You’re the ones who said it was better for me to attend an all girls’ school.
You told me to completely avoid anyone with short hair, and I did!
No clubs, no trips, no talking to any male relatives.
No going to places that could present any opportunity to interact with the male species.

Unlike most girls, I never had any expectations or dreams about my wedding night. Nor did I exert any effort to think of what would happen once I was alone with my husband—whom I hardly knew—for the first time.

"Aside from anything else,
I need to have sex.
Can you tell me what to do?
I'm a divorced lady with two kids,
and I just need to have sex.
What am I supposed to do?”

The ancient rural house always filled me with fear.
The fear doesn’t just stem from the tales that we weaved around it,
but also from the terrifying scene that I once witnessed in the courtyard of that house.
This scene has been imprinted in my mind for many years, and I haven't been able to shake it off till now.

Long ago I decided to forget and to forgive, and ever since, I've been forgetting everything and forgiving anything.
So, each time you hurt me, I would just forget what you've done and all you've said.

One day I called her to see if we can go out together to the mall so that I can shop for some clothes and other things I needed. She said: “OK, but I have to take my dad’s permission first because he’s off from work today and he’s staying home and I won’t be able to fool him.”

When I’m alone, pondering my rejection of this rotten, patriarchal world, I wonder if my opinions truly are extreme.
I mean, so what if my uncle divorced his wife five times?
And what's wrong with my other uncle being married to three women at the same time?
And why is it a big deal that my aunt was once beaten up with a pair of flip flops for refusing to make a cup of tea for her
husband, who was lazing in front of the TV watching a football match while she was busy scrubbing the bathroom floor?