Where should the mad woman go?

Fauzia' (not her real name) lay on the bed, a blanket covering half of her body, including the hands. Her brother, 'Wahab', held her from the back. The rest of the family stood around them – the daughters crying, the mother praying, the brother shouting, the sister-in-law scandalised. This was not the first time Fauzia was suffering from such a fit. Over the past three months this had become a regular feature of the family's life. But it was becoming dangerous, and 'Maria', Fauzia's sister-in-law, was afraid of the impact this was bound to have on her two young children.

For the moment, however, that was the least of the concern for the rest of the family. Lying still as a rock, Fauzia glared at her finger, which was protruding from within the blanket. Along both sides of her arms were cuts, about an inch and a half deep. These were not there last night, her family said, so they were fresh, yet there was no blood. Previously, many shirts had evidently been destroyed in a similar fashion, shredded to ribbons in the night. Wahab forced Fauzia to take out her hands from the blanket, to which she resisted with great force. Being a strong man, Wahab finally overpowered his sister – her right index finger was erect, smeared in blood. Fauzia continued to stare at it. 'They've cut my finger – this is not my finger,' Fauzia said, petrified and struggling to maintain her voice. 'They've cut my finger. This is a knife. They've replaced it with a knife.'