AYESHA AND THE MAN

This is a story about Ayesha (not her real name), a beautiful seven-year-old girl who lives with her mother and stepfather, and her little brother, Ghalib, in a reasonably comfortable home in a place called Greenhaven. Here in the Western Cape, or what is more commonly known as the Cape Flats, the neighbors are a mixed breed of working class people and business folk; everyone is mainly concerned about putting food on the table and making ends meet. But then there are those who maintain a better lifestyle, like Ayesha's stepfather, Malik, who owns a reasonably profitable shoe store in the central part of Athlone, which is known as the hub of the Cape Flats and where the buyers are predominantly black.

Ayesha and her brother Ghalib attended our Madressa (religious and cultural institution) and a more lovable and dedicated pair no teacher could ask for. They were always punctual and never stayed away for anything; even on secular school holidays they would be there. We at the Madressa sometimes had our hands full just trying to get them to take the day off. Little did we know about the dastardly deeds that were taking place in their seemingly comfortable home, which were probably the driving force behind their coming to Madressa so ardently.

But let me not waste time with preliminaries, let me tell the story as it happened to Ayesha. And let me also add that I can only tell it like it is – that this is what happened, to the best of my knowledge.

Ayesha placed her doll next to her on the pillow and said, "You must be a good girlie now. You must go to sleep!" She pulled the blanket over it and added. "Tomorrow we can play again. Okay?" She kissed the plastic face tenderly and lay down herself. "Okay?" She looked at the doll seriously, as if expecting an answer.

She wanted to say something else, but then the door opened slowly and she froze. A dark shadow appeared in the doorway.

Her heart started to pound and she had trouble breathing. She could smell the sweat of the man as he came further into the room and hovered over her.

"Hello, Ayesha," he said, placing his short, pudgy frame down next to her on the bed. "You haven't been a good girl today. Have you?" It was Malik, her stepfather.

She didn't answer. She was too terrified. Malik had a grin on his round face."Why did you lie to Mummy and say I had put my finger in here?" He placed his hand over her vagina. "Why?"

She cringed and stared at him with big round eyes. She wished someone would come and take him away from her. She started to make funny sounds through her nose.

"I had to put ointment on you. Didn't I?" He looked at her, sweat glistening on his balding forehead. "Mummy said so. You know I wouldn't hurt you!"

She wished her own Daddy could have been here now. She wished he hadn't died in that horrible car crash. Why? Oh, why did ALLAH have to take her Daddy? He would not have allowed "The Man" to come into her room and to touch her!

She kept staring at him fearfully, making those whimpering sounds as his hand moved up and down over her vagina. She wanted to scream for help, she wanted to jump out of the bed and run to her mother Amina's room, but she knew her Mummy wouldn't listen, would only say that she had had a bad dream and that in the morning, when the sun came out, her nightmare would be gone and everything would be all right. Her Mother never listened to her or to her younger brother, Ghalib, nowadays. She said that if Malik hadn't taken them in, and fed and clothed them, then what would have become of them? Ayesha's own Daddy had left them with a lot of debt. He had also not paid the rent, and they had had to leave.

When Ghalib did something wrong "The Man" would take him into the bedroom and lock the door. She would hear him scream as "The Man" punished him. She would hammer on the door and shout at "The Man" to stop hitting her brother. She would not cease until "The Man" opened the door and let her brother go. She hated "The Man!"

"You shouldn't tell lies, Ayesha," Malik whispered, trying to allay her fears. "Remember, I've told you that if you are going to be a good girl I'm going to buy you that big doll that can talk, plus that big teddy you've always wanted. Remember?"

She stared at him, the child in her taking over. She stopped whimpering. "And Ghalib? What are you going to buy for Ghalib?

He smiled. "Why...of course! I'm going to buy him that big, radio-controlled car!" He kept on smiling. "You know I always keep my promises..."

She swallowed, thinking about the time she was five years old, when Daddy was still alive, and Malik had come to their house when they were still living in Cape Town. She had seen Malik go into her Mummy's room the morning Daddy had left for work and she had listened by the door. She had heard her Mummy making funny noises and she was afraid "The Man" was hurting her Mummy. She had pushed open the door and had seen "The Man" lying on top of her Mummy. They were both naked. Her Mummy had told her not to tell anyone what she had seen, least of all her Daddy. Malik had bought her a lot of chocolates and many dollies. He had a lot of money.

"And one other thing..." Malik's voice came through to her. "Please call me Daddy. I am your Daddy now. Am I not?" His hand was under the blanket, and the sweat started to roll down his face. He smiled at her, his hand moving between her legs. "I've told you I would never hurt you. Didn't I?" His breath smelt funny.

She smiled back nervously, thinking of the big teddy she wanted so much. She would play the whole day with him, she thought, as Malik slowly pulled the blanket from her, revealing her naked thighs. She would let her other dollies sleep so long while she and her walking, talking doll, and, teddy, played till late. She would wash teddy and she would let him sleep next to her. She would...

Malik was on top of her and she felt a sudden sharp pain between her legs. Her lips parted to scream; Malik put his hand over her mouth. "It's okay," he whispered. "It's only sore for now! Don't worry. Think of your walking, talking doll and your teddy! And, I won't buy it if you scream." He was panting now.

Ayesha felt as if her whole body was on fire. She had trouble breathing because of Malik's weight on her, and the pain between her legs was indescribable. She cried softly. Malik was making grunting sounds. He breathed heavily.

Finally, he rolled off her and pulled up his pants. There was an animal look on his face. "Don't tell anyone. You hear?" He hissed at her. "If you do that, I shall not only cancel our deal of the teddy and the doll, but I shall also punish Ghalib! And you wouldn't like that, would you?

"She was staring up at the ceiling sobbing pathetically as Malik left the room. She wasn't thinking of the teddy or the dolly now. She was again thinking of why ALLAH had taken her Daddy away and why her Mummy had taken this man into their lives. She thought of the many times he had come to her room and touched her private parts when he thought she was sleeping. She thought of the many times she had told her Mummy about it, and how, in the beginning, Mummy had confronted him, and how the two of them had argued and screamed at each other. How "The Man" had sometimes slapped her mother till her nose bled and she and Ghalib had lain on top of her to protect her from "The Man's" brutality.

