Zahra W.
This question has been eating my brain for years:
To whom does my life belong?
My father or my brother?
My husband or my son?
The neighbor? The driver? Or the relatives?
When I don’t have control
Over its most personal aspects,
Is it still my life?
When my father decides what I should wear,
And my brother decides where I can and can’t go,
When the driver wants my eyes for winking,
And the neighbor my body for touching without my consent,
When whether I am “good” or “bad” depends on which relative is speaking,
When I am called by my husband or my son’s name,
What part of this life is mine?
Even boys on the streets who stare at me,
And call me a slut for leaving the house,
Have more rights over my life and body than me.
If my life belongs to me,
Why have others created its boundaries?
My body, my soul, and my life are mine
And I alone must control them.
If someone can’t respect that,
They are free to leave.