"PAPA, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE. I can't live without one. All the girls have one. I'd only use it to talk with Fatima. We have so much to tell each other."

"But you see Fatima almost every day, sweet child. Your Uncle Mahmoud and Aunt Ista are here for tea with all of your cousins."

"See papa, that's just what I mean. You grown-ups talk while Fatima and I take care of the little ones. We're so busy keeping them out of mischief we hardly have a chance to say two words to each other. Uncle Mahmoud said that if you buy me a cell phone he'd get one for Fatima."

"He's not said anything about a cell phone to me. I don't believe it. Mahmoud is very traditional. Women, and yes, even girls have no need for such devices of Satan."

"Come on papa, you have one."

"Only because it is necessary for business."

"But we could discuss dresses for holidays and poetry and music. Papa, Fatima told me there is even a number you can call that will quote a verse from the Koran and explain the divine meaning. It changes every day."

Ali sipped his coffee and put the cup on the snowy white damask tablecloth. He stroked his short graying beard. He thought what a beautiful young woman his oldest daughter was becoming. If only he could protect her from the evils of the world. It wouldn't be many years before he would have to find the right husband for her.

"Maryam, I will think on it and talk to your Uncle Mahmoud. That is all I will say."


"MOMMA, WILL YOU TALK to father about letting me have a cell phone?"

"No, sweetheart. That's his decision to make," Sara replied.

"But Momma, he'd listen to you."

"Perhaps he would, but I'd never want to interfere with his authority. In matters relating to the world and politics, it's the husband's job to direct the family. My business is taking care of you and your sisters and him. We love and fear Allah and follow the traditions."

"Momma, you went to the university for two years before you married father. I know you disagree with him sometimes. Don't you feel Muslim women must do more to stop this fanatical killing of innocent people? These bombers kill at random and are taught they follow the will of God. Someone needs to open their eyes to a compassionate God who loves them and loves his people."

"Of course it's awful, Maryam. But your father does not want us to get involved in politics. It's more than enough for me to run this household. Come here." She hugs her daughter and laughs. "If he asks me, I'll say you really need a cell phone for studying with Fatima. It's such a new world you young people live in."


"MARYAM, WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG to answer?"

"I had the ringer set to buzz and it was in my purse. I don't want momma or papa to hear it go off. The less they're aware of it, the better chance I'll have to keep it. Fatima, how did you get your father to agree to buy it?"

"It was easy. I didn't talk to him for a week, and every time I came into the same room with him I had tears coming down my cheeks."

"But how could you cry so much?"

"They were fake tears. I poured salt into an empty perfume bottle, filled it with water and squirted my eyes with an old eyedropper. It only stung a little. The big problem was my little sister Ziba. She's always sneaking around behind me and saw me doing it. I had to give her my best green bead necklace to keep her quiet. Can you come to the meeting?"

"Fatima, I don't know. Oh, I hear someone coming. I'll call you back later." Maryam hated to lie. She just needed time to think before answering. Papa would be so angry if he knew about the group. He didn't even want her to go on to university when she finished school this year. She sat on her bed, pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them. Why did people kill other people in the name of the Koran and the prophet Mohammed? It was just wrong. Nothing in the holy writings justified murdering innocent people, blowing them up with bombs, cutting off their heads. These fanatics had to be stopped. But who could do it? Young Muslims like herself and Fatima had to start a revolution of the mind. People like her father and mother hated the violence and how it reflected on their religion, but they were too frightened to do anything. Yes, it had to be the young people who stood up to the fanatics. She would go, but how to fool Cattilara? She loved her old nurse and Cattilara was no fool. She watched her like a mother goose with one of her goslings. Of course, the cell phone. She picked it up and called Fatima back.

"Fatima, I'll come. You need to call Cattilara. Tell her you need me to come over to help you embroider the new prayer shawl. Make it sound like an emergency, like you must have it by tomorrow. I'll meet you outside the coffeehouse near the square. I have cardboard for a sign. You bring something to write with. Call the house phone now before I get scared and change my mind. Okay, I love you too, but hurry up."


FATIMA WAS ALREADY THERE when Maryam arrived. She pulled her own hood closer around her face, grabbed the wool fabric of Fatima's burqa near the shoulder and pulled her close so her cousin's ear was only inches from her mouth.

"We shouldn't be here," Maryam whispered.

"Nonsense," Fatima replied. She laughed and pushed her away. "Nobody will recognize us in these robes and the noise from the square is so loud I can hardly hear you. The group is meeting in the courtyard behind Zahir's house in an hour. He came up with a wonderful name for us—The Lions of Light. Do you like it?"

"Yes. We'll have to be brave as lions, won't we?"

"Of course, but we still have an hour to shop. Let's see if there's anything new in the bazaar."

"Fatima, how can you shop now?"

"I can always shop," she laughed. Maryam gave her a quick hug, and laughed along with her.


"HOW ABOUT NO MORE KILLING IN THE NAME OF ALLAH?" Fatima said.

