I have a problem with my body.
It suddenly got bigger and I felt the need to always hide it.
I had to hide my hair and my breasts.
And menstruation was the biggest secret of all.

Noha and I are old friends.
Right before she and I started wearing the hijab, we went to rent a beach house.
Our hair was down and we were wearing summer clothes.
I can’t begin to tell you how well they treated us.
They were very respectful.

One time I got a suitor who had really good manners.
There was nothing wrong with him, but I rejected him.
I just didn’t feel it.
After I rejected him, my uncle called me and said
“The suitor called and he’s visiting us tomorrow.”
social pressure, social stigma, marriage

I had a recurring dream when I was young,
That my mother wasn’t actually my mother,
And that my father was married to another woman,
Who looked exactly like my mother.
I don’t know why I kept having this dream.
Maybe because my mother was very hard on me,
And my father was kind.
Everyone used to say that he spoiled me.
But I didn’t see it that way.
He used to shout all the time,
And my mother used to hit me,
So I’d grow up to be a proper housewife.

I want to feel like I’m on solid ground.
Not like I’m on a piece of paper, flying about in the air.

I don't regret anything;
I just had no idea what I was getting myself into:
the lies, the secrecy, the plotting,
the unethicality of the women of the family I was marrying into
and the blind denial of the men.

My dad tells me, "If you get into a fight, you won't be able to do anything, and you'll get beat up."
My friend tells me, "This isn't a man's body!"
and my sister makes fun of me!
I'm going to start going to the gym or I'll take up a sport, but when I do that, I'll be doing it for myself, and not for anyone else.

Unlike most girls, I never had any expectations or dreams about my wedding night. Nor did I exert any effort to think of what would happen once I was alone with my husband—whom I hardly knew—for the first time.

My story is the story of hundreds of people.
The story is that of differences.
The difference that isn’t allowed,
Which you’re scared of and hate,
Because you know it’s haram.

My problem is that I am staying at my ex-husband’s apartment.
After I was released from jail, my children all got either engaged or married.
We told people that their father was a political detainee.
And that I lived near where he was held to visit him and bring him food.
prison, social stigma