PEOPLE OFTEN BECOME POETS WHEN they fall in love, but I became a poet when hate entered my heart. My cousin had just been murdered. She was killed for something that was considered a sin: love. Murdered unjustly by my own uncle. Her father had let it happen. Her mother had had no power. The society watched as she was dragged from her home. Memories of her were erased. And we were instructed never to say her name again. Khadija.
