Unruly Women

I’ve grown up in this country knowing the rules of how not to become an unruly woman.

Since I’ve left home for the last two weeks, me and my friend, we’ve been leaving a trail of blood from places to places. Or rather, the trails of blood have been following us.

That two weeks started with a college in Sylhet. In Rajshahi it was a church. In Cox’s Bazaar, a beach, a woman on the way to meeting her partner.
Raped, Raped, and Raped.

There’s a feeling in the back of our neck that we, the girls and women of this blessed country, always carry. An alertness.
But that feeling in me was never this heavy.
This Himalayan.
Stepping on the streets, in bus, on the beloved trains, always was this shadow that followed me everywhere. Overpowered even the sunniest