Community Pressure
Chapter 24 – Community Pressure
The first time Belle felt community pressure, it didn’t arrive as a confrontation.
It arrived as a smile.
A too-bright smile.
The kind that looked polite on the surface and sharp underneath.
Belle learned quickly: pressure didn’t always shout.
Sometimes it whispered.
Sometimes it asked questions that weren’t really questions.
Sometimes it offered advice that wasn’t really kindness.
And sometimes it disguised itself as concern.
Aleem had warned her.
Not dramatically.
Not like a threat.
Just a quiet truth.
People will talk.
Belle had nodded, thinking she understood.
She didn’t.
Not until she stood in a lift with an aunty she had never met, and realised her relationship had already become public to someone else’s imagination.
It happened on a Friday.
Aleem had just finished Jumu’ah and was driving Belle to a quiet dinner.
They weren’t going anywhere special.
Just a halal café near his estate.
They were trying to keep things simple.
Because simplicity was what let Belle breathe.
As they walked through the void deck toward the car park, they passed a small group of older women sitting near the benches.
Makcik aunties.
Tudungs.
Plastic bags.
That familiar Singapore scene of elders existing loudly and lovingly in shared spaces.
One of the aunties looked up.
Her gaze flicked from Aleem to Belle.
Then back to Aleem.
Her smile widened.
“Eh, Aleem!” she called.
Aleem stopped.
Belle’s stomach tightened.
He turned with calm courtesy.
“Assalamualaikum,” Aleem greeted.
“Waalaikumsalam,” the aunty replied, waving.
Her eyes stayed on Belle.
“Wah, siapa ni?” the aunty asked, tone playful.
Who is this.
Belle’s chest tightened.
Aleem’s posture remained relaxed.
“This is Belle,” he said calmly. “My friend.”
Friend.
The word wasn’t a lie.
It was a shield.
A boundary.
A way of not feeding gossip.
Belle nodded politely.
“Hello, Auntie,” Belle said.
The aunty’s smile didn’t dim.
“Hello, hello,” she replied. “Chinese ah?”
The question was said lightly.
But it landed heavy.
Belle’s cheeks warmed.
“Yes,” Belle said.
The aunty hummed.
“Christian?” the aunty asked.
Belle froze.
How did she know?
Or did she just assume?
Either way, Belle felt her stomach drop.
Aleem answered smoothly.
“Auntie,” he said gently, “we’re just going for dinner.”
Not answering.
Redirecting.
The aunty laughed.
“Aiya, I just ask only,” she said, waving her hand. “Nowadays young people very sensitive.”
Sensitive.
Like Belle’s identity was an overreaction.
The aunty leaned forward slightly.
“But you know ah,” she continued, voice lowering conspiratorially, “if you want to marry, must convert.”
Belle’s chest tightened.
Her throat closed.
The words weren’t said cruelly.
They were said as fact.
But fact spoken by a stranger still felt invasive.
Aleem’s voice stayed calm.
“Auntie,” he said, tone gentle but firm, “we’re not discussing marriage here.”
The aunty blinked.
Then she laughed again.
“Aiya, okay lah,” she said, as if humouring him. “But you take care ah. Don’t play-play.”
Don’t play-play.
As if Aleem would.
As if Belle was a game.
Aleem nodded once.
“Okay, Auntie,” he said.
Then he turned to go.
Belle followed quickly.
Her heart hammered.
Her palms were sweaty.
She didn’t know if she was angry or ashamed or just… exposed.
In the lift, Belle stood very still.
Aleem pressed the button.
The doors closed.
Then he asked softly,
“You okay?”
Belle’s throat tightened.
“I…” she began.
She couldn’t find a word.
Aleem didn’t rush her.
He waited.
Belle finally whispered,
“She asked if I’m Christian.”
Aleem nodded. “Yeah.”
Belle’s voice shook. “How did she know?”
Aleem exhaled.
“She doesn’t know,” he said gently. “She guesses. People guess. They ask. They think they’re entitled to answers.”
Entitled.
Belle’s chest tightened.
Aleem’s gaze held hers.
“You don’t owe her anything,” he said quietly.
Belle swallowed.
“She said… convert.”
Aleem’s jaw tightened slightly.
“People will say that,” he said.
Belle’s eyes burned.
Aleem softened his voice.
