Afghan Women’s Writing Project | Afghan Woman.
When you see me, you can never know
it is I: a woman with a smile.
When you see me, you can never know
it is I. I’m covered, hidden, censored.
Do you think this is my choice?
Do you think this is my culture—my wish
maybe—to be covered so?
I say: It is wrong to hide me,
wrong to think it is my culture.
It is not my wish to be covered, hidden,
broken. My desire—I will tell you—
is to wear a rainbow-colored dress.
I walk into a room—the darkest room.
A man is there. Who is he? I wonder.
He is not the one of my dreams.
He comes close to me, closer,
grips my hands, touches my breasts.
Suddenly, there is a storm in his eyes.
The room becomes a prison cell.
My teeth pierce my tongue.
I taste blood in my mouth. By way of my feet,
my desires desert me.
I am a woman, an Afghan,
an Afghan woman. Is this who I am?
He treats me like an animal,
commands me to lie down.
He knows what to use me for:
A baby machine, or a servant is good.
He hides me, covers me, all of me,
tries, tries to turn me into his slave.
But he can never touch inside of me
where the sky of my soul lives.
He cannot see that I am strong and powerful.
In my rainbow-colored dress, I am his equal.
I will not be his slave.
I will not be the victim of his crimes.
I am a woman, an Afghan,
an Afghan woman. This is who I am.
There are mountains of beauty in my breasts.
By Pari
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