My father was the first person to touch me.
I used to tell myself that I was imagining it.
When he’d touch me with his leg from behind,
I’d tell myself he was just being playful.

I was running to get away from him.
I was running so I wouldn't get kidnapped in the dark.
It’s as if the world decided to stand against me.
I hopped in a minibus,
And I don’t remember what happened after.

I’m 32 years old.
I’m divorced, and I don’t have any children.
When I turned 32, everyone pressured me into getting married.
I honestly wasn’t really looking forward to it.

At the beginning, my husband treated me like a friend and wife.
He was like he was a friend, a brother, a husband, and a son to me. He was good to me.
Then, he changed.
He treated me like I was a man and only occasionally like a woman.
I thought he was cheating on me.
domestic violence, parents, work, marriage, divorce, romantic relationships

Baba used to beat us with a whip and a cane for the most trivial reasons.
A broken tea cup, an unfinished plate of food.
Whenever I complained to mama, she’d tell me it was my fault I annoyed baba!
So I grew up thinking this was normal.
Fathers hit their daughters to discipline them.

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.

My father used to hit my mother and siblings.
Sometimes for a reason,
And other times, for no reason at all.
He slapped her across the face once in front of strangers,
Because he didn’t want to pay for the T.V. to get fixed.

He used to hit me,
And curse me.
He wanted me to quit everything: work and school.
Because he wasn’t very ambitious.
He only agreed that I get a job when we decided he’d take my salary.
“You should thank God I married you,” he’d say.
“You’re supposed to clean up my shit.”
domestic violence, marriage, divorce, gender violence, physical violence

Why hit me for peeing myself,
When she could’ve tried to figure out why I was struggling with it?
Why hit me for putting on lipstick as a child,
When she could’ve just told me not to?
Why hit me with belts, cables and shoes,
When she could’ve reasoned with me?

I’m 27 years old. When I was 19, I left my mother’s place, taking my sisters along with me, and went to stay at my father’s.
We left because mother used to beat and belittle us.
In her mind, she owned us. She educated us. We belonged to her.