by Zaroya Amjad
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| #JusticeforNoor was trending last week on Twitter in Pakistan, after Noor Mukadam, 27, was stabbed and beheaded in an upscale district of Islamabad. The week prior, #JusticeforQuratulain had been the top hashtag after the mother of four was tortured to death by her husband in Hyderabad. And earlier this month, it was #JusticeforSaima, who was shot dead after her husband opened fire on her and her children in Peshawar. Photo: Women's rights activists place candles and flowers beside posters with the pictures of Noor Mukadam, who was recently brutally beheaded by her childhood friend. The killing of Mukadam in an upscale neighborhood of Pakistan's capital has shone a spotlight on the relentless violence against women in the country. AP Photo via The National (UAE), July 31, 2021) |
Within the bleak paranoia of fear and rage,
My skinny fingers, blemished with
The ink of denial and self assurance arise,
To write a crimson letter to patriarchy on behalf of
Every abandoned dream,
Joy and happiness sitting silently
In the corner of my shallow ribcage
I am a human being
Made of flesh and bones
Holding a universe in my eyes
And vortexes of melancholy in the
Empty spaces of my heart
I walk, out on the streets and
Instead of seeing me as an art,
A masterpiece of God,
You look at me like a target,
A billboard of your desires,
A menu of your favorite 'desi' restaurant
The ideas I speak of will take you beyond the Moon
Beyond the horizons of your notions
Beyond the parallel universe
Up in the sky, far from the heavens
But you take them as mere blabbering
Coming out of my cherry lips
I speak of bare truths, unraveling the lies,
Dismantling the facade of "Equality" "Women Rights" and
"Respect for all" you hide behind
Disguising the beatings, the rapes, assaults,
Unfair treatment, abuse and hurt
What you actually are,
I show you in the mirror and you break it with the
Sledgehammer of your hefty ego
I open myself, weep and portray my emotions
And you label me as weak, timid and fragile
Not worthy of the CEO post
But worthy of the low paid teaching job
In a private school built in the sector of your insecurities
I mention my joys and sorrows,
Dreams and goals and you hush me up,
Telling me my place is in the four walls of home
Home never felt like home to me,
Despite of the beatings and screaming of the male dominant members
Of my household I tried to dwell in it and yet
I couldn't
I fill the holes of your toxic words in my soul
With self love taught by my mother
And yet I fail to do so, for no matter how hard I try,
How much I become good at something,
You make me feel like I'm still not enough
You tell me my clothes are made of shame
With vulgarity knitted on them
So how will you justify rape now?
You chain me within the confines of your self-built city of good women
Not letting me go out, seek and discover myself
Only because I was born with a pair of ovaries?
Why shall I be told by you what to do with my body
When you yourself do now own a body
So exquisite and strong?
I bear your abusive words, you catcall me on the streets
When I'm on my way home, minding my own business,
Thinking about every worse thing that has happened today
And not even surprisingly,
You're on top of the list
Zaroya Amjad is a 22-year-old Pakistani writer, blogger, and poet. She recently graduated from Air University, Islamabad and writes for various Pakistani magazines.
