The Transcendent Veil
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Jacob, only seven years old, was about to embark on a journey that felt monumental. He stood in the doorway of their small, cozy house, his heart fluttering with excitement and an edge of nervousness. His mother, a youthful 22-year-old with a kind smile, knelt beside him. "Remember, Jacob, Clara's house is just down the street. Stick to the sidewalk, and don’t talk to strangers."
"I know, Mommy!" he puffed up with childish pride.
"Alright, you can go," she said, hugging him tightly before watching him with a mother’s wary eye as he walked down the front steps and turned onto the path that led out of their yard.
The year was 2020, a time when children were seldom given the freedom to explore alone. Yet in this quiet suburb, Jacob's mother felt a small measure of safety in letting her son walk a few blocks by himself.
As Jacob walked, savoring the independence, a figure caught his attention. It was a woman, but she wasn’t just jogging; she was running, almost like she was fleeing from something. She was older than his mom, perhaps in her late thirties, and as she got closer, Jacob could see she wore a traditional Muslim gown, or abaya, which was an elegant deep blue adorned with intricate silver embroidery around the cuffs and hem. Her niqab, matching the abaya, was trimmed with delicate lace, leaving only her dark, anxious eyes visible. Her hair, hidden under the niqab, was jet-black and tied up in an unseen bun, while her eyes were a striking almond brown.
A peculiar pair of lime-green flip-flops slapped against the pavement with each hurried step she made, entirely out of place with the rest of her dignified attire.
"يا بني، توقف!" the woman called out, her voice trembling (Ya bunei, tawqaf! - "Oh my son, stop!"). Jacob, frozen in wonder, didn’t react immediately.
She reached out, her hand touching his shoulder. Jacob tried to dodge, reflexively twisting to the side, but her grip was firm. His vision blurred, the world around him spinning. When he could see clearly again, he gasped. He was looking down at himself – no longer a boy in jeans and a t-shirt, but taller, wearing the deep blue abaya. His face was covered by the niqab, and he felt the unfamiliar sensation of the fabric brushing his face.
“What the heck, I’m not a girl! Mommy!” Jacob shouted, but the words that left his mouth were foreign to his ears, "ما هذه بحق الجحيم، أنا لست فتاة! ماما!" (Ma hathihi bihaq aljahim, 'ana last fatah! Mama! - "What the heck, I'm not a girl! Mommy!").
Mid-sentence, his mind became foggy, his own memories fading as they were replaced with someone else's. The abaya now felt natural, almost comforting in its coverage. His protests ceased; instead, a wave of guilt and clarity washed over him.
"But I need Mommy, I need to—" he started, but then corrected himself, "get home to my husband whom I selfishly ran away from. I am a bad Muslimah. I deserve nothing for being a bad wife. Allah, forgive me. My husband may throw stones at me if he so chooses," his voice whispered pleadingly, the words now flowing naturally in Arabic, "ولكني أحتاج إلى أمي أحتاج إلى---- العودة إلى المنزل إلى زوجي الذي أنانياً هربت منه أنا مسلمة سيئة لا أستحق شيئاً على كوني زوجة سيئة اللهم اغفر لي قد يختار زوجي أن يرميني بالحجارة إذا أراد" (walakini ahtaj 'iilaa 'umi 'ahtaj 'iilaa---- aleawdatu 'iilaa almanzil 'iilaa zawji aladhi 'ananiyaan harabtu minh 'ana muslima siyia la 'astahiqu shyyaan ealaa kawniy zawja sayiya allahum aghfir li qad yakhtar zawaji 'an yarmini bialhijarati 'iidha 'arad).
