Contributions – Month 5

Artwork by Isma (@ismagulhasan) Ribbon turned school sash Which is to say, my growth Shameful as it is will draw Eyes otherwise, The sash like a hungry caterpillar Feeds on my attention Becomes a thriving dupatta On my 12 year old body Boldly declaring me ‘Potential Crime Scene’ The eyes linger & follow Playground to […]

Artwork by Misha Ali (@nicenichecartoons) Some thoughts of a girl who was sexually harassed by her brother    Writing the title made me anxious to point out how my brother didn’t actually rape me, but *just* showed me pornographic pictures against my will, inappropriately touched my breasts, pressed his penis against me and showed me

Artwork by Misha Ali (@nicenichecartoons) Excuse me Sir, will you be kind enough to point us to a direction where we can feel safe, where our bodies do not feel like  crimes waiting to be committed, where hungry eyes don’t follow  us like we are the next prey in a long assembled line  where our hands do not need  to clutch pepper sprays and cars keys like weapons as a last resort (because you know what I mean)  and our lips are not numb from repeating Surah Yaseen on hundreds of prayer beads. Tell me where should we go in order to exist without becoming another rape or violence statistic?   We have lived for far too long  in a society where our choices become crimes that we have to pay for by bleaching their sins of our skin,  by walking into the light at all times even if it means blinding our eyes; everyone knows that  darkness is an open invite for monsters to hide in plain sight. At the age of 17 I have started to fear for my life, for my future, for innocence  that might be stolen but most of all I fear for the justice we are not being given.   We are a a generation of women  whose mothers have sewn silence into  our mouths like a first language and our tongues have become lead from lack of use because we were told that men might not hurt the mute, our smiles are rusted and bruised  since if they are used someone might confuse and abuse it as a sign of consent.  Us teenage girls with silent rebellions and switch blades tucked in our purses, Us women with chains around our necks and anger that doesn’t burn anything  other than ourselves let alone the patriarchy.   What does it mean to have a home? How will we know when we are told that our bodies are the ones that 

Artwork by Nisha (@nishaghani) What do you call a relationship with someone who you thought you loved, and who you thought was good for you? What do you call that feeling of all your energy and your life force being drained every time you spoke to them, and it turned into yet another fight. How

Art by Arisha (@sitaradoodles) “Can you hear me?”  “Yeah, can you?” “Yep.”    We said those mundane statements  All the time.  Never really put any thought into it After all, it was just clarification  If we could see and hear.  Right?    But that day was different.  I woke up with northern downpour in my

Artwork by Ayesha Sultan (@meat_eating.orchids) To my body, mera jism.  I am sorry. I am sorry for my unkindness towards you, for all the times that I abandoned you when you yelled for help.  At eight, as you squirmed in disgust when Qaari Sahb touched but you were too young to process what he was

Art by Aziza (@wowhotawhat) As hard, as I try, I can’t remember the night I was assaulted. Don’t get me wrong; I remember enough from that night. I remember the clothes I was wearing – a favorite shirt that was loose enough that I could wear it at home without worrying about being policed, a

Artwork by her @everrglo.w Poem 1: Aesthetics-In Tongues / My body has aesthetics A taste/ A style it abide’s with me.   But the aesthetics diminish I have been led on, On the tracks/ in the shoes of same brand It doesn’t works with me-the brand Yet I’m forced to walk(in them) The world i felt on my shoulders It conspired against me,  My aesthetics  Are just accessories? Accessories of the same brand,   I’m forced to embrace? I was brought in the world just so I can be an accessory? What about my aesthetics, aren’t they really what makes me distinctive?   My body has aesthetics  A taste/ A style it abide’s with me. But I lost it.   Poem 2: Air of Patriarchy   lingering and breathing in air of patriarchy. Posters of grief, aur ye unkahi baatein crumbled under your footsteps.  life that accepted man’s actions and repelled women’s azaadi- Footsteps towards takabur. Birth of the lost boy who was taught love but defined envy within the char deevari. You called it a jung, while the torment sweeps away the dead remains of aurat aur uski izzat. Aurat to bus aurat hai,  kisi kinaare per toot pari Yahi dil behta chala gaya  Raaste, ye waade sub jhaar gaye Aur lehro mein iski izaat doob    Bakhtawar I’m Bakhtawar Azhar 16 years old currently