But that seemed a long time ago now. Malik had a way of twisting things around. He knew how to subdue her mother by threatening to put them all out and confiscate everything he had bought for them. Even when Ghalib used to wet his bed "The Man" would lock him up in the bedroom and he had to stay there, without food, until he learned to behave himself. Her mother would say nothing. She thought of the advert she had seen on the television about the dollies carrying the little boy away from the "Bad Man" and to a place where he was safe. She stopped crying and got off the bed. There was a full moon outside.

She knelt by her bed, her body feeling stiff and very sore. She nearly toppled over. "Please, ALLAH..." she began and put her hands together. "Please help me and Ghalib. Please!" The moon was shining on her face now. Tears rolled down her cheeks. "I promise, ALLAH, I'll be a good girl. I will never be naughty again!" She closed her eyes and thought of what her Daddy had always told her. He had said that no matter what happened to you you must never loose hope in the mercy of ALLAH.

"Please, ALLAH..." She opened her eyes and she saw that the moon was moving away from the window. "Please, let Mummy love me and Ghalib again. Please!" The room was growing dark, but she wasn't afraid as she stared at the curtains. "I know you have a lot of things to do ALLAH. I know there are a lot of children asking you for plenty of stuff. But Daddy has said that YOU always answer prayers, ALLAH. ALWAYS!" She sobbed. "You must please stop "The Man" from hurting me and Ghalib. And, you must also help all the other children in the whole wide, wide world and everywhere that you see" (her Daddy had told her that ALLAH can see everywhere and everything) "who are being hurt by their step-daddies and they have nowhere to go to." She began to yawn and she fell asleep on the floor, her face relaxing into a peaceful smile as she dreamt of her Daddy.

It was a week after that incident that Ayesha and Ghalib heard her mother screaming and swearing vilely in the kitchen. She was sitting on top of Malik when they got there, and she was stabbing him repeatedly with a kitchen knife in the chest. There was blood all over the floor, and Malik was completely motionless. But their mother kept on stabbing and stabbing.

Ayesha had run over to the neighbors, and Aunty Fareeda and Uncle Maimun had come over to see what was going on. The Police had been called because Malik was dead, and their mother was taken to hospital. She had also been stabbed and she kept on screaming and swearing as they took her away.

Apparently, the two of them had, as usual, been arguing over money and Malik had slapped Amina. She, in turn, had grabbed the knife and threatened him with it. Malik had somehow managed to take the knife from her and in the struggle Amina had been stabbed in the arm. Further than that, nobody knew – whether Malik slipped and fell on the floor or whether Amina overpowered him, was anybody's guess. Amina never spoke a coherent word after that, because she suffered a severe nervous breakdown and was admitted to a mental institution. Ayesha and Ghalib went to stay with Aunty Fareeda and Uncle Maimun, who had no children of their own.

In the words of Fareeda, the neighbor, "I've always wondered about the irony of life, that those who have children sometimes don't know how to look after them. But then ALLAH has strange ways of working. And, I can only be thankful that HE has granted me these beautiful children to look after, even if it is just for a while. I shall not stop asking ALLAH to make this a permanent solution."

I AM WHAT I AM

Faizal wiped the tears from his eyes as he entered the street where he lived. He had been wandering for the past three hours through the night and his body was sore all over. His chest felt heavy and there was a burning pain in his side. He could hardly breathe. He suddenly had an uncontrollable urge to cry out for his mother, but he stood still and stared at their house some paces off. He swallowed hard and continued on.

He had been with Adeeb, his friend, earlier on; they had been to the Waterfront and from there they had gone to Sea Point, on the edge of Cape Town, with two men whom they had met at a restaurant.

A sob wracked his thin body, increasing the pain in his side, making him feel feint. "O, ALLAH! O, ALLAH!" He fell to his knees. "O, ALLAH!" He gritted his teeth, and carefully touched the wound. He wondered if the bullet was still in his body, or had it passed right through? He had been lucky, Adeeb had not. Adeeb was dead!

He reached the front door and rummaged in his pockets for his key, but couldn't find it. The light at the back was on.

He staggered towards the room that he and his brother Nadeem shared and knocked on the window. He didn't want his mother or father to know. He hated to think what their reaction would be if they saw all the blood on his shirt. He called out softly to Nadeem, almost willing him to get up. He wasn't sure how long he would be able to stand there, without losing consciousness. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

"My God! Faizal...?" Nadeem said when he saw his brother in the light, as he opened the door. "My God! what happened to you? You must get to a hospital! I'm going to call Mummy!"

"No!" said Faizal, grabbing him by the arm. "Don't call Mummy!"

"But you are bleeding. You must go to a hospital!"

"No. I'll be all right. Just help me get my shirt off." He sat down on the bed.

Nadeem shook his head. "What happened? Who did this to you?" He had to use a scissors to cut the shirt off. "Did you see their faces?"

"No. I didn't," lied Faizal. "They wore balaclavas."

"O, ALLAH! There's so much blood here!"

Faizal moaned as Nadeem touched the wound. "They robbed me and took everything I had on me. They shot me!"

"O, ALLAH!" Nadeem shook his head. "O, ALLAH! It's turning blue! You must go to a hospital! Where did this happen?" He was speaking rapidly, almost incoherently. "Didn't you see their faces? I mean..? He stared quizzically at his brother. "My God!"

"I've told you I don't know who they were. They wore balaclavas." He lied, wondering what Nadeem would say if he knew that the men were white South Africans and that he and Adeeb had had to entertain them by performing oral sex on them as well as touch one another intimately while dancing naked on the bed.

"And the Police...? Did you call the Police?"

"Yes. I did." He lied again.

"And what did they say?"

"Please. Nadeem..." He lay down backwards on the bed "My head is hurting a lot. Get me some tablets please..."

Nadeem was twenty, two years younger than Faizal. He also had his suspicions about Faizal's nocturnal escapades, and on occasion had caught him wearing their sister Hafeeza's bra and panties; Faizal had had to bribe him not to tell Hafeeza.

"When are you going to listen, Faizal?" There was a deep frown on Nadeem's face as he made his way to the kitchen. "Daddy came to look for you earlier on!" He stopped in the doorway.

"Why?"

Nadeem's frown deepened. "Because he's concerned about you!"

"Concerned about me?" snorted Faizal. "Concerned about me?" It was more a statement than a question as he pulled a pillow under his head. "He's more concerned about the Badia name and what people are saying about his eldest son who is gay!"

"Don't say that!"

