I used to beat up the boys with me in class until primary school.
I was tall,
Had a big belly,
And the boys hadn’t reached puberty yet.
They used to call me the “big girl.”

How is it that he molests me, and takes away a part of me,
but I’m expected to censor myself when I tell the story?
I regret ever listening to what you had to say,
to what you call traditional or proper or haram.

One time, an old lady sat next to me on the tram.
She kept looking at me.
“Are you engaged?” she asked.
“No.”
“Of course you’re not.”
“Excuse me?”

Everyone knew that these pictures were fake and fabricated and that she didn’t do anything.

But their reaction was that they wanted to kill her.

I was making my way out of the Ramses metro station—I lived in Shubra at the time.
I was wearing a maxi skirt and a long sleeved shirt, and my hair was tied back into a bun.
I look disheveled. 
gender violence, sexual violence, social pressure, public transportation

No one would have told me:
“That’s a really effeminate way of sitting.”
“Why do you cross your legs when you sit?”

I was the last one to get her period at school.
I was 15 years old.
It was just me and one other girl left.
Everyone thought getting their period was a big deal, but not me.

Don’t shame us.
Do you understand? Don’t you understand?
The towels.
The sheets.

I was the only one left on the bus.
I kept banging my fists against the car to get off, but the driver wouldn’t stop.
I banged and banged and banged, but he wouldn’t stop.
I was very scared.
I thought he’d kidnap me or dump my body in an area called Al-Khour,
And no one would ever find me.
gender violence, sexual violence, social pressure

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