My name is Khadra.
I’m 33 and I’m a middle school dropout,
But I don’t know how to read or write.
My parents passed away, and I have three kids:
Basma, Dina, and Amr.
My husband passed away too.
She stood, pretty as a picture,
In the midst of a place that despised beauty.
The eyes of the passengers, once cold and dead, were now filled with anger and jealousy.
Filled with unspoken words I’ve heard before.
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 believes that this piece of fabric not only covers my head, but my brain too, affecting its ability to function intellectually.
I’m always told that my actions and ideas don’t befit my headscarf.
People always expect me to act like a nun, and to always defend the headscarf and the conduct of every covered female.
Husband: That’s marriage for you. Pure headache.
I was happy hanging out with my friends.
(snorting drugs)
Wife: What are you doing?
Husband: I’m not doing anything.
(hides the plate)
romantic relationships, marriage, social pressure
You gotta be a strong man.
You can’t be a teacher’s pet because that’d make you a sissy.
You gotta be clever.
And be friends with the right people.
You must have connections, and be in control.