This story was generated by user manemansteve with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: A story of a 7 year old named Jacob walking to his female friend's house alone for the first time with his 22 year old mom's permission in the year 2020. Have a Muslim woman be running by and include the woman's name, age being older than his mom, height, weight, birthday, birth year, where she's from, hair color and style and eye color and have her be wearing a long Muslim gown with a detailed description of the gown's color and type and have her be wearing a niqab with a detailed description of the niqab and have her be running from her husband. Include a detailed description of the shoes she's wearing being flip flops with a detailed description. Have her say something to the boy in Arabic and have it be in quoted text and translated to English but also show the quote in Arabic. Have the boy try to dodge her grabbing him but be unable to. Have him open his eyes realizing he's taller and wearing the gown and his face is covered by the niqab and he was wearing the flip flops. Have him try to yell what the heck i'm not a girl mommy and have it be in quoted text in Arabic and translated to English but also show the quote in Arabic. Have the boy's memories instantly start changing until he only remembered being the woman midsentence. Have the boy say but i need mommy i need to---- get home to my husband whom i selfishly ran away from i am a bad muslimah i deserve nothing for being a bad wife allah forgive me my husband may throw stones at me if he so chooses and have it be in quoted text in Arabic and translated to English but also show the quote in Arabic.
Response: Jacob, only seven years old, was about to embark on a journey that felt monumental. He stood in the doorway of their small, cozy house, his heart fluttering with excitement and an edge of nervousness. His mother, a youthful 22-year-old with a kind smile, knelt beside him. "Remember, Jacob, Clara's house is just down the street. Stick to the sidewalk, and don’t talk to strangers." "I know, Mommy!" he puffed up with childish pride. "Alright, you can go," she said, hugging him tightly before watching him with a mother’s wary eye as he walked down the front steps and turned onto the path that led out of their yard. The year was 2020, a time when children were seldom given the freedom to explore alone. Yet in this quiet suburb, Jacob's mother felt a small measure of safety in letting her son walk a few blocks by himself. As Jacob walked, savoring the independence, a figure caught his attention. It was a woman, but she wasn’t just jogging; she was running, almost like she was fleeing from something. She was older than his mom, perhaps in her late thirties, and as she got closer, Jacob could see she wore a traditional Muslim gown, or abaya, which was an elegant deep blue adorned with intricate silver embroidery around the cuffs and hem. Her niqab, matching the abaya, was trimmed with delicate lace, leaving only her dark, anxious eyes visible. Her hair, hidden under the niqab, was jet-black and tied up in an unseen bun, while her eyes were a striking almond brown. A peculiar pair of lime-green flip-flops slapped against the pavement with each hurried step she made, entirely out of place with the rest of her dignified attire. "يا بني، توقف!" the woman called out, her voice trembling (Ya bunei, tawqaf! - "Oh my son, stop!"). Jacob, frozen in wonder, didn’t react immediately. She reached out, her hand touching his shoulder. Jacob tried to dodge, reflexively twisting to the side, but her grip was firm. His vision blurred, the world around him spinning. When he could see clearly again, he gasped. He was looking down at himself – no longer a boy in jeans and a t-shirt, but taller, wearing the deep blue abaya. His face was covered by the niqab, and he felt the unfamiliar sensation of the fabric brushing his face. “What the heck, I’m not a girl! Mommy!” Jacob shouted, but the words that left his mouth were foreign to his ears, "ما هذه بحق الجحيم، أنا لست فتاة! ماما!" (Ma hathihi bihaq aljahim, 'ana last fatah! Mama! - "What the heck, I'm not a girl! Mommy!"). Mid-sentence, his mind became foggy, his own memories fading as they were replaced with someone else's. The abaya now felt natural, almost comforting in its coverage. His protests ceased; instead, a wave of guilt and clarity washed over him. "But I need Mommy, I need to—" he started, but then corrected himself, "get home to my husband whom I selfishly ran away from. I am a bad Muslimah. I deserve nothing for being a bad wife. Allah, forgive me. My husband may throw stones at me if he so chooses," his voice whispered pleadingly, the words now flowing naturally in Arabic, "ولكني أحتاج إلى أمي أحتاج إلى---- العودة إلى المنزل إلى زوجي الذي أنانياً هربت منه أنا مسلمة سيئة لا أستحق شيئاً على كوني زوجة سيئة اللهم اغفر لي قد يختار زوجي أن يرميني بالحجارة إذا أراد" (walakini ahtaj 'iilaa 'umi 'ahtaj 'iilaa---- aleawdatu 'iilaa almanzil 'iilaa zawji aladhi 'ananiyaan harabtu minh 'ana muslima siyia la 'astahiqu shyyaan ealaa kawniy zawja sayiya allahum aghfir li qad yakhtar zawaji 'an yarmini bialhijarati 'iidha 'arad).
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