I entered the women’s metro car, and as usual, found men there.
Usually I fight them, but that day I wasn’t feeling well, so I said nothing.

If you’re passing by a security checkpoint,
And you happen to have a girl in the car with you,
You’ll automatically get asked for your IDs and about your relationship to the girl,
No matter what she looks like or is wearing.
Even if she wears the niqab.

There were three of us standing in a queue.
A woman entered and cut in the line.

She committed a sin.
Her parents have been angry with her ever since.
It hurts knowing that if she were a guy,
They wouldn’t have treated her that way.

I was in a microbus.
I got on in Al-Mandara,
And was getting off in Miami.
A woman with a child sat next to me.
I made room for her,
And looked the other way.
She moved closer to me.
Where I was supposed to go?
gender violence, harassment

Having a prosthetic leg was never a problem for me.
It’s other people who had a problem with it.
I could see it in their eyes.
The things they say,
Their disapproving looks as I carry myself on crutches.
I lift one leg,
Pause,
And carry the other one.

Often when we think about violence,
We paint a certain picture in our heads:
A ruthless man physically attacking his wife,
Who’s considered to be weaker than him.
The reasons range from a sadistic desire to establish control to financial or sexual reasons.

He slipped his hand under the table,
Put it on my leg,
And said,
“Do you know what a man and a woman do in bed?”
To which I naively and innocently replied,
“No.”