"Kind speech and forgiveness is better than charity followed by injury." Qur'an 2:263

Home had always been a world that meant worlds to me. Not just in the small house I resided, but those of my friends, much closer to family. But the gorgeous city in which we lived, the empire of my brothers and sisters, bound together by our most gracious parent. But in Jannah, where he resided. Home was in the mosque, in the chapels of Amity and Sunniva, and the synagogue of Yeintil and Peter. Home was the taste of mama's Basboosa and Amity's Marqa stew. We live in the city of Abraham's sacrifice. Where he showed Allah, God, his devotion. And where Allah spared him the grief. Together we live, in peace and in harmony, and in this place we live, we find home and solace in one another.
I am Hadiya. My name means "gift", as I am the only living child of my mother. My brother passed long ago, my parents rarely even utter his name. I am unsure why, however, and it is besides the point of my story. No, this story is about my friends and I, of the horrors we've been forced to witness in a city that is named for its beauty and peace. However, no story starts at the end, and neither will this one, for that is simply poor storytelling. Though, Peter would have told me this story was of poor telling in comparison to his favoured stories, for this is not a story of men protected by jinn, nor of angels speaking to us. This is not a story that shall hold religious significance, so do not expect that. This is a story, one that no one could question the truth of, by the duty of a young girl's dying breaths.
This, this is written to right now blood-soaked swords of those who deemed us pagans, as we followed the practices dawned by Allah's holy will. My father had always taught of the jihad, and spoke on why the jihad proved we must love our neighbors. How our neighbors were fellow creations made from Allah's will, how they practiced to follow the same God as I. But these men, these...these savages! They did not practice the word of God, of "their" God, or any God of that matter! They practiced death and destruction. The burning of holiness and the frightful journeys of thievery and the assault of peaceful followers of the word. In the false name, they took the innocence of girls, they stole the lives of our religious leaders. They bathed in the bloodshed they'd created. But it was not only the heads of muslims and jews on their spears, but those of devote christians like Sunniva, too young to possibly bear a child.
Our voices were lost in the sickening screeches as these barbarians declared themselves victorious, as they dragged our crescent through the streets, letting it bathe in the crimsonned mud. Here is where the record is fixed. Here is where we regain our voices.