“They don’t get to decide your pace,” he said. “Only you. And Allah.”
Belle’s breath hitched.
Allah.
The word still felt new.
But in Aleem’s mouth, it wasn’t used like a weapon.
It was used like a boundary.
A higher authority than auntie commentary.
Belle exhaled shakily.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Aleem nodded.
“Okay,” he replied.
The pressure didn’t stop there.
Because community pressure wasn’t one person.
It was a network.
A fog.
It seeped.
It followed.
It appeared when Belle least expected.
Like in a halal café, where the cashier smiled too warmly when Aleem ordered.
“Wah, brother, bring girlfriend ah?” the cashier teased.
Belle’s cheeks burned.
Aleem didn’t smile.
He didn’t scowl.
He simply said, calmly,
“Just dinner.”
Just dinner.
A shield.
Not denial.
Protection.
The cashier laughed.
“Okay lah okay lah,” the cashier said.
But the laughter felt like a small push.
A reminder:
You are visible.
You are being watched.
Even if nobody is trying to harm you.
Visibility was its own pressure.
After dinner, Belle sat in the car quietly.
Aleem drove.
The streetlights flashed across his face.
Belle watched the way he held the steering wheel.
Steady.
Controlled.
And she realised:
He had lived with this pressure his whole life.
Community expectations.
Religious assumptions.
The way other Muslims watched each other.
The way aunties policed choices.
He didn’t seem crushed by it.
He just… navigated.
Belle swallowed.
“Does it bother you?” she asked softly.
Aleem glanced at her briefly.
“The comments?” he asked.
Belle nodded.
Aleem exhaled.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But… I don’t live for them. If I did, I’d be exhausted.”
Belle’s throat tightened.
“I feel… exhausted already,” she whispered.
Aleem’s gaze softened.
“That’s why I shield you,” he said quietly.
Shield.
Belle’s chest tightened.
She whispered, “How?”
Aleem’s voice was calm.
“By not feeding it,” he said. “By not giving them your story. By not turning your life into a public discussion.”
Belle nodded slowly.
“That’s why you say ‘friend’,” she realised.
Aleem nodded.
“It’s not because I’m ashamed,” he said.
Belle’s throat tightened.
“I didn’t think you were,” she whispered.
Aleem’s jaw flexed.
“I’m not,” he said firmly. “But I also don’t want you to be eaten by other people’s opinions. Not now. Not while you’re healing.”
Eaten.
Belle’s stomach turned.
She had been eaten before.
By grief.
By a relationship that demanded she become smaller.
By a future that collapsed.
She didn’t want to be eaten again.
Aleem’s voice softened.
“And if someone says something directly to you, you can look at me,” he added. “You don’t have to answer. I will handle.”
Belle’s eyes burned.
Handle.
Not control.
Handle.
A buffer.
Belle whispered, “But won’t they judge you? For dating a Chinese girl?”
Aleem exhaled slowly.
“They can judge,” he said. “But I answer to Allah. And to my parents. And to the responsibility I chose.”
Responsibility.
Belle’s throat tightened.
He wasn’t choosing her like a thrill.
He was choosing her like a life.
The next pressure came from an unexpected direction.
Not aunties.
Not strangers.
Work.
It happened in Belle’s office pantry.
She was pouring hot water into her cup noodles when a colleague–Yvonne, who loved gossip like it was a hobby–leaned against the counter and said,
“Eh Belle, can I ask you something?”
Belle’s stomach tightened.
“Ask,” Belle replied cautiously.
Yvonne smiled.
“I saw you at Tampines Mall last week,” Yvonne said. “With a Malay guy. Very tall. Very clean-cut.”
Belle’s throat tightened.
Yvonne’s eyes glittered.
“Your new boyfriend ah?”
Belle froze.
Her instinct flared.
Hiding.
Protecting.
But then she remembered:
Not scandalous secrecy.
Protected space.
She didn’t owe Yvonne her life.
Belle forced a small smile.
“A friend,” Belle said.
Yvonne’s smile widened.
“Friend,” she repeated, clearly not believing.
Belle’s cup noodles steamed.
Her hands trembled slightly.
Yvonne leaned closer.
“But Belle,” Yvonne whispered, “if he Muslim, you must convert right? Wah, you sure you want? Later you cannot eat pork and cannot drink and cannot wear what you want.”
The words came fast.
