I was attending a funeral where everyone was in tears.
The widower sat next to me and tearfully asked me,
“When are you going to get married?”

Their idea of “protection” is misconstrued.
It’s no different than my father putting me inside a box.

I was the only girl in an office full of men.
Sometimes, I’d have to work for twelve hours straight.
I’d get so exhausted when I got my period that I’d sometimes faint.
It’s not reasonable for me to get exhausted every month,
So I devised a story about how there’s something wrong with my kidneys.

“You eat with your left hand?
That’s haram.
How could your parents let you do that?”

I wish I could stop worrying about every word I say and every move I make.
I wish I didn’t have to hide parts of myself.
I wish I didn’t care about what people think.

I always imagined myself with short hair.
Until I got it cut.
I was happy.
I felt like myself.

I never fantasized about wearing a white gown and veil.
But I’m surrounded by people who interrogate me every year as to why I haven’t got married yet.

The first time he hit me was the day I found out I was pregnant.
He picked a fight with me when his friend and his wife were having dinner with us,
And I fried the mombar (a kind of sausage dish),
Before the chicken breasts.
He pulled me by my hair,
And dragged me to the stove,
And threatened to set me on fire to get rid of me.

I’m passive, weak, uneducated.
Veiled from head to toe.
One of his four wives.
Work in the kitchen all day.
And spread my legs wide at night.
That’s what you think, right?

My mother says that a girl’s degree and her career are more important than marriage.
They are her weapons.
That way, if she gets married and any trouble arises between her and her husband,
She’ll still have her career.
marriage, social pressure, engagement