DEVIL'S AREA ❌

Chapter One:A Devil's Torment •1•

"Today's injustice was woven from yesterday's innocence."

Chapter One: "A Devil's Torment"

We blame their adulthood and forget their childhood—what they lived through—because we only see the person on the outside, judging them solely by their cover.

Have you ever seen a black cover and felt drawn to read its content?

We are born with a black spot in our hearts, with two colors within us. No one is to blame for what they have become today, for not all innocence of yesterday survives into today. Some innocence is woven into tomorrow’s oppression…

"Today's injustice was woven from yesterday's innocence."

{1996}

A terrifying darkness loomed, striking fear into anyone who beheld it. The cruel winter battered a small body, trembling from cold and sorrow. His eyes shed tears of pain… and abandonment.

The child (sobbing uncontrollably): "Mom… please, don’t leave me alone with Dad!"

The mother (crying as well): "I can't take you with me… I just can't… Stay with your father."

The child (clinging to her, his cries breaking the silence): "Please, please! I swear I won’t do anything bad… I’ll work, I’ll do anything… just take me with you!"

The mother (pulling her hand away): "I can’t take you… Forgive me, my son…"

She left him there, sobbing, collapsed on the ground, as she ran away—ran until the darkness swallowed her whole. She never looked back. And he… he remained behind, crying his heart out—not just for losing her, but because she hadn’t thought of him for even a moment.

The boy (whispering, his voice choked with pain): "Mom… please, come back… don’t leave me alone…"

But hope had already died. He forced himself up from the muddy ground, dragging his small frame toward the house. Silent, lost in thought, until he noticed a crowd gathered outside. The men of the village stood together, their torches illuminating the darkness, their eyes watching intently. He moved closer, trying to understand what was happening, just as he heard the very words that had shattered his world minutes ago:

"Hashmi’s wife ran away and left him."

They stood there, faces pretending concern, but their eyes betrayed their satisfaction. Their gazes were locked onto Hashmi, who paced back and forth like a madman, unsure of what to do. Then, a man wearing a traditional jellaba and a turban spoke, his voice dripping with malice.

The man (mocking): "Well, well, Sidi Hashmi… You rule over others, but your own wife has fled. How do you expect to rule this tribe?"

Hashmi (furious): "Mokhtar, shut your mouth before I make you regret it!"

Mokhtar (turning to the crowd): "You all see it with your own eyes… This is the man who dared send his son to school, and we said nothing. And now, his wife has run away! Do you truly believe he is fit to lead our tribe? He has defied our customs, our traditions! Do you still accept his leadership?"

The men began whispering among themselves. Mokhtar's words made sense to them. This was a deeply traditional village, one that upheld harsh customs. A man had only two paths—farming or herding livestock. There was no third option. And a woman… a woman had no right to speak or protest.

Hashmi didn’t know what to grieve—his wife’s betrayal, or Mokhtar’s exploitation of his misery to turn the tribe against him. Suddenly, four young men ran toward him, panting heavily from their search.