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
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