My parents explained to me in detail everything about puberty,
Before it happened.
They were psychologically preparing me for it,
So that I wouldn’t be taken by surprise.
They were also laying the groundwork for the social and religious obligations,
That accompany puberty.
I never feel shy asking him about anything.
He never turns me away.
“Let’s search for the answer together,” he’d always tell me.
Baba is amazing when it comes to respecting women.
I always thought I was special.
Or at least that is how my parents made me feel.
I used to watch the older girls from a distance.
I watched them go through through their monthly agony: their period.
I was disgusted at the blood coming out of me.
I saw it the way they did: dirty blood.
Blood that forbade me from praying.
Blood that meant a woman couldn’t sleep with a man—or so say they say.
Blood that I tried to hide.
womahood, period, body image
I was 13 years old the first I got it.
I got cramps,
So I went to the bathroom.
I was scared by the blood and called my mother.
She opened the door and saw me.
“Do you know what that is?” she asked me.
“Yes,” I replied.
She closed the door and sent someone to buy me pads.
My sister, who is 3 years younger than me,
Got her period 6 months before I did.
She was 11 years old then,
And I was 14.
I don’t really remember the details of the first day,
But I remember being afraid.
Afraid of growing up,
Of having to wear the hijab.
Of not being young anymore,
And the changes my body will go through.