Beating is violence against women

I was seven years old, with braids dancing on my shoulders and white ribbons tying my childhood to pure innocence. I was wearing a floral dress that fluttered with every step. Then, a girl's voice knocked on the classroom door, asking for my friend Suha for an urgent matter. The teacher gave her permission, and Suha quickly returned, her eyes wide with fear I couldn't understand. She whispered, "Come with me... My mother is in danger. My father is beating her."

We ran together, our braids blowing in the wind, our schoolbags swinging on our small backs. The journey wasn't long, but our breaths were burning from running. When we arrived, we were preceded by loud screams from inside the house.

No one opened the door. Suha said in a trembling voice, "I'm going to climb the wall... Open your hands so I can put my feet on them."

I raised my trembling hand and helped her climb. She crept inside and opened the door for me. We ran toward the source of the sound.

And there... I saw something no child would ever forget.

Suha's mother was pressed against the wall, her husband clamping his hands around her neck, slamming her head violently against it. He was huge, his arms bulging with anger, wearing blue pants and a white T-shirt, the veins in his neck bulging like a beast in a moment of predation.

We shouted together:

"Leave her alone!"

We rushed toward him, trying desperately to pull him away from her thin body. But I was much shorter than him... weaker by far. In my eyes, he was an undefeatable monster. I thought: He'll kill her, and Suha will become an orphan. What should I do?

Suddenly, a childish solution came to mind. I stood in front of him and began to tickle his swollen belly. I had no choice. I lacked the strength to hit him, but I thought—in an innocent way—that laughter might defeat him.

And indeed... he was confused. He tried to pull me away from him, but his grip loosened around Umm Suha's neck, and she ran toward the door. We followed her, and we all ran. Behind us, the man continued to writhe between laughter and anger, unable to catch up with us.

We sat on the floor, crying unconsciously. Umm Suha hugged us, panting, reassuringly: "I'm fine... I'm fine."

But inside, I wasn't fine. I was trembling with a question even bigger than my childhood: Why does a man beat a woman?

Is this normal? Is beating justified? Or is it a crime?

Did I do something wrong?

What is beating?

Is it right or wrong?

What does it mean?

Why do men do it, but not women, and brag about it?

What is this?

I didn't know what my feelings were at the time.

Was it fear?

Was I dying?

Was a murder happening right in front of me?

What brought me here?

What was my role?

Yes, I succeeded in helping her, but I am

To this day, I am afraid of what I saw.

I now realize that it is violence against women practiced by men.

It is deadly violence and is not permitted.

Who is responsible?

Is it the male upbringing in society?

The family?

Or is it the fact that a man has muscles, which means he has power over the weaker group?

Yes, we women are physically weak, but we are delicate in our feelings and deep in our emotions.

This is the nature that God created in us to create a balance between the strong and the weak.

A man, with all his strength, cannot abandon the tenderness or affection of a woman.

Weakness is not a deficiency... it is a completion.

Femininity is not It's not a crime, it's a balance.

That wound still remains inside me.

I left that school, but my friend is still in my memory.

I cry over the violence she witnessed and how she lived through it.

We are beings of mercy and eternal love. We were not created for violence, harm, beatings, or any kind of exploitation or violation of our dignity and humanity.

Each species has its own physical differences that serve the cosmic system and revolve within the circle of divine subjugation and the development of the Earth. Anything else is a lack of understanding and appreciation, and a denial of the facts.

My lady,

My lily,

My rose, my jasmine,

You who grow from the depths of the earth,

You who are a psalm of hymns,

Carry my forelock,

My flask of love,

And sprinkle some basil oil

On my hearth,

Light that tender heart with compassion.

My killer,

My name is more tender than all words,

And a sparkle that shines in the heavens.

I am your chain,

Some of your speech,

Nay, your child.

I am your moon,

Nay, your sun.

I am the secret of creation.

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