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They sat with no cloth concealing their sacred body.

Right in front was a mirror for each surprising as it was, none

reflected their skin as it should be.

Echoing pain, plastered with scars all over the body.

The delicate pink on their cicatrise didn’t look the expected pretty.

Saleema could trace it back to when her Niqab couldn’t save her

that night

Rani recalled how her ghoonghat couldn’t shield her from their

monstrous lustful looks in broad daylight

Cathy couldn’t understand why her brother was allowed to be out

way past her curfew time

Little Mary wondered why her uncle’s hug never felt right

Damini was still baffled on how her father-in-law didn’t realise she

was his sons wife

And Sonia couldn’t make out how her favourite dress was an invite.

So many questions that were answered with more scars

Silence or they were answered with patriarchy’s inherit violence

From the right to hit the pride of becoming a ‘mard’

For being called a Casanova while she is a slut

Because you’re the man of the house and she belongs in the kitchen

While you can roam around shirtless she is supposed to be hidden

You have the right to touch her without consent

Because you’ve decided for her; how, what and when

But enough now!

Its’ time to turn the mirror around, time to show the society its weak

cultural structures, designed to control, designed to hurt her.


By Mohd. Aseer Adeeb


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