The Secret of revelation

I was in first grade, a little girl with wide eyes like a sky before rain, braids tied with white ribbons, and my immaculate dress, my little pride. I was among the top five, making sure to be tidy, as my mother liked.

That day, there was a big celebration at school, filled with colors, sounds, and laughter. Some girls from other classes came to participate, and suddenly, I felt a hand grabbing me. I wasn't consulted; all I was told was:

“Give her your pretty dress so she can participate in it.”

My white dress was taken from me, and I was given another one… a dress that was unfamiliar to me, with a broken back zipper, leaving my back half-exposed. I put it on silently. I didn't think about anything… I was just doing it.

The day ended, and I returned home. With the innocence of childhood, I told my cousin, who was filling in for my father, who had traveled abroad on an errand, about what had happened, as if I were telling him a story from school. Suddenly, my cousin's face changed. He stood up, his hand burning with anger, and slapped me, making my face burn. I didn't understand. I was too young to know why. He started cursing me with words I couldn't understand. My mother came running and took my hand, and he carried a stick to hit me with. My mother ran, holding me by the hand, and he ran after her. He chased us around the house, cursing me. I was just running... running because I didn't know what was happening. I didn't cry... My childish mind didn't understand the meaning of this violent outburst against me. What had I done and why was he so angry? My mother took me into a room and locked the door. My male relative's outburst against his six-year-old daughter ended, and that day.

But what he had planted inside me that day wasn't innocent. Years later, I realized I had carried an early message: that I was shameful, and that if my body were exposed, even unintentionally, the punishment could be fatal. I learned that women in this world are not allowed to have a voice, that oppression is a characteristic inherent in men, that women are treated only by beating and have no right other than blind obedience. Men must always raise their hands against them under the pretext of discipline, which is nothing but male oppression and domination.

… Eid al-Adha came. The house was full of visitors. My cousin came, accompanied by his two sons. He said he would take us out for a walk. I was delighted. I put on my beautiful dress and new shoes, and my mother carefully combed my hair. Even my brother walked out the door with us.

But there, at the doorstep… my cousin suddenly shouted:

“No! The girl won’t come with us.”

It was all over. I returned home, the dress like a shackle on my chest. That day, I felt like I wasn’t human. I wasn’t a human being, like I was something incomplete. I remembered that in the pre-Islamic era, they used to bury girls alive, and now I was dead and had to be buried.

Here, I felt the meaning of oppression for the first time in my life.

This situation didn't end, but something ignited inside me: stubbornness. Anger. A desire to break the shackles. I told myself: I will do what I want, even if men hate it. They hate women for their bodies. I will prove to them that women are spirits, minds, and souls as beautiful as roses and the scent of morning.

That they are the adornment of this worldly life and are honored by God, their Creator. Islam made them honorable. Our Master Muhammad, the Messenger of God, peace and blessings be upon him, recommended women in his farewell sermon, stating that they are the sisters of men and are not less than them in worship, dealings, or inheritance. They must be honored, and whoever supports a single daughter, even marrying her to her husband, will have the reward of Paradise.

In high school, I decided to prove myself and assert my identity as a woman deserving of respect. I worked hard in my studies. I entered the university, which many men are unable to enter without having to retake the exam for years. I worked with men. I boarded planes without a male guardian. I received scholarships with foreigners.

I learned English and French. I entered journalism to write about marginalized, voiceless women. I received scholarships from UN agencies. I challenged my fears… I swam, afraid of water. I climbed mountains to see how far I could go. I lived for months in the harsh desert of Timbuktu, where there was nothing but sky, sand, and wind. I slept with scorpions under my bed in the forests of Damazin, and my medicine was lemon and a handful of ginger.

I wrote stories from forests filled with lions and tigers. I rode donkeys, horses, camels, and travel carriages that only men ride.

I wore trousers when they were forbidden and a symbol of unveiling and imitating men.

And I made them a trademark for sophisticated, working, and respectable girls during a dictatorial and totalitarian rule that oppressed and enslaved women.

I published my first poeam book and will publish

My second poem book and my first novel feminity on river Times in two weeks InSha AllAh

This oppression is what made me and made me stubborn, resisting my brokenness and destruction.

I live as a flower should bloom and as a sun everyone awaits its rising.

Be a woman.

A more beautiful destiny.

Be a woman.

This is the ideal for honesty.

I carry my fork,

Some of my flour,

I scatter all my nectar for the birds.

I carry my papers, my pens,

And the transparency of my songs.

I write my dreams with the blue inkwell.

I am a woman.

From the abundance of creation,

From the breath of Adam. The secret of the revelation