I am ungrateful you say. I should be happy with the curves my mother bestowed on me. Acceptance is what you say I should have. Huh… Maybe my granddaughter. You do not know who I truly am. Mentally broken with a heart that has lost all hope, That is me. I am trapped by the trauma you have imposed on me. Not a single day passes by Where I do not fear, I can feel your glances as you eye me up and down. Oppressed by the sheer weight of your expectations, And the voice that tells me to run. The streets are your playing ground, With catcalls sounding the warning “Let the Games begin.” Sexually tempting and free game for all, is what you teach me. You the hunter and I the prey. Aroused by the fact that I am female, by my vulnerability, by the hard work I put in to meet your standards. Freedom is what I yearn for; To dress without fear of your prolonged glare upon my breasts. Ever dreaming you tell me. I have to accept it. I NEVER WILL BE.
As the airport sliding doors the air changed. With me were three bags, in total only one outfit for my journey back. This was home. Men hurrying past, joyful as they could be not an ounce of worry and women clustered in clumps smiling with eyes on high alert. This was home.
I had never been more than average. Where there was shadows is where you could find me. Oversized shirts, dresses that swept the floor made up my entire wardrobe. I never wanted to be seen. Never.
When you heard speeches and stories about women accepting their bodies and loving who they are, it was great. However, this was not reality. School mornings consisted of videos of women being brutally attacked. Stripped naked for choosing to wear to short a dress. Certainly when the sunset, women dared not to be on the streets. Everyday stories of missing girls and women surfaced. If ever found, one could only see an empty shell.
How does one then feel like there body is their own? There was an eye on you. On one hand sex was a good thing, but people practiced traditions devaluing women with sexual experience outside of marriage. Likewise the ability to perform household chores, determined a wife’s worth. But this was all in the name of women empowerment.
For this is home. A place where we teach love but act in reverse. Is this truly women empowerment?
Above all, I write this to bring a voice for women in countries were women rights are almost none existent. Where education is a privilege, and marriage a hopeful escape. To learn about these countries I have linked a couple of websites below:
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