The Years of Kneeling Light
Chapter Eleven: Adolescente
Year: 2000
The year the boys became men, I was called khawal—fag—for the first time.
It didn’t come from hate not yet.
It came from the mouths of boys with wet lips and half-grown bodies, spoken through laughter, as if they didn’t know the weight of the word they’d inherited.
I had simply walked a certain way that day.
Or maybe stood too close.
Or maybe smiled without shielding it with force.
“Eh ya khawal…” one said—“Hey, fag”—nudging the other, as if naming me was part of their game.
And I understood, then, that while they were learning how to claim, I was learning how to lower.
My body was changing too—but not like theirs. My voice deepened, yes, but my softness bloomed louder than sound.
I was still kneeling to the sheikh, still molded by hands that shaped me not with violence, but with silence.
Other boys grew muscles. I grew caution.
Other boys explored. I endured.
The years beneath the sheikh hadn’t made me masculine. They had made me still. They had trained me to be felt, not known.
So when that boy stayed after school, a classmate, curious, half-bored, talking about bodies like machines overheating in secret. I listened with my head tilted, my face unreadable.
He told me he’d started waking up in a mess. Told me how it felt. Asked if I had.
I didn’t answer.
I didn’t lie.
I just didn’t speak.
He looked at me strangely then like I was late to some ritual.
“You haven’t?” he asked, already sure I hadn’t.
And before I could explain what I didn’t even know how to say, he stood, lowered his pants slightly, and showed me.
Not with lust.
With ease.
With that careless pride boys wear when they think they’re teaching you a trick.
He touched himself, just enough to let it rise. Then placed my hand there.
And I didn’t pull away.
Because it was soft. Because it was warm.
Because I was used to obeying.
Because I didn’t know if I wanted it
but I knew I wouldn’t be punished for it.
And then my mouth moved.
Not from hunger.
Not even from full desire.
But from some ache inside me to be close,
to be useful,
to do what was asked even when it wasn’t asked.
Or maybe from habit.
I lowered my lips. Took him in.
And he didn’t stop me.
He came quickly. A sharp gasp. Then silence.
And I swallowed not out of calculation,
but because I was taught to.
What else do you do with what is given to you?
He zipped his pants with a strange look. A little pleased. A little stunned.
Then, almost laughing, he asked:
“Nta khawal?” —"Are you a fag?"
I looked at him, not knowing how to answer. I think I shook my head.
But inside, the question stayed.
Not because I believed him.
Not because it wounded me.
But because a part of me deep, trembling, silent
had waited for someone to ask.
