Lubna Mrie

I ask.

Her voice comes through, trembling.

Something is not right.

I fear the worst has occurred.

The very real danger of my father and what he might do if I did anything public against the government under my real identity.

I hadn't listened to her.

I had done what she warned me against and left her to deal with the consequences alone.

Consequences she had seen coming long before me.

Mama, are you okay?

I've been so worried about you.

Please tell me you're okay.

I begged.

It seems as if she's not able to hear what I'm saying.

Later, I would wonder if she could even hear my voice, or if she had been forced to speak without hearing me on the other end.

Lubna, please come back, I need to have a surgery, and I want you to come home, she says.

I hear the pain in her sobs, and it makes me wish for my own death, knowing that I'm responsible for what's happening to her.

If my father ordered men to detain her, I should be there instead.

Before I can say anything, the line cuts.

And that was the last time I hear from her.

And I cannot tell you how many times I replayed this phone call in my head over the past 14 years at this point.