I could never forget,
How in the midst of the screams, beatings, killing,
The fires and tear gas in Tahrir,
I felt your hand violating me.

“When I told my friends that you refused to hold my hand they asked me why I was still with you.”
“Then leave!” I exclaimed.

All I remember is that I couldn’t stop crying,
As she kept cutting my hair shorter and shorter.
I used to believe that the essence of beauty lied in having long hair.
The longer your hair gets, the more beautiful you become.

Look at me. Do you see me? Do you really see me?
Of course, all you see is a girl that looks like she comes from a good family.
But don’t be fooled by this quiet demeanour.
I’m burning on the inside.
No one can feel the anger inside me.

The story about Hamada began when I started a fellowship in a reputable university.
We were six girls and two boys.
We were studying community development.
I found a message from Hamada one day saying,
“I miss you.”

Why don’t I trust my body?
When I felt comfortable with you, why didn’t I believe that I was actually in love?
I didn’t believe the touch of the hand or my head resting on your shoulder.
Or when you lifted me off the ground so we could dance.

I acted like I wasn’t disgusted, but I was disgusted!
I pretended I wasn't because I felt it would be shameful for me to be hurt when people judge my body and then turn around and judge your body!
In a perfect world, we’d love every body type.

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.