In Red Ink: "I Decided I Would Not Die Twice"

SANA’A, YEMEN — I fell asleep, my eyes wet with tears. Sleep is the only thing spacious enough to contain a woman’s sorrows and hide her powerlessness.

Why all the discrimination between my brother and me? Why is he preferred over me — is it only because I am female? When we were children, my father would give my brother two sweets while I received one. And when I protested, my brother would say, “I’m male and you’re female, and the male receives the share of two females.” So, I would deny it and say, “No, I’m not a girl.” I used to believe that femininity was a sin.

Awake now, I paused for a moment, contemplating my shameful reality. What next? For how long will these shackles remain? Injustice surrounds me — am I not a human being? Do I not have a mind and faith? A conscience and dreams? Will I stand stunned, trapped between siege and suppression?

I went back to weeping and questioning. I felt I had no value. I hated my feminine servitude.

Suddenly, I rose up, hearing the longing for loftiness calling within me, as it always did whenever my eyes shed tears. No one understands me, I thought, in an environment and family that do not grasp my feelings and aspirations for excellence and knowledge. But today, now that I am grown, I understand what is mine, and what is due from me.

I must not wrong myself by staying silent about my rights. I have been silent for too long — like when I was prevented from continuing my education, and when a marginalized future was chosen for me, as if I were an inanimate object moved only by command.

Yet, my pulse still dreams of building, for that is my right just as it is the right of males. And it is also my right to have an independent identity and to strive for my noble dreams.

Servitude is a shameful, oppressive thing. I do not believe there is any religion or reason that should ever sanction a woman’s servitude to a man. She was created for herself and to worship her Lord alone, not to worship the tyrannical, ignorant mind of a man who terrorizes others.

I got up from my bed and paced around my room searching for myself. My eyes gleamed with the spark of hope as I firmly and passionately decided to rebuild myself from the stones of what was demolished — to erect true pillars that testify to my existence.

I decided to break out of my prison. I decided to respect myself so that my humanity and dignity would return to me. I decided to defend my rights with knowledge, understanding, and gentle speech.

I decided I would not die twice. I decided on resistance and steadfastness.

Inas Abd Al-Zuwar is a Yemeni writer, poet, and short story author who supports her community as a social worker and researcher in gender and inclusive development. Her literary works include The Moaning of the Sidewalk, a perspective on child labor; Red Ink, a narrative-style exploration of lived experiences; and the short story collection A Sleeping Moon. She lives in Sana’a with her three children.

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