The Viral Video
Ibrahim didn't understand the words at first.
The video where I fight.
They echoed in his head like a whisper from another world—confusing, impossible, and terrifying all at once.
He took a slow step toward Malek.
"What video, habibi?"
His voice was shaking without permission.
Malek brushed his fingers along the wooden windowsill.
He wasn't looking at Ibrahim—he couldn't.
But the boy's voice carried a strange calmness, the kind a child was never supposed to have.
"A week ago… someone recorded me. I didn't know. I don't really see people with my eyes… but I hear them."
Ibrahim felt his breath stop.
"Recorded you doing what?"
Malek hesitated.
Then, simply:
"Fighting."
Ibrahim blinked once. Slow.
He thought he misheard.
A ten-year-old blind boy… fighting?
"Malek… what do you mean fighting?" he asked quietly.
The boy lifted his chin, blind eyes hidden behind cloth.
"There were kids downstairs. They always push me. They think because I can't see… I can't hit. But I hear them. Their shoes… their breath… their heartbeat."
His small fingers tapped the air gently, as if following invisible rhythms.
"I know where they stand."
Ibrahim felt a chill climb up his spine.
"And you fought them?" he whispered.
Malek nodded.
"One of them tried to take my stick. I hit him before he touched me."
For a moment, Ibrahim didn't know what shocked him more:
…that his blind son was being bullied
or
…that his blind son fought back.
Malek continued, voice flat:
"Someone filmed it. They sent it everywhere. People keep coming… asking questions. Some want to talk to me. Some want to record more."
Ibrahim's jaw clenched.
"Who are these people?"
Malek turned his head toward the door.
"You'll see."
Before Ibrahim could ask more, a sharp knocking shook the rooftop entrance.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
His mother flinched.
Malek tilted his head.
"That's them."
Ibrahim stepped in front of his son instinctively.
"Who?" he growled.
Malek whispered:
"…The men who said they want to take me somewhere to 'train.'"
Ibrahim's blood turned cold.
Another knock—louder this time.
"I know you're in there," a man's voice called from outside.
"Open the door. We just want to talk to the boy."
Talk to the boy.
Ibrahim's fists clenched.
No.
Nobody was taking his son.
Not now.
Not ever.
He moved forward, ready to open the door and face whoever stood outside.
But before he reached it…
Malek touched his arm.
"Baba," the boy whispered, "don't open the door."
Ibrahim swallowed.
"Why not?"
Malek's blind eyes stared forward, empty yet knowing.
"Because I know that voice," he said.
"And he's lying."
Outside, the knocking turned into pounding.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
"Open up! We're not leaving!"
And Ibrahim realized…
The world had already discovered his son.
And it was coming for him.