Assumptions stacked like a wall.
Belle’s cheeks burned.
She felt the old urge–to defend.
To explain.
To prove.
Then she heard Aleem’s voice in her head:
Don’t feed it.
Belle exhaled.
“I’m not making any decisions because of anyone,” Belle said quietly.
Yvonne blinked.
Belle continued, voice steady,
“If I ever learn anything, it’s because I want to understand. That’s all.”
Yvonne frowned.
“Wah, you so serious,” Yvonne muttered.
Belle’s mouth tightened.
“This is my life,” Belle said softly.
A beat.
Yvonne shrugged.
“Okay lah,” she said, bored already. “Just asking.”
Just asking.
Always just asking.
Belle stirred her cup noodles with shaking fingers.
Her appetite disappeared.
That night, Belle told Aleem.
Not in a dramatic phone call.
Just a message.
Someone at work asked if I need to convert. It felt… intrusive.
Aleem replied quickly.
You don’t owe anyone answers.
Belle typed:
I know. But I feel… small. Like people see me as a problem to solve.
A pause.
Then:
You’re not a problem. You’re a person. If anyone treats you like an object, I’ll step in.
Belle’s throat tightened.
She typed:
What if your community thinks you’re weak for choosing me?
Aleem’s reply came steady.
If someone thinks mercy is weakness, that’s their issue. Not mine.
Mercy.
Belle stared.
Then she typed:
Okay.
Aleem replied:
Okay. Eat. Sleep. We’ll handle this properly.
Handle.
Proper.
Not panic.
Not performance.
Just… slow protection.
The next weekend, Belle encountered the pressure again–this time from an uncle at Aleem’s extended family gathering.
Aleem had warned her.
Not all family would be ready.
So Belle didn’t go inside.
She stayed outside the void deck, waiting in the car.
Aleem went up briefly to drop food.
When he returned, his expression was calm, but his eyes were sharper.
“What happened?” Belle asked softly.
Aleem exhaled.
“An uncle asked if you’re sincere,” he said.
Belle’s stomach dropped.
“She hasn’t even met them,” Belle whispered.
Aleem nodded.
“Exactly,” he said. “That’s why I didn’t bring you up. Because they don’t need access to your story.”
Belle’s throat tightened.
Aleem continued, voice controlled,
“I told him this is not his business. And that we’re taking it slow. And that if he wants to judge, he can judge me, not you.”
Belle’s eyes burned.
He had put himself between her and judgement.
A buffer.
Belle whispered, “Does it… hurt?”
Aleem glanced at her.
His gaze softened.
“It’s annoying,” he said. “But I’ve been judged before. I can handle. I don’t want you to handle yet.”
Yet.
The word mattered.
It wasn’t forever.
It was timing.
Protection.
Belle’s throat tightened.
“I don’t want to be a burden,” Belle whispered.
Aleem’s jaw tightened.
“You’re not,” he said firmly. “Burden is when someone takes without caring. You care. You’re trying. That’s not burden.”
Belle blinked.
Then she whispered, “Okay.”
Aleem nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
That night, Belle sat at her desk and wrote a list.
Not a wedding spreadsheet.
Not a plan.
Just… truths.
- I don’t owe strangers my story.
- I can be respectful without being swallowed.
- Aleem shields me, not to control, but to protect my pace.
- My parents’ boundary matters: I will not disappear.
- If faith becomes part of my life, it must be for Allah–not for approval.
Belle stared at the list.
Community pressure would continue.
It would show up as auntie smiles.
As office gossip.
As family uncles.
As subtle judgement.
But Belle realised something quietly powerful:
Pressure was not destiny.
It was noise.
And she didn’t have to let noise become her map.
She could choose what she responded to.
She could choose what she protected.
And she could choose mercy.
Not as weakness.
As strength.
Because mercy meant:
I refuse to let other people turn my life into their entertainment.
I refuse to let other people rush my sincerity.
I refuse to let other people make me disappear.
Belle closed her notebook.
She opened her phone.
Texted Aleem.
Thank you for shielding. I’ll learn to shield myself too.
His reply came quickly.
Okay. We do it together. Proper.
Belle’s chest tightened.
Together.
Proper.
The words didn’t erase pressure.
But they gave her something stronger than pressure.
A steady hand.
A quiet boundary.
A life built slowly–
not in response to other people,
but in truth.