From the moment an Arab girl’s body begins to change, she is put on trial.
Not for what she’s done, but for daring to exist.
The rules arrive like verdicts:
“Cover up properly.”
“Sit up straight.”
“It’s shameful to laugh like that.”
“Lower your gaze.”
“Don’t talk about such things.”
اِلبِسِي مِنِّيح
اِقعُدِي عَدِل
عَيْب تِضْحَكِي هِيك
غِضِّي بَصَرِك
لا تِفْتَحِي هِيك مَوَاضِيع
They call it protection.
They call it religion.
They call it love.
But what it really is, is control.
A cage built with shame.
A system designed to keep us small, obedient, afraid.
Afraid of being seen.
Afraid of being wanted.
Afraid of wanting.
This is how a girl’s body is turned into a crime scene before it ever becomes her own.
Desire becomes dangerous.
Curiosity becomes corruption.
Sexuality becomes sin.
And so we learn to erase ourselves.
Not just our skin, but our hunger.
Not just our questions, but our joy.
We learn to carry the burden of everyone else’s shame.
But shame is not sacred.
And silence is not protection.
Silence is disappearance.
And we’ve disappeared enough.
Our mothers were taught to endure.
We were taught to endure.
But endurance is not freedom.
Obedience is not virtue.
Fear is not faith.
So what if we are done enduring?
What if we say, without apology:
I choose.
I want.
I am.
Not rebellion, reclamation.
Because our bodies were never dangerous.
What’s dangerous is a woman who knows her body is hers.
A woman who no longer folds herself to fit the smallness of others.
A woman who refuses to make her existence conditional.
So let’s stop folding.
Say it, in Arabic, in English, in the language of every woman who’s been told her body is shame:
My body is not your honour.
My voice is not your threat.
My existence is not your permission to grant.
We will not whisper.
We will not bow.
We will roar.
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