But Faizal wasn't listening, he was thinking about the numerous times his father had knocked his head against the wall when he was younger. His father had thought he was just trying to imitate women by putting on lipstick and make-up and wearing women's panties. There was also that time when he had just turned seventeen and his friend Adeeb had come to visit. His father had caught the two of them kissing in his room and had barred Adeeb from ever coming to their house again. Faizal had received the beating of his life!

Then there were the times his father had taken him to a therapist to find out if there was anything that could be done to reverse his feminine tendencies – his cross-dressing, wearing of make-up and lipstick, and girlish mannerisms. The old man had spent a lot of money on these sessions. He had also taken him to the local Imam who had simply said that Faizal was being rebellious by wearing women's underwear and make-up, and, that if he should continue to do so his father should punish him by taking away all his privileges and grounding him indefinitely.

"I AM WHAT I AM!" He had screamed at his father, who at one stage had tried to strip off his clothes and parade him naked before the family. "LEAVE ME ALONE!"

He hated his father! But lying on the bed and staring up at the ceiling, he was suddenly overcome by untold remorse and guilt and a feeling of utter sadness as he once again saw Adeeb's face before him, pleading for his life with his killers. Adeeb hadn't wanted to come, but Faizal had forced him.

Adeeb's killers had taken a sadistic pleasure in ending his life. They had simply ignored his heart-wrenching pleas and laughed loudly as one had jammed a huge gun into Adeeb's mouth and pulled the trigger. Blood and brain tissue had splattered in all directions, and most of it had been on Faizal who had sat next to Adeeb on the bed. The two men, both tall and heavily built, with tattoos of girls and snakes on their upper arms and dressed in jeans and sweaters, had continued laughing and had said in Afrikaans that this was their way of teaching gays (they used the derogatory term "Moffies") a lesson that they would never forget.

Faizal sobbed bitterly as he once again heard Adeeb's voice calling out to him, begging him. "Faizal! Faizal! Please don't let them kill me!

He pressed his hands to his ears to shut out the voice, but it was inside his head, calling out repeatedly, "Don't let them kill me! Please, don't let them kill me!"

The blood started to flow freely from his wound now; sobs wracking his body, he suddenly wished he was dead. He lay like that for a while, thoughts criss-crossing his mind, and feeling very sorry for himself, wondering why it hadn't been him lying dead in that room now, why he had escaped certain death by the appearance of David, his other friend, in the doorway. But thinking back to that heart-stopping moment when the same man who had shot Adeeb had turned the gun on him, and the shrill cry from David had spoiled his aim, he felt that something mysterious had happened to him when the bullet had struck him in the side. Something very mysterious indeed!

Nadeem was busy in the kitchen, looking for bandages and trying to make as little noise as possible. He was very concerned about Faizal. He had never seen so much blood in his life. He boiled some water and emptied it into a basin. He was seriously considering waking his parents. Faizal didn't look good to him.

"Nadeem. Help me, please..."

Nadeem jumped; Faizal was standing in the doorway, clutching his side, a strange look on his face.

Nadeem ran over to him. "Faizal! Get back to bed. You shouldn't be standing here. Get back to bed!"

But Faizal shook his head. "No. I must do this, Nadeem. I must do this!"

"Do what?" Nadeem frowned. "You're in no condition to do anything. Get back to bed. Please...!"

Faizal came into the kitchen and wet some bandages in the hot water. The blood had caked to his side. "I must do this for Adeeb, Nadeem." He held the bandage to the wound, pain distorting his features. "I cannot let him die for nothing."

"What?" Nadeem frowned deeply, thinking that his brother was hallucinating. "How could Adeeb be dead? I saw him earlier this evening and there was nothing wrong with him."

"I'm telling you Adeeb is dead, Nadeem. He's dead!"

"Verily from ALLAH we come, and to ALLAH is our return." He uttered the Quranic verse that every Muslim is supposed to say on hearing news about death or any calamity. "How did he die?"

"They shot him! They shoved a gun into his mouth and they blew his brains out!"

"O, ALLAH! O, ALLAH!" was all Nadeem could get out. "O, ALLAH!"

Faizal didn't say anything further; he stared straight ahead of him as the same calm, and the same voice that had descended on him in that room where Adeeb had died, took control of him.

He heard the same words again, the words he had heard when, as a child, he had gone to the mosque with his father one Friday and heard a sermon delivered by the local Imam. "IF ALLAH HELPS YOU, THEN WHO CAN DEFEAT YOU? BUT IF ALLAH LEAVES YOU THEN WHO IS THERE TO HELP YOU?"

He couldn't understand, even now, as he leaned on Nadeem and wiped the dried blood from his side, why he was hearing these words over and over again, hearing them as if directly from the Imam. But one thing he was certain of was that he couldn't let the men who had murdered his friend get away with it. He couldn't let those who took pleasure in abusing those weaker than themselves come away scot-free and continue their evil.

He turned to his brother, a pleading look on his face. "You must take me to the police station, Nadeem. I must report this matter!"

"But I thought you said..."

He told Nadeem everything; he didn't skip any details.

"And you think this has been ordained for you to warn others who may be falling into the same trap as you had?" Nadeem queried when he had finished.

Faizal smiled. "Yes. This is not the first time I have cheated death. But I can certainly say that I shall try never to get myself into such a trauma again." He squinted at his brother. "Maybe that Imam was right. Maybe I was being rebellious by wearing make-up and women's underwear, and..." He snickered. "Female mannerisms. But will you help me, Brother? Will you teach me how to become a better brother to you?" They both burst out crying and hugged each other tight.

WHO IS TO BLAME WHEN A CHILD BECOMES A PROSTITUTE

I was busy washing my car one Sunday morning, when I saw Jameel, my close friend, pulling up in my driveway. I pretended I didn't see him.

"Hey!" he shouted, leaning his head to one side. "Is that car so important?"

I laughed. "Maybe."

Jameel was tall, handsomely built, with long, black hair, a real ladies' man. He was married and had two children.

He came to me and we shook hands. He looked much younger than his 49 years. He hardly had any grey hair.

"Hello, Uncle Myle," Someone shouted from the other side of the road, and I saw it was Fairuz, my neighbor's daughter.

"Hello." I muttered and watched as she came over to me. She was dressed in a short, tight-fitting skirt and her blouse barely concealed her breasts. She was scarcely thirteen!

I agitatedly resumed my chores, wondering how Joe, the owner of the property they lived on, could still tolerate them, seeing that they never paid him a cent.

"Can I get you anything from the shop, Uncle Myle?" She was speaking to me but was glancing at Jameel.

