My mother started buying me things for my dowry when I was in middle school.
She got so many towels, sheets, underwear, blankets,
Pots and cups.
It was me and two or three other girls on the bus.
Two of them were veiled and one was wearing the niqab.
We were all standing in a corner.
We were surrounded by men.
There was a man sitting with his legs wide open and laughing loudly.
It was as if he was the owner of the bus and could act any way he liked.
When I got married,
I thought I’d have to stay at home.
I got a job right after I graduated.
I thought being a working wife would take up all my time.
I didn’t want my daughter to come home and not find me there.
I wouldn’t be a good mother that way.
That’s what we all used to believe would happen.
Social pressure; marriage; work; motherhood
I’m afraid of having children.
I’m afraid of raising a son or daughter in this country.
“C’mon, you need to have a baby soon.”
“Why don’t you want to have children?”
“Have you gone for a check up?”
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.
She committed a sin.
Her parents have been angry with her ever since.
It hurts knowing that if she were a guy,
They wouldn’t have treated her that way.
My mother raised six girls.
My eldest sister got married when my father was still alive.
The rest of them got married later after he passed.
social pressure, gender violence, motherhood, work, marriage, family, parents