Oh! Every tree in this land sways in an endless dance. Even the birds gather to form a choir, their melodies echoing throughout the village. A tiny earthworm wriggles around, and the dog wobbles in front of the house as if its heart is overflowing with joy.
Yet, what is there to celebrate? What is there to smile about? Is there a reason for laughter? For peace? For hope?
The wind tirelessly kisses my cheeks, but my face remains still, unable to form even the faintest smile. How can one smile when their face is as dark as coal? When their lips are bleeding? When their eyes are like a world plunged into darkness, as if the sun has been swallowed by the clouds?
Perhaps the women of the village and the church choir think I am a woman who loves to argue, that I am someone who refuses to endure. They may believe I am just another person who complains. But they do not hear what I hear—the cruel voice of my husband, the relentless pounding of my heart against my chest, the suffocating fear that makes even breathing feel impossible.
I spend my whole day working with metal and fire, yet when my husband returns home, there is no kindness, no warmth—only anger and rage, triggered by the smallest things. I brace myself for his fists pressing against my lips, his heavy blows landing on my back, his kicks that send me crashing to the floor. And his words—only Job could withstand them.
I want to call out to my neighbors for help. But I hesitate, afraid that they will label me as the woman who cries too much in the village meetings. And more than that, I fear that my cries will only fuel his rage, making his beatings even worse.
My tears fell like a river onto my chest as I turned to the other side of the kitchen. Standing there was my little boy, his shorts torn, his small voice trembling as he called out, “Mom, Mom, Mom.”
Oh, the bitterness of this moment. This is the sight my innocent child watches every day, the never-ending scene of his mother being beaten. Oh, how I wish I had given birth to a child who could neither see nor hear—so that he wouldn’t have to witness his mother’s pain, so that he wouldn’t hear her desperate cries when the blows landed.
With my heart shattered, I knelt before my husband and pleaded,
“Please, my love, I am tired. Our child is weary from carrying the weight of fear every time you hit me. I can endure your words and your cruelty, but I would rather die than see the terror in the eyes of the one who came from my womb, the one whose blood flows through my veins.”
That day, my husband turned to our son and said,
“I am not a good father. Son, forgive me. God’s judgment is upon my head.”
It was a miracle that my child’s presence saved my life. That was the last day of the beatings. Instead of fists, there were now embraces. Instead of suffering, there was now peace. Our home, once a prison, had become a family again.