"No, thank you," I said tersely, hoping she would be on her way. If Fatima, my wife, found her here now, she would blow a fuse. Fatima always blew a fuse when she saw this girl near me. I simply wasn't in a mood for a fight today.

"Can I get you anything, Uncle? She turned to Jameel, undeterred. "Cigarettes, maybe?"

"Yes. Get me ten rand airtime. Please." Jameel took out some money and told her to keep the change. She ran off excitedly.

"How much did you give her?" I frowned at Jameel. "You should not give her money!

"Why?" Jameel frowned back at me. "She looks like a nice enough kid."

"Yes." I sighed. "Until they get you into their pockets." I was thinking of the numerous occasions she and her younger brother came to knock on my door, asking for bread, for milk, for anything, even money to make a phone call!

Jameel said something, but I wasn't listening. I kept thinking about them, about the many letters Fairuz brought me from her father, asking to borrow money – R50, R100, sometimes R200, which they never paid back! I later discovered what their devious motives were.

Jameel was laughing at me. "Hey! You're splashing more water on you than the car!"

I was furious with myself for having fallen for their tricks; I had loaned them a lot of money!

I completed the washing of the car and saw Fairuz coming back from the shop. She was smiling secretively at Jameel. I wondered what devilish scheme she was hatching this time. She nearly had me in serious trouble.

"Thank you," said Jameel, when she handed him the airtime voucher. "That was quick."

"Yes I..." She wanted to linger on, but I cut her short. "Thank you, Fairuz," I said dismissively. "That will be all. I'll call you later if we need anything. Thank you." She left, but not before she had again given Jameel her secretive smile. She walked off slowly.

I shook my head. "You wouldn't believe how many people they owe money to around here." I stared at Jameel in earnest. "Nobody wants to give them anything anymore. They are very bad people!"

Jameel frowned at me as I bent down to do the wheels. "But how come I never saw them before? How long have they been staying here now?"

Not long," I said, looking up at him. "They've been living all over the show. I believe they even slept in an old car in someone's backyard."

"Really?" Jameel didn't seem very convinced. "She's such a pretty girl."

"Yes. She is. She's very pretty. But don't let that fool you. You don't know them. Don't go near her. Don't!"

Jameel laughed out loud. "You sound as if you had a run-in with her, or the father."

I wanted to say something, but then I saw Fatima, my wife, in the doorway, and I watched as she brought us a jug of cool drinks.

"I heard your voice," she said to Jameel. "How is Shamila? Why didn't you bring her with?" Shamila was Jameel's wife and she and Fatima got on very well.

Jameel took the cool drinks from her and said something that made her laugh. I was wondering if she had heard or perhaps even seen Fairuz with us. I knew she couldn't say anything, because I hadn't been alone with the girl. But thinking back to that day when she had found the child alone with me in the house still gave me the shudders.

Fairuz had, as usual, come to borrow something and had knocked and knocked, or so she said, and nobody had answered. Fatima had already gone to the shop and I was still sleeping. So the girl tried the door handle, found the door was unlocked, and came in.

I remember how Fatima had screamed when she had found the child sitting by my side, because she had made no effort to get up even when Fatima had come to stand right in front of her. And, to make matters worse, she had been dressed in the same type of clothing, the kind that barely concealed her full body. I had just woken up and was more surprised than anything to find the girl sitting there. I could just gape flabbergasted as Fatima practically threw her out, and for a long time they never came to borrow anything. I had tried explaining to Fatima that I had no knowledge of the child's intentions, but Fatima was adamant that if I wasn't so accommodating in giving them food and money, and anything that they asked for, they wouldn't be so forward, especially the girl!

"Sweetheart...Sweetheart..." Fatima got through my reverie, and handed me a glass of cool drink. There was no accusation or anger on her face. She was just smiling broadly. "Who or what are you thinking so passionately about? Hmmm?"

I kissed her on the lips. "You, of course!"

She laughed. "Thank you, Sweetie. I believe you. With all my heart." And she went back to the house.

I winked at Jameel, and thought how lucky I was to have someone like Fatima by my side. Not only was she an understanding kind of person, but also someone who couldn't bear a grudge against anybody. Whether she had seen Fairuz there with us or not, she would not harp on it. And should they come looking for food or anything else, she would not turn her back on them. But I wondered, as I finished my drink, what she would have said if she had known about that one morning when Fairuz had gone to the shop for me and on returning had been alone with me in the house.

"Give me your glass," said Jameel, holding out his hand, "I have to go now. "Shamila must be wondering what happened to me."

I nodded at him and handed him the glass, thinking for an insane moment what he would have done had he been in my shoes. How would he have handled Fairuz that day, when I had asked her when her Daddy was going to pay me the money he owed me. Jameel was a good person. He and his wife Shamila were honest, hardworking people, very kindhearted and very much in love with one another. But sometimes that was not enough when dealing with the unexpected things in life. Sometimes you need Divine Providence and Guidance when life throws you a curved ball. I remembered how Fairuz had looked at me when I insisted on her asking her father for my money. I had been very agitated because he owed me a lot of money and was making no effort to pay me.

"Tell him..." I had raised my voice. "Tell him..." And she had placed her hand on my arm. "Please, Uncle Myle. Isn't there something I can do for you? My Daddy won't be able to pay you. He is not working!"

I had stared at her quizzically. "What do you mean? What can you do for me?"

"Anything. Anything you want me to do for you."

I don't know up till today what had gone through my mind; I said,"Will you massage my back for me?"

She nodded.

"And my head...Will you massage my head and my whole body?

"Yes." And there had been such a look in her eyes, a look that I had never seen in Fatima's eyes, not for all the years that we had been married. It was a look of such want that it released all the animal instincts in me.

All I had thought of at that moment was, "PLEASE, ALLAH. HELP ME. PLEASE HELP ME!" And if a neighbor hadn't come knocking on the door at that moment looking for Fatima, my settled life as I knew it would have been over. She would not have left me alone.

It was some weeks after that day when I was washing the car and Jameel had met Fairuz, that Fatima came to me one evening while I was watching TV, and pointed to the curtains in the lounge."What?" I had queried?" Not knowing what to expect. "What is it?"

"Outside!" She continued pointing at the curtains. "Look outside!"

I hurried over to the window and was just in time to see Fairuz getting out of a 4X4 wagon. It was well after 11 pm.

"Isn't that Jameel's van?"