"Yes, I like that." Using the black kohl stick, she printed the words on the cardboard placard in neat bold Arabic letters. Maryam glanced around the courtyard. Of the twenty or so young people, she and Fatima were the only two girls. She thought it was easy for the other girls in her class to talk, but hard to act. The boys were also making signs: STOP THE TALIBAN, NO MORE MURDERS, ALLAH FOR PEACE. She felt so proud of her friends. It took courage just to make the signs, and it would take even more to march out into the At Meydani with them. From this courtyard, looking up past the roofs of the houses, she could just make out the dome of the Blue Mosque. They planned to demonstrate just before evening call to prayer in the square between Hagia Sophia and Sultan Ahmed's blue house of worship. There were sure to be crowds of people then. She shuddered as she thought how many of them would not be friendly.

"It's time," shouted Zahir. "Signs up, loud as you can now—No More Killing! No More Killing! No More Killing!" They exited the courtyard, and as they turned right onto Yenaceri Avenue, Maryam saw a young man in a black robe and long dark beard run past them. He shouted an obscenity and disappeared up an alley. Their pace was slowed by the crowds as they entered the broad avenue of Divan Yolu and approached the holy shrines. Maryam felt herself at first jostled, then shoved and pushed. What a strange feeling, she thought. I'm not me; I'm part of a huge animal. I sway and rock back and forth through the jungle roaring. She waved her sign and yelled her slogan as loud as she could. Where were Fatima and the rest of the group? She felt a moment of panic. She must have lost them in the crowd. She saw a phalanx of bearded men in dark robes pushing through the mob toward her. The man in the lead was the same one who had shouted at them earlier. He was so close she could see the pupils of his eyes—round, black, gigantic as he glared at her.

"Slut, whore, defiler of Islam," he yelled. He stooped and picked up a rock from the rubble in the square. Maryam found herself not at all afraid. She wondered at his fury, thought how to calm him. She saw his arm flash forward, then felt crushing pain in her forehead and the crowd vanished into red then purple then blackness.


"ANY NEW WORD FROM THE HOSPITAL, Auntie Sara?" Fatima asked.

"No dear," Maryam's mother replied. "They say the EEG shows good brain activity but she doesn't move or respond at all when I talk to her. I was there all last night. The nurses found me a cot to rest on. Fatima, why aren't you in school?"

"Mother and father won't let me go. I have to stay in the house or come here to help you and Uncle Ali. They're very angry about our demonstration. This is the first morning in a week they've let me out. I brought you some seed cakes momma made. Oh Auntie Sara, I feel so terrible. Everything was my fault—I talked her into going ..." She rubbed her eyes, then burst into deep racking sobs.

Sara slowly rose from her chair and stood for a moment looking down at her crying niece. She kneeled next to her, took her hands and pulled her off her seat onto the floor and hugged her hard against her breast. "It's not your fault, dear. Maryam was there because she wanted to be."

"Sara, where are you? What are you two doing there on the floor?" Ali walked into the room dressed in a western business suit. Sara helped Fatima to her feet and faced her husband.

"There's no breakfast. I've just come from the hospital. Nothing new since the surgery. Fatima brought some cakes and there's coffee from last night."

"Fatima," Ali ground out through clenched teeth. "How on earth could you and Maryam have been so crazy to go marching in the square like two whores waving signs against the teachings of Islam? It's amazing one of you survived uninjured."

Fatima wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "You're wrong, Uncle Ali. Your anger betrays your fear. Allah is love."

"Love? Nonsense. My daughter is not lying in a coma because of love. They caught the man who attacked her. The police held him overnight then released him. They say the witnesses were no longer able to identify him."

"But Uncle Ali, I saw the whole thing. I'll testify."

"Don't you understand, idiot. They don't want witnesses. I've just come from the police station. They were more interested in why you girls were causing a disturbance. They are afraid of stirring up the religious crazies. What we need to do now is just keep a low profile. We don't want them coming after others in the family. What's the matter, Sara?"

Sara glared at her husband. She rose slowly, lifted a large blue enamel serving platter from the table, held it over her head, then—crash, she slammed it down on the floor. It shattered into pieces. "How can you talk of a low profile when your daughter is near death? I'm going back to the hospital. Come if you find it in your frightened heart."


THE SUN POURED THROUGH THE WINDOW of the sixth floor hospital room on the neurosurgery wing of the Hayat Hospital. Sara was alone with her daughter. The breakfast had been taken away, Fatima had gone back to school and Ali had gone to work. Maryam looked peaceful, lying on her back and breathing quietly. She hadn't needed the respirator since shortly after her surgery a week and a half ago. The doctors said that was a good sign in depressed skull fracture cases. She would turn her daughter onto her side in a few minutes to prevent bed sores. Will she be like this for years? Sara wondered, as she took her new cell phone out of her purse. Well, she had work to do.

"Caria, please come," she said into the cell phone. "The tentative name of the organization is Mothers Against Religious Violence. I know it might be dangerous, but I remember how you stood up to our sociology professor when he suggested women should not attend the university. You will? Marvelous. There should be about thirty women there. I've notified the Aksam Gazetesi and they're sending a reporter." Sara happened to glance at her daughter. "Ah," she screamed and dropped the cell phone. Maryam's eyes were open.

"Oh momma, you bought a cell phone. How wonderful," she whispered.


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