“Hajj, where do you want to go?
I’ll take you.”
“Help me cross the street,
To my house.”
“What’s your name?”
I told him my name.
“What’s your father’s name?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Are you not Muslim?”
He took me, and said,
“Don’t worry. People in love do this.”
He gave me a pill, which made me dizzy.
I didn’t feel a thing.
“I want to tell you something,
I’m just not sure how to say it,” he said.
He paused and then said,“Noha, you have AIDS.”
“And you?”
He said he didn’t have it.
“Fine,” I said, “What am I going to do.”
My hair is curly,
And I love it.
I’m tired of the stupid things people say to me.
Going out is one of the worst experiences ever.
I feel a knot in my stomach whenever I’m about to go out.
I don’t know if this is social anxiety.
I have self-confidence,
And I love my hair.
I wish people would accept differences.
“You eat with your left hand?
That’s haram.
How could your parents let you do that?”
I was always humiliated and beaten up over the most trivial reasons.
He’d hit me and flip the dining table over if there was just a little extra salt in his food.
I was never allowed to open my mouth and give my opinion.
Cooking zucchini was always a frightening experience, because if just one piece of zucchini turned out smaller than the other, it’d be a disaster.
Ever since I was a kid, I struggled to please everyone around me. I tried to look they way they wanted me to.
“Wear this”. Okay.
“Get a haircut”. Okay.
“Dancing isn’t allowed”. Okay.