I looked closer. I didn't want to open the drapes too wide, but there was no mistaking the bull bars and the modifications he had done to his vehicle. I stepped back, trying not to think the obvious. "Maybe it's someone else." I muttered. "Maybe..." But Fatima shook her head. "Its him, Myle. It's him!"

"But how can you be sure?"

Fatima narrowed her eyes. "This is not the first time I've seen him dropping her off at night!"

"And you're telling me only now?"

Fatima shook her head. "I don't know about you, but he's not welcome in my house anymore. Not at all!"

I didn't bother to comment. I was thinking about Shamila and her children. What was she going to do when she found out? I suddenly hated Fairuz and thought of going there and bringing the whole thing out into the open. But was Fairuz really the one to blame? What about the mother and the father who sent their children to go and beg on the streets? What about the thousands of pretty girls selling themselves for money on the internet? What about those parents who are aware of the dangers of chat rooms and all sorts of pornographic avenues on the web, but choose to turn a blind eye to what their children are doing?

One can only pray to the ALMIGHTY that HE must open our eyes so that we may be better parents and role models for our children.

WHO IS TO BLAME WHEN A CHILD STARTS USING DRUGS?

It was 2:15 on Sunday morning when the phone rang by my bedside, waking me from a sleep I had struggled to get into. I mumbled something unprintable and sat up. Fatima, my wife, was also awake.

"Who can this be?" she wanted to know, yawning aloud. "What time is it?" She stared at me bleary-eyed as I lifted the receiver, a frown starting to form on her forehead. "What time is it?" She persisted, putting her hand on my arm. I did not answer her. An uneasy feeling crept over me.

"Hello?" I said, almost too afraid to ask who it was. I had learned, over the years, that apart from pranksters, or irritating "wrong numbers," the only other phone call that comes in the middle of the night is the harbinger of death.

"Yes?" I spoke into the mouthpiece and recognized my sister Kulsum's voice. She seemed very upset. "Brother," she uttered half-hysterically, "Muhsin is dead!" They all called me Brother (I was the eldest) and Muhsin was her youngest son. She had five children.

"But how...?" I suddenly blurted out, not sure if I had heard right. "How can that be?"

Kulsum was very distraught. "They stabbed him to death earlier this evening, Brother."

"Verily from ALLAH we come, and to ALLAH is our return," I said, echoing the traditional Quranic verses that a Muslim is supposed to utter on hearing about death. I saw that Fatima was wiping tears from her eyes. She could hear every word.

"Where did this happen?" I croaked, my mouth feeling dry.

"I don't know!" she said, sobbing loudly. "He died on our doorstep. He crawled all the way here!"

I didn't know what to say. I felt as if someone had thrown cold water over me. "And where is he now? Where's the body?"

She pulled herself together. "Farouk and the others are at the mortuary. He phoned just now to say that they were on their way." Farouk was her husband.

"Okay." I said, swinging my feet from the bed. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

She thanked me and hung up. I couldn't help shaking my head as Fatima stared at me. "O, ALLAH. O, ALLAH!" We were wide awake now.

I pulled on my pants while Fatima went to the bathroom. Her diabetes always played havoc with her, especially when something distressing happened. I wondered who else Kulsum had informed.

I put on a thick jacket, because the wind had been lashing the area for most of the night and it was very cold. I thought of Muhsin, and how as a child he used to go fishing with me. How we used to take him (Fatima and I) everywhere we went, even to weddings and to prayer meetings. He loved the chants, and we sometimes had our hands full trying to keep him quiet when we wanted him to go to sleep. He had stayed with us for some time, because Kulsum had to go and work. (They couldn't manage to raise five children on Farouk's salary alone). We became very close to him. In fact, Fatima, being unable to bear children herself, focused a lot of attention on Muhsin, making a point to buy him something new every time she went to the shops, and spoiling him with expensive toys and sweets. The other children all stayed with my mother.

I tried to warn her about this, making her understand that Kulsum and Farouk might not be in the dumps forever, that Farouk might just get a better job and then Kulsum would not have to go to work anymore. She could then look after her children herself.

As I brought the car around to the front door to let Fatima get in, I remembered Muhsin's eleventh birthday. I could still see the excitement on his face when I had given him the PlayStation he had been talking about for days on end. The other children had all looked on enviously. Kulsum and Farouk had both come to me, telling me how much they appreciated what Fatima and I were doing for their child and that they would never forget it. Fatima had been busy in the kitchen.

I remembered how I had led them to Muhsin's room where toys were scattered all over the floor and the walls plastered with pictures of all his favourite characters. He was practically our own child.

It was approximately three weeks after that, that Farouk and Kulsum came to us and told us that they wanted Muhsin back.

Needless to say, I do not not have to explain in detail what Fatima's reaction had been, only that she hadn't stopped crying for days on end, and no matter how hard I tried I couldn't get her to go into Muhsin's room, let alone clean it.

Looking at her now as she got into the car, I still felt angry over what they had done, not only to her but to Muhsin as well. I hated them!

I drove off, thinking of all the stupid arguments we had engaged in in trying to talk sense into them. Farouk still had not found a better paying job, and Kulsum still had to go and work. But they had stuck to their belief that things would change for them once they had all their children with them, and they would show everyone that they would come out on top.

And so they took Muhsin back. But after five months of trying to prove a point, or call it whatever you will, Muhsin had come to visit us one Saturday afternoon, much to our surprise, and told us he didn't want to stay with his parents anymore.

I had looked at Fatima and there had been a fathomless expression on her face, almost as if to say, "I told you so!"

Muhsin had told us in no uncertain terms that his mother and father were always fighting over money, always abusing or blaming each other for their woes, and if any of the children asked for anything there would be hell to pay. I hadn't interrupted him, but Fatima had hugged him when he had begged us to take him back into our house.

That same day I had gone to see my sister and her husband and had not minced words when I told them how unhappy Muhsin was with them, and asked whether he could come and stay with us again.

Kulsum had sworn at me and told me not to interfere in their lives, and asked whether I was aware how cheeky and stubborn Muhsin was. She also said that Muhsin was back-chatting the both of them and setting a really bad example to all the other children. She wasn't saying it in so many words, but she was actually blaming Fatima and me for the child's misbehavior. I hadn't pursued the argument, I had merely left and asked them to reconsider my request; after all we loved him very much.

We pulled up at Kulsum's house after a 20-minute drive. My mother and youngest sister Ayesha were there. Farouk and the others had just arrived.

