The Madrasa Headmistress | ناظرة المدرسة
"A young teacher at a girls' madrasa. The headmistress who runs it with an iron fist. Their rivalry becomes something else entirely."
The Madrasa Headmistress
ناظرة المدرسة
Al-Huda Girls' Madrasa has rules.
Strict rules. Proper hijab. Segregated spaces. No music, no phones, no contact with the outside world.
Begum Sahiba enforces every one.
I'm Farah.
Twenty-four, fresh from teacher training. My first position—teaching Quran recitation to the younger students.
And my first encounter with Begum Sahiba.
"You're late."
"I'm sorry, ma'am. The traffic—"
"Don't make excuses. Don't be late again."
She's terrifying.
Fifty-two, built like a fortress, with a voice that could stop a charging bull. The students whisper that she's never smiled, never softened, never shown anything but iron discipline.
I believe them.
Weeks pass.
I learn to be early. To follow rules I don't always understand. To keep my head down and my opinions silent.
But I also notice things.
The way Begum Sahiba watches me during assembly. The way she finds excuses to visit my classroom. The way her eyes linger on my body before snapping away.
"Your recitation is excellent," she says one afternoon.
We're alone in her office. She called me in for "evaluation."
"Shukria, Begum Sahiba."
"Where did you learn?"
"My grandmother. She was a hafiza."
"That explains it." She's quiet for a moment. "You have a gift, Farah. Don't waste it on these village girls."
"I don't consider it a waste."
"No?" She tilts her head. "What do you consider it?"
"Service. To Allah and to these children."
"Service." She says the word like she's tasting it. "Is that all?"
"What else would it be?"
She doesn't answer. Just looks at me with those steel eyes until I feel stripped bare.
The tension builds.
Every interaction charged. Every evaluation a chess match. She criticizes my methods; I defend them. She pushes; I push back.
"You're stubborn," she accuses.
"You're rigid."
"I'm effective."
"You're afraid."
That stops her.
"What did you say?"
"You're afraid. Of change. Of softness. Of anything that challenges your perfect control." I don't know where this courage is coming from, but I can't stop. "Including your feelings about me."
"My feelings?"
"I see how you look at me. When you think no one's watching."
Her face goes pale.
Then red. Then something I can't read.
"Get out."
"Begum Sahiba—"
"Now."
I expect to be fired.
Instead, she avoids me. Stops visiting my classroom. Sends another teacher to deliver messages.
It lasts two weeks.
Then she summons me again.
"Close the door."
It's after hours. The students are gone. The other teachers too.
"If you're going to fire me—"
"I'm not going to fire you." She stands. Crosses to me. "I'm going to do something far more foolish."
She kisses me.
Hard. Desperate. Like she's been holding back a flood and the dam just broke.
"Astaghfirullah," she gasps against my mouth.
"Astaghfirullah," I echo.
Neither of us stops.
We end up on her desk.
Papers scattered, propriety destroyed. She undresses me with shaking hands, like she can't believe what she's doing.
"I've never—" she starts.
"I know."
"How do you—"
"I just know." I cup her face. "Let me show you."
I show her.
Kiss by kiss, touch by touch. She's responsive in ways I didn't expect—years of repression making her sensitive, desperate.
"Allah—Farah—"
"Let go. Just once. Let go."
She lets go.
Comes apart under my hands with a cry that echoes off the office walls. When she finishes, she's trembling.
"Your turn," she whispers.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." She meets my eyes. "Teach me."
She learns fast.
Pays attention to my sounds, my movements. When she finally makes me come, there's triumph in her eyes.
"Good student?" she asks.
"Excellent student."
We lie on her office floor.
Headmistress and teacher, tangled in sin.
"This can never happen again," she says.
"I know."
"It changes nothing."
"I know."
"Same time tomorrow?"
"...I know."
One year later
I'm still at the madrasa.
So is she. We've become experts at deception—locked offices, careful schedules, a relationship that exists only in shadows.
"I love you," she says one night.
"I love you too."
"We're going to burn for this."
"Then we'll burn together."
She pulls me close.
In her office, where it all started. Where the iron headmistress learned that some rules were meant to be broken.
"Together," she agrees.
Alhamdulillah.
For strict rules that bend.
For iron walls that crack.
For love that grows in unexpected places.
The End.