As the sun prepares to ascend in the skies of Iran, an elderly woman dressed in a black veil rushes down the narrow, foggy hills on the mountains with her veil flapping and moving with the wind.
She walked on the sandy roads looking anxious and terrified like she was hiding something or worried that someone is watching her. The village roads were empty, young children were peeking slowly from their windows and the dogs laid their heads on the ground in despair as they watched the party leftovers sway with the wind. As she reached the bottom of the hill, she found a black dog eating the bones. She picked a few rocks and tossed them crying at the scared dog. She ran to the bones, threw herself to ground and picked the bones like she carried a dead baby in her hands and sobbed quietly while she moved back and forth. The old woman’s hand shivered as she buried the leftover bones in the sand.
A few hours later, as she reached the village, she saw a tall man with blue eyes, and brown hair trying to negotiate and convince the mechanic to fix his car as fast as his can because he was on his way to Tehran, the capital city of Iran, when his car broke down. She notices that he had a grayish box which looked like a recording machine in his old brown bag, and that his accent was not the same. She walked up to him thinking to herself, he must be a reporter.
“There are things in the village you must know about, they must not get away with this” She said.
As the Imam and the Mayor walked up to the foreigner, she pulled her veil up to cover her face and said in a low, timid voice as she walked away “These devils must be punished.”
The reporter gazed at her in wonder thinking she was an insane old lady. He decided to go to the small café in the village and rest there till his car was fixed so he can finish his trip. The old lady followed him to the café, and hid behind a wall.
“Pssht” she whispered.
As he looked, the old lady threw a piece of paper to him that had a map to her house with her name Zahra on the bottom. The reporter decided to follow the map and he went to her house wondering why the old lady is disturbing him.
“Welcome to my house” said Zahra.
“Zahra”, he paused for a moment, “Are you crazy, inviting a stranger to your house?” he continued.
“Sit please, I will give you some tea and you decide who is crazy, me or them. I know right from wrong, but what happened here yesterday was wrong.”
“The devil himself attacked the village yesterday.” she continued. “Start your machine” she pointed at the grayish recording machine in his bag. “Women’s voices don’t matter in this village; I want you to take my voice with you.”
“Why should I listen to you?” said the reporter.
“Hear my story first” replied Zahra.
The reporter gazed at her sorrowful eyes as he bent forward, and pressed play.
“My niece Soraya was a beautiful, intelligent woman that always seeked justice. She had two beautiful daughters and two sons from a sinful, wicked man who abused her everyday and turned her sons against her. His name was Ali; he cheated on her occasionally, slept with married women, and he did whatever he wanted because he had the power. One day, he decided to divorce my niece Soraya because he fell in love with a sixteen year old prostitute but she refused. She was scared that her children would starve to death because she didn’t work and she wouldn’t be able to take care of them alone. He beated her up and threatened to kill her when she refused; all he wanted to do was get rid of her. That day she came running to me asking for help. But who were we kidding; no one could stop this man because he had power. We couldn’t even complain to the Imam or the Mayor because they