That evening, after a long and exhausting day, I entered my room seeking refuge from the noise of the world. I lay down on my bed, scrolling mindlessly through photos and videos. Until a scene from an American movie caught my attention.
A teenage girl excitedly tells her mother that her period has arrived. Her mother’s eyes sparkle with pride as she hugs her daughter and whispers:
– You’ve become a woman.
The scene was a small celebration of love and pride, but it opened a time gate inside me. I felt myself returning to the age of thirteen, to the day it happened to me for the first time. I found no embrace, no tear of joy. I found silence, confusion, and fearful glances. In my environment, when a girl reaches puberty, she is not celebrated; she is treated as if she has committed a sin.
I was an extraordinary child, full of energy. I ran, sang, danced, climbed trees, and tried every sport I saw in movies: football, basketball, volleyball, tennis… I even learned baseball with a bat I made myself. I imitated Jackie Chan and practiced karate moves from his films.
I lived my childhood freely—until that day… the day of my first period.
They covered my head, as if wrapping my entire body. I felt a weight pulling me to the ground, as if an iron chain surrounded my soul. From that moment, I no longer ran, climbed trees, or rode a bike. I went from a child flying freely to a woman walking burdened with restrictions.
In my society, if a veiled girl runs, sings, or dances, she becomes the talk of the town. Everything beautiful inside me was destroyed in the name of religion and tradition.
I always wondered: What if my wings hadn’t been broken? What if I had been allowed to fly?
But I grew up weighed down by sadness. In my society, teenage girls are treated as guilty before they make a mistake, and women are punished if they love or say “no.”
The stories of women in my region never end:
In Syria, two women escaped their abductors, only to be killed by their own families instead of being protected, in the name of “honor.” Victims are punished while the rapist goes free.
In Palestine, a girl went on a date with a man who intended to propose, and returned lifeless after being beaten to death by her family.
In Jordan, a father ended his daughter’s life and calmly drank tea beside her body.
In Iraq, a man burned his wife for contacting her family via phone.
In Yemen, a girl was raped, but the court accused her of seducing her attacker and released him.
In the Gulf countries, girls were killed and buried in silence… as if they had never lived.
These stories do not fully reflect the horror of reality; the truth is far worse, filled with the graves of women killed simply for being women.
All this happens while society applauds, governments remain silent, and laws protect the killers.
My family did not kill me, but they killed my childhood and my femininity by taking away everything I loved just because I had become a “woman.” In the Middle East, if your body is not killed, your dreams are.
Forty years passed before I reclaimed myself, before I removed my hijab and gathered the fragments of my dreams. Forty years to learn that I am not shameful—I am a human being who deserves to live.
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