Muhsin's body was wrapped in a blanket and I could see blood seeping through one side. I greeted Kulsum and hugged her tight as she sobbed uncontrollably. "He was only 18, Brother. Only 18!"

I went on to greet my mother and Ayesha whose eyes were red with weeping. Fatima was also crying bitterly.

"What time do you plan to make the funeral?" I asked Farouk as we all helped to lay the body on a bier. Muslims usually bury within the same day, or as soon as possible if the body has to be transported from another area.

"What time do you think we should make it?" he asked me, and for a moment I was confused. "Why do you ask me that?" I wanted to say, but thought better of it. Now was not the time to bandy arguments about. One had to respect the dead. "I think three o'clock would be a good time seeing that it is Sunday," I offered. An elderly man with a grey beard had entered the room and I recognized him as the one who performs the ablution and prepares the body for burial. He removed the blanket from the deceased. I tried not to look; I felt very sad. I wanted to scream out loud that this should never have happened. Muhsin should not have died in this manner! I buried my face in my hands.

I heard the old man giving instructions to someone and I still did not look up. I was thinking how many youngsters at this moment were lying shot up on coke, or methamphetamine (or Tik, as it is commonly known here in Cape Town). And how many of them were lying dead in mortuaries all over the world because of an overdose, or as in Muhsin's case, stabbed to death over an argument about who stole whose drugs. I was particularly cut up in thinking how many of these youngsters were indirectly encouraged by the ignorance and stupidity of their parents in following the drug route.

I finally looked up and I saw Fareed, Kulsum's second eldest child, standing on the other side of the bier. Tears were running down his cheeks freely. I made a vow there and then that no child that I knew, be it family or not, was ever going to go the drug abusers' way. Even if I have to use force. And if the parents should get in the way I will use every means at my disposal to fight them to get the child onto the right path. I wasn't even aware that tears and mucus were collecting at my chin, until my one brother put his arm around me and led me out of the room.

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF POPPY TOMBAZANA

The alarm clock by Poppy's side rang shrilly; she sleepily reached out a hand and knocked the thing over. It kept on ringing.

Poppy sat up slowly and switched off the alarm. The dial read 5:05. She yawned and stretched her arms above her head. Outside, a taxi was noisily passing by, searching for passengers. Poppy yawned once more and got out of bed. She somehow felt more tired than usual.

She went into the bathroom and relieved herself, thinking of the events of the previous evening, and shuddered. Dr. Weir had left the clinic late. There had been an influx of new cases, and Poppy wondered for how long they would be able to cope if no new staff was going to be employed. She herself was only a voluntary worker.

She started brushing her teeth and in the distance she heard the Call to Prayer sounding from the local mosque.

She thought of her own condition as she began taking ablution; she thought of the anti-retroviral treatment that she was on, and she wondered for how long it would sustain her. Dr. Weir had said there was no reason why she should not lead a healthy, normal life, if she stuck to the treatment and looked after herself.

But she was worried. She felt listless at times, and she sometimes couldn't sleep. Many a night she would wake up, drenched in sweat and with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She left the bathroom and laid a prayer mat on the floor. Her husband Alfred had died two years ago. She had contracted AIDS from him.

She started her rituals and she suddenly started to cry. "O ALLAH!" she uttered. "Please don't let me die now. There is still so much to do."

She had embraced Islam when she was 36. She was 42 now and had no children.

Alfred had been a good husband; her face softened as she thought of him. He had provided for her well. The sickness that he had carried with him had been there from the days he had been imprisoned in Angola for political reasons. He had only become aware of his status when he had been involved in a car accident, and by that time he had already infected her with the dreaded disease. She still missed him a lot. She sometimes imagined that he was in the house and he would call out to her. She completed her rituals.

She left the house as the sun began painting the horizon with a deep, orange glow. There was already a stream of cars making their way along the freeway and she flagged down a taxi. She could feel the heat on her face and she knew it was going to be a hot day. There was hardly a breeze in the air. The TV had said it was going to be 32 degrees centigrade, she thought glumly as she squeezed in next to a fat woman, who was wiping sweat from her glistening face. Poppy wondered what this new day held for her.

She reached the clinic at about 7:00, and there was a sizable queue forming outside. People here in the rural parts of Kwa Zulu Natal had to travel early if they wanted to be attended to at the only clinic for miles around. Many of them walked.

The clinic wasn't very big. It had two sections: the administration and preparation area, where patients' blood pressure was taken and preliminary examinations done, and the doctors' rooms, which were supposed to accommodate three doctors. There was also a holding area, where casualties and trauma cases were seen to. Severe cases were either flown by helicopter or transported by ambulance to the nearest general hospital, depending on the severity of the case.

Poppy grimaced. Nowadays it was mostly Dr. Weir attending to a horde of patients, and he wasn't that young anymore. She felt sorry for him.

"Nurse," said someone as she unlocked the preparation room door. "I'm hungry."

She saw that it was Lucky, a developmentally disabled person who sometimes helped to clean around the premises, and who always waited for her at the door. She smiled at him and told him to wait, wondering how he managed to come to the clinic every morning, seeing that both his parents had died from AIDS, and he lived with a relative in another part of town who didn't work and never received any social grant. The distance was too far to walk.

Lucky smiled back at her with big buck teeth, almost as if he could read her thoughts.

Poppy shuddered involuntarily as she thought of the man in his early 30's who had caused such a stir the previous day, when he had unceremoniously started to vomit blood all over the reception floor. She remembered how the woman sitting next to him had screamed when he had suddenly grabbed her arm and pleaded for help. Poppy had managed to calm him down, and she and two other nurses had gotten him onto a stretcher where Dr. Weir had immediately seen to him. She wondered how he was doing and she made a mental note to go and find out. HIV/AIDS was so rife here in Pumelalane, and people were dying at such an alarming rate that at some stage she felt afraid that there would be no one left to care for the orphaned children.

Dr. Weir was already in his room when Poppy knocked. He was sipping from a cup and the smell of coffee pervaded the air. He had a pensive look on his thin face.

"Good morning, Doctor," she said, and came to stand before him where he was sitting at his desk. "You are early."

He did not reply, but she could see that something was troubling him. She did not speak further.

Dr. Weir shook his head, and Poppy couldn't help noticing how drained he looked. "Are you okay, Doctor?"

"Yes. I'm okay. I'm just very tired." He kept on shaking his head. "You know that young man who came in yesterday, the one who vomited blood on the floor?"

