Perspective: Aisha's Life (21st Century)

  Aisha slowly opened her eyes. The white light that had filled her vision had disappeared, replaced by a softer, dimmer light. Saleh's voice—the mysterious figure that had sent shivers down her spine—vanished without a trace.

  All that remained was something familiar, yet disconcerting: a pale, flat ceiling, too low, utterly plain. No golden calligraphy, no majestic domes like those of his father's palace.

  He blinked once… twice… trying to convince himself that this wasn't an optical illusion.

  “This is… Ruqayyah’s room, right?” he whispered, his voice high and thin, echoing in her own ears like a small bell on a quiet morning. It was so different from his usual deep, authoritative tone—so soft, almost sweet.

  She already knew the truth. Saleh had explained, in such poetic and exasperating style that Aisha nearly rolled her eyes, that she would live as a girl from another era. Far from the luxury of the palace, without silk, without servants at her every command. But knowing that in theory and living it were two very different things.

  Aisha's gaze fell on her left wrist. She froze. Her breath caught.

  “What is this cursed thing?” he muttered in horror.

  Her hand was pierced by something thin and transparent, connected to a long, plastic snake-like tube. There was no silver engraving, no gemstones—just a cold, strange object. Next to the bed, a metal box flickered, displaying a green line that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.

  Aisha screamed. “Oh my God!” She pulled her hand back, jerking the tube away roughly. Her eyes widened, a mixture of fear and amazement. “It’s… breathing?! It’s following my heartbeat?!”

  Her heart pounded, but in a matter of seconds, fear was replaced by curiosity—a stubbornness that had often earned her father's scoldings in Baghdad.

  “Calm down, Aisha bint al-Fadl,” he murmured, trying to compose himself. “You’ve faced cunning philosophers, cynical scholars, and angry older brothers. A flashing metal box won’t defeat you.”

  Suddenly, laughter erupted from the corner of the room.

  “Hahaha! You are so funny, sister!”

  Aisha almost jumped out of bed. She turned and saw a boy, maybe nine or ten years old, leaning against the wall. He was holding a small, glowing black square in his hand. His laugh was mischievous, free, and full of energy.

  Cautiously, Aisha stepped onto the cool tile floor, a stark contrast to the thick carpet she was used to.

  “Asta…?” he called softly, trying to remember the name from the few memories he could remember.

  The boy's eyes widened. The object in his hand almost slipped out.

  "Sister?! You're awake?! Really?!"

  Aisha blinked, trying to appear calm even though her heart was in turmoil.

  “Yes, I… I’m awake. Why are you looking at me like a newly freed slave?”

  The boy's face immediately lit up. Without waiting for an answer, he ran out of the room.

  "Mom! Dad! Sis Ruqayyah is awake! She's not dead!"

  His voice echoed through the silent hospital hallway. Aisha froze, staring at the open door. The boy's scream left a pang of irritation in her chest.

  "Ruqayyah's younger brother...? How rude," he muttered softly, although there was still a little bit of affection left.

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  Leaving the hospital was a matter of life and death. She was forced into a metal box on wheels called a "car." As the doors closed and the engine roared, Aisha gripped the seat so tightly that her fingers turned white.

  "What kind of animal... a replacement for horses and camels? Why does it roar like a monster?"

  She panicked as the vehicle moved. Throughout the journey, Aisha's eyes darted to the buildings passing by through the window, wide-eyed in amazement. Asta, who was sitting next to her playing a game on his phone, occasionally shuddered at his sister. What's wrong with her? Is she possessed or something? he thought.

  When they arrived at a simple, pale green house, the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. The walls were cracked in several places, and the iron gate creaked as it opened.

  “So… this is Ruqayyah’s house,” Aisha murmured doubtfully. It seemed so small compared to her home in Baghdad.

  Of course. She was the daughter of a vizier. Ruqayyah was just an ordinary village girl.

  Ruqayyah's mother turned, surprised to see the strange expression on her daughter's face. What was so surprising? But she still smiled gently.

  “Please come in, dear.”

  Aisha immediately nodded. Him.

  In the living room, shelves filled with old books and family photos lined the walls. Aisha stared at the photos—people frozen in the middle of a smile. What kind of magic could capture laughter on such thin sheets?

  A gray cat jumped into his lap as he sat on a wooden chair.

  “Huwaa! What kind of creature are you?!” Aisha almost threw him, but stopped when she felt his soft fur.

  “It’s Moci,” Asta appeared from behind the curtain, holding a strange object called a ‘TV remote.’ “He misses you, Sis.”

  Aisha blinked, slowly stroking Moci.

  “Moci? Such a simple name,” he said, though a faint smile tugged at his lips.

  The next morning, the gray sky seemed to reflect the chaos in his mind. He had to go to school—not the palace gates, not the golden arches, but a building with a green-and-white sign: Al-Ikhlas Islamic Boarding School. The smell of wet earth and grass mingled with the aroma of food from the canteen.

  Aisha stopped at the gate, adjusting the straps of her heavy bag. Her heart was pounding, but she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin—a graceful gesture.

  “Ruqayyah!”

  A warm voice broke the morning bustle. A girl with a gentle face and clear eyes approached, wearing the same uniform: dark green and a neat white hijab.

  "Peace be upon you. Are you feeling better? Did you know… all the students are praying for you at the mosque," Bela said sincerely.

  Aisha swallowed hard, trying to remember Ruqayyah to give the right answer.

  “Wa'alaikumussalam… alhamdulillah,” he replied with a forced, polite smile.

  But as the words left her lips, bitter flashes of Ruqayyah's past hit her like a wave. Not kindness, but fragments of cruelty: whispers behind her back, disdainful stares in the hallways, open insults from her classmates. Her chest tightened. Ruqayyah had never truly been loved, despite what Bela had said.

  “All the students are praying for me?” Aisha thought sarcastically. Her eyes narrowed as she watched the students pass by. People still wore the same masks. They prayed only to appear pious in front of their teachers, while hiding the thorns in their hearts. At least in my time, my father’s enemies were honest when they drew their daggers, not hiding behind prayers.

  The girl touched Aisha's arm, intending to offer warmth. But to Aisha, it felt like a well-crafted sham. She realized that, despite Bela's sincerity, Ruqayyah's world was a battlefield—not unlike the poison-filled palace of the Vizier.

  Aisha took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to defend Ruqayyah's honor. She straightened her back and cast a sharp, commanding glance toward the crowded school gates—a gaze she had once used to silence gossiping courtiers.

  “Thank you, Bela,” he said calmly, his eyes fixed on the crowd. “I hope their prayers actually reach heaven, not just linger on the mosque roof.”

  Bela smiled, not surprised by the cold tone—after all, Ruqayyah's tongue had always been sharper.

  This time, Aisha bint al-Fadl is a boarding school student, and she will face the 21st century in her own way.

   he thought, gripping the straps of his bag as if they were the reins of a war horse.