisoned American, I wondered if news of my arrest and upcoming trial might somehow have been leaked to the outside world. Would my country fight for my release, or at the very least, help attempt to ensure some measure of leniency? Could what I had done cause an international incident that’s being played out on CNN to bring pressure to bear upon the Iranian government to spare my life?

I remembered Hasan’s words about that subculture of resistance in repressive societies. Certainly they would get word to the outside world of my plight, wouldn’t they?

In past incidents of Americans being convicted to harsh sentences in other countries, the U.S. government was able, in many cases to intercede and bring about some measure of mercy. Although I had no answers to the questions that rolled around in my head, I found a measure of hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe instead of death I’d spend years in prison for the act of attempting to save a life.

A life…

What’s the value of a young girl’s life? What of that little girl?

Is she still alive or has she already had her life snuffed out? What if she’s already dead despite my attempt to save her? What’s her situation: has her father’s esteemed reputation with the courts earned her a measure of mercy for her father’s sake?

If I were to venture a guess, her father’s reputation and years of service would mean little to a cold, calculating and uncaring government. In America, one could work their entire life for the benefit of a company’s success only to be callously discarded when it’s expedient to do so. Why would Iran be any different?

There’s nothing I can do for that little waif now, it’s all in God’s hands.

_______________________

God…

What’s His role in all this?

I never really was what you’d call a religious person but I did have a deep faith that there is a Higher Power. I sometimes felt sad at all the violence in the Middle East despite the fact that Christians, Jews and Muslims believed in the same God, the God of Abraham. We didn’t go to church every Sunday or spend much time spouting scripture, but my parents made sure I read the Bible and was taught to treat my fellow man with dignity and respect: the Golden Rule. Even though I believed in God, I never really prayed much. Praying to God is like talking to your parents: we usually don’t break down and go to them until we’re in really hot water and we don’t see any other way out. Well, I’m in really hot water now!

Mom and Dad grew up in different denominations: Mom is Lutheran and my dad is Presbyterian, although we went to a Lutheran church whenever we did go to church. My parents are the most tolerant, considerate and kindest people I know. They have tried, mostly at my mother’s direction, to teach me their values. Dad always told me after past scrapes I had to pick and choose my battles, weigh the pros and cons and fight for the things that most matter in life. He also told me a short time ago that people who come to the aid of their fellow man usually never thought about their own safety; they just felt in their hearts what was right to do. In my case, I felt it. I deeply felt it tearing my guts out watching that tiny, terrorized little girl screaming for her life. It was as if I was compelled to act! Wasn’t the innocent life of another a good fight?

For the first time in a long time, I prayed. I first cried out my intercessions for the little girl that I didn’t even know or maybe would never know or had knowledge whether she were still alive. I prayed that He take my life and spare hers that she may be strengthened by the fact that someone in the world did care.

I confessed my sins, asking for forgiveness and prayed to God that if I were to die, let my death mean something: either to save that girl’s life or bring to light what was happening to girls the world over that were deprived of their rights. I prayed for peace. Peace in my heart to accept whatever my fate was as a man — not like a groveling child, strong in the knowledge that what I had done was right and just.

I prayed for mercy. Mercy that if both the girl and I were to die, that it be merciful and quick: not painful and humiliatingly slow. I prayed for my family and that my parents would receive His comfort from any pain or loss my actions had caused them. And lastly, I prayed for wisdom: wisdom to stand before my accusers girded with the truth and to be guided by that truth to the very end.

As I fell off to sleep, I prayed for resolution. The murky beast of uncertainty and the unknown is far more terrifying and fearful than knowing one’s true fate.

“Please, Lord,” I prayed, “let the end come soon. I’m not so afraid of dying now, but I don’t want to die alone, here, in this solitary cell…”

I felt a small measure of unexplainable peace as I drifted off the sleep.

I was roused from my sleep by the banging on my cell door the next morning. Looking through the bars, I saw a uniformed guard peering in and down at me. I rose to sit up and looked at him with questioning eyes. Seeing I was awake, he unlocked the door and motioned me to come with him.

All he said was, “It’s time.”