Poppy stared at him. "Yes?"

"He's dead."

Poppy felt a cold shiver running down her spine. She wondered if she was also going to vomit blood before she died. Tears welled up in her eyes. "When did he die?"

"At about eleven last night. He is still lying in the wash room. He's got no family."

Poppy shuddered. "So what are we going to do?"

"I don't know, but I've contacted Jabu from Social Services. He said he'll send someone out today."

Poppy left Dr. Weir's room, wiping the tears that were now running freely down her cheeks. She saw the young man's face before her again; the gaunt look of utter despair, the eyes that stood dead still in their sockets. She thought of the HIV/AIDS campaign she and the other nurses had started and she became more determined to fight this scourge with everything at her disposal. They had already begun by fetching groups of people at their houses, taking them on outings, providing food for them, and practically demonstrating the importance of healthy living and sound practices. It was slow but there was real progress.

She turned her face upwards. "O, ALLAH. Let me die with dignity." A silent prayer went through her mind as she walked towards the holding area. "Let me die amongst friends and amongst those who love me and whom I love. Please let me me not leave this world in disgrace."

"Nurse, come quickly!" a woman with a child in her arms shouted, panicking. "He's not breathing!"

Brenda, one of the other nurses, came running over and took the child from her.

"Please don't let him die!"

Together, Brenda and Poppy administered CPR. "Come on. Breathe!" Poppy almost willed, and pressing down rhythmically on the child's chest. Brenda blew down his throat.

"O, ALLAH. Please do not let this child die. Please!" Poppy said out loud, and there was a sudden cough from the child. "Let him live. Please."

The child started to cry, while the mother hugged him so tight that the nurses were afraid she would hurt him.

"Thank you, ALLAH," cried Poppy as the other nurse took the child from the woman. "Thank you."

And so began another day in the life of Poppy Tombazana, where existence here in the rural areas of Kwa Zulu Natal was an uphill battle to survive each day; where death was a constant reminder of how transitory human life was, and how traumatic yet utterly rewarding your services to your fellow human beings could be.

She couldn't thank the ALMIGHTY enough for giving her the strength each day to perform her duties.

WHO IS TO BLAME WHEN A TEENAGER COMMITS SUICIDE?

Can there be anything more traumatic, crushing, or heart-wrenching than to see someone you love dearly hanging from a rope in your garage? Can there be a more pitiable sight than to see a father on his knees, sobbing like a baby, his fists banging the concrete till blood spurts all over the floor?

Let me then tell you the story about Tariq (not his real name) and the events that led to his demise in this very sad manner. And, let me also convey to you the importance of keeping a close watch on your children and establishing an open rapport with them, so that they may feel free to confide in you, as a parent, whenever the need is there.

Tariq was a good-looking young man who lived with his parents and sister Mariam in Plumstead, one of the more affluent areas of Cape Town, where everyone kept to themselves.

His father, Ebrahim, a builder, prided himself on giving his family everything they needed, as well as the finer things in life, and he made no secret of the fact that his hard work over the years had secured them a good life for some time to come. He simply had no time for hangers-on, he said. He believed that every able-bodied person had the opportunity to better himself, and beggars were lazy people. Life was what you made of it. It was as simple as that.

Tariq's mother, Fatima, on the other hand, was a good-natured woman, always smiling, and always ready to lend a hand at functions, although her husband never approved of her mixing with the ordinary folk.

Tariq attended a well-known college in the upper echelons of Newlands, where emphasis was placed on A-Grade passes. Students were encouraged to participate in all kinds of extramural activities, as well as all the major sporting codes. Parents had to attend Parent/Teacher Associations meetings, and no one was allowed to abstain without a valid reason.

Students who did not excel were kept behind in detention classes where a specialist in education methodology worked with them intensely. No one left these remedial sessions without emerging a better person. Students who showed a propensity to complacency and laziness were not tolerated for very long. Either you toed the line or you were dealt with in a no-nonsense fashion. The parents would be called in and the student disciplined there and then; if the behaviour or attitude did not change in a given time, the child would be expelled. No one questioned the school's motives – it aimed to turn out leadership material. The parents paid too exorbitant a fee to complain

Tariq was A-Grade material. His ambition was to become a nuclear physicist and his parents spared no expense in getting him all the extracurricular tuition he needed. Tariq did not disappoint them.

When he turned nineteen, he was already doing his Honours Degree in physics, and the speculation was rife that he was going to complete his training at NASA in America, because his understanding of atomic structures and quantum physics was at a very high level.

He kept mostly to himself. He never attended Madressa or any institution where Islamic learning was offered. His parents allowed him the freedom to busy himself with his own devices. He was a good child.

His sister, Mariam, was his confidante. He loved her and she loved him. If he shared anything with anybody it would be her. She was two years younger, but acted as if she were older. No one could say anything bad about Tariq, or she would would have it out with them. She protected him fiercely.

Then, about four months before Tariq ended his life, Mariam noticed that her brother wasn't as close to her as usual. He never came to her room to chat to her, or even ask her to wash and blow-dry his hair as he always had. She noticed, however, that he always seemed neat and tidy, and took special care in the way his clothes were ironed.

She cornered him and questioned him about his new habits. She asked him directly if there was a woman in his life, and who was she? Was she pretty? Was it someone she knew?

He had answered her vaguely, she recalled afterwards. He had said that she was imagining things, and that there was no one he was seeing. But she had found out soon enough, and so had their parents, that there was a girl in his life and she was much older than he. In fact she had been married before and had two children: a girl aged 7 and a boy aged 5.

Her name was Nadia, and she was very pretty. Tariq was head over heels in love with her.

Their parents were devastated and barred Tariq from ever seeing Nadia again. They even went so far as to confiscate his motorcycle, and everywhere he went he was under their supervision.

They discovered to their shock and horror that the girl was pregnant, and Ebrahim wasted no time in making his intentions clear. There would be no further relations between his son and "this woman," as he called her; he, Ebrahim, would see that the child had everything, and he would also pay for the woman's confinement. That, of course, was if it could be proven that his son was the father of the child.

Ebrahim relayed this to the woman and she refused, saying that she was was not a prostitute. She genuinely loved Tariq with all her heart, and that was why she was pregnant with his baby. She would raise the child on her own.

