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.

After I left him,
I rented a place in a building that belonged to one of my friends,
Because my sister would call my ex to come over,
so I left her and swore I’d never set foot in her place again.
social stigma, divorce, sex work

I was one of those girls who wore the hijab during Ramadan when I was young.
I wore it during middle school and high school,
Because they told us that if a man admires our hair when we’re fasting,
That nullifies both his fast and ours.
social pressure, social stigma

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.

Hair, The Street

In elementary school,
I wanted to take karate and swimming lessons.
But mama refused, because I was a girl and it was inappropriate.
social stigma, social pressure

I was walking down the street, when a police car sped by me,
As if it were on a highway,
And our street is narrow, I mean, it doesn’t make any sense.
There were people walking and children playing.
He could have hit me, so I was startled.
social stigma, gender violence

“Don’t listen to him.
Your body is not defined by kilograms and centimeters.
Your body does not define you.
You’re beautiful.
You’re more beautiful than you and others think.
You’re talented and smart.
Your value is not determined by a number on a scale or by your clothing size.”

I was eight years old.
I was playing in the streets,
Where a sixty year old man used to sell honey.
He would get us honey every month.
That time there was no one at home.

I wore the hijab even though I wasn’t really convinced I should.
I was trying to please God, since it’s an obligation for Muslim women.
It was also a way of meeting society’s standards of being modest.

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.