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That night, the angel manifested himself before me again. He stood, his outline shimmering slightly in the darkness of my bedroom.

"Bouzoul", I said, "I know you want me to write my story. But what do I have that a million other young Algerian girls don't have? We've all been working from dawn till dusk kneading the dough baking the bread washing the clothes tethering the goat feeding the baby."

Bouzoul said nothing.

"And we've all been bored enough to let some boy drag us behind a bush take our clothes off fondle our thirteen-year-old bodies. Maybe we even enjoyed it. And then we get discovered screamed at forced to spread our legs while our parents determine whether our most precious possession, our hymen, is still intact."

Bouzoul looked disappointed.

"And we've all had our crazy mothers shave our heads tie us to a palm tree beat us half-dead. I'm nothing special."

Bouzoul lifted an eyebrow. I sighed.

"Okay, okay," I said. "You're right. I can see the funny side."