Ebrahim felt somewhat relieved. He hadn't told anyone about this conversation, and had simply said, when questioned about the girl's response, that she was rude and didn't know how to speak to older people. At least, he told his wife, Tariq could now concentrate on his studies once again, and that was all that mattered. The sooner they could get him into NASA the better. He, Ebrahim, would go to the ends of the earth to achieve that. He felt that perhaps the events of the past few months were a sign for him to work harder on his son's future. But that was all going to change, he promised his wife. Tariq was going to make a great name for himself and his family. Ebrahim was going to make sure of it.

Tariq then began to disappear from his room regularly at night. He would wait till everyone was asleep and then slip out his bedroom window. He was like someone possessed.

Mariam caught him sneaking in at about two o'clock one morning, his face all flushed. She did not dwell on the thought, but she knew he was heavily involved with Nadia. His eyes portrayed his inner feelings more than any words could express.

She asked him what he was going to do for the future, because she knew that their father was planning to get him off to America as soon as he possibly could. What if he became aware of Tariq's nightly escapades?

Tariq smiled secretively and had said that nothing was going to stop him seeing Nadia. He planned on marrying her, and nobody was going to come between them. Nobody! He said it so ominously that she had felt a cold hand gripping her throat. And when she had asked him about his studies, he shrugged, and lifted his hands dismissively. She wanted to tell him that their father had threatened to disown him if he persisted in seeing this woman. What would he do for money then? But seeing the look in his eyes, she kept quiet, and slowly turned away from him.

He suddenly grabbed her arm. She became frightened at the forcefulness of his grip. "Tariq!" she said, pushing him back. "Are you mad?"

She couldn't really speak out as she wanted to, for fear of waking their parents, but it seemed as if Tariq was past caring. He gave her that sinister smile again and released her arm. He said, as loud as if he intended for their mother and father to hear, "Nobody is going to stop me marrying Nadia, Mariam. Nobody!" Mariam looked round, almost expecting to see their father in the hallway. But there was no one. "Nobody, Mariam!" Tariq added, "Only Death!" And there was so much determination in his voice that she felt very alarmed and told her mother everything the next day.

Fatima first replied that Tariq was a good boy and wouldn't do something so foolish, but after Mariam had insisted that they tell Ebrahim, and together get professional help for her beloved brother, the mother conceded, and spoke to Ebrahim.

The father's response was everything the two females had not expected. He immediately summoned Tariq and bundled the youngster into his car despite the desperate pleas of both Fatima and Mariam. He was going to sort this thing out once and for all, he shouted as he drove off, and he would show everyone who was boss around his house.

He returned some time later, with Tariq, and told the two worried females that he had been to see Nadia and promised her that if she did not leave his son alone, he would not only disown the boy, but would make sure that Nadia regretted her actions for as long as she lived. He, Ebrahim, would not tolerate her nonsense any longer! He had been so smug and self-assured that Mariam burst out crying and ran to her room. Fatima said nothing, but anyone could have seen the pain on her face as she silently stared at her husband.

Ebrahim was too confident that he had done the right thing to listen to anybody else's opinion. He himself had been involved in many puppy-love affairs when he was young, he recalled, and if his father had allowed him to marry any of the girls that he had fallen in love with, at first sight... Heaven knows! He hated to think what would have happened to him.

Later, as he looked at the lifeless body of his beloved son, one could only imagine what was going through his mind. Was he thinking of all the injustices he had done to everyone he had dealings with, or was he thinking of how wrong his son was to do this to him? Was he perhaps thinking of who was to blame for this, or was he blaming himself?

We can't know, can we? Suffice it to say that life isn't as simple as we sometimes think it is. All we can do is to try and live a clean life, do as much good as we can and try not to harm anyone, especially those who may be weaker than us.

At the Newfields Madressa our primary aim is to educate our young generation about God Almighty and His Divine Commands. It is also an integral part of our educational structure to make our Youth aware of the pitfalls of life and how to best negotiate every obstacle and trial that may come their way. Ofcourse, it is never humanly possible to shield anyone from every threat and evil so prevalent out there, but with the help of the parent, or guardian, we have managed to save many a youngster who would otherwise have been lost to society.

We make an urgent appeal to anyone concerned about the well-being of our Youth, to donate generously to our Cause, and we pray that the ALMIGHTY grant you every success in all your undertakings. Indeed.

Our Banking Details are:
Newfields Madressa
Standard Bank
Parow Branch.
SOUTH AFRICA
Account No. 072704764
Branch Code: 051001

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMAN IN THE WORLD

Who is the most beautiful woman in the world? Is it someone with fair skin or olive skin? Is it a blonde with blue eyes or a brunette with dark smouldering eyes? Is there such a person who has immense facial beauty, perfect body proportions, the most beautiful hair, as well as a brilliant mind? Can there be a defining answer to this question? Who would men prefer more, blondes or brunettes? And what about those with red hair, or any other colour hair? Would men prefer, a woman who is their equal in the intellectual arena. Would they? Or perhaps someone who is more smarter than them when it comes to dealing with worldly affairs?

Who would make the best partner? The best mother? the best companion? Or even, the best housewife? How does a man choose his soulmate?

We spoke previously about women in Afghanistan, how they are peceived to be oppressed in their dress code when it comes to the western world. Infact, all women of Muslim countries, who wear Hijaab or Purdah are not only looked upon as oppressed in their dress code, but are labled as chatels of their husbands. If a woman wants to participate in politics or sport she must wear what the capitalist world prescribes. And the more she can reveal of her body the more liberated she portrays herself to be?

What about a woman, in her mid-thirtees. or early forties, who is married with one or two children, has extremely beautiful features, as well as ample body proportions, and a husband who is more interested in his business than in his family. What does she do when a good looking male crosses her path?

We know that it is an accepted fact that any normal, full blooded female is in her prime of her life when she is between the ages of thirty and fifty and especially if she has given birth to one or more children. It is also a known fact that many young men are greatly attracted to older women than what they are to their daughters, especially if these women are beautiful and full bossomed.

How does one stop an ellicit relationship between a buxom blonde, or brunette, and a virile young man who may be married with children of his own? How does one make them both understand that in the end it is the children who is going to suffer?

On T V it is accepted to have adulterous relationships between couples in movies and in soapies. It is also a norm to have the lead actor sleeping with the mother as well as the daughter. Our young generation watches this and tries to emulate their heroes. To them, these are the most beautiful people in the world!

Islam has liberated woman from that very same abuse that we witness on television. Islam says that a woman's body is sacred. Only her husband is allowed in her private domain. No stranger is allowed to lay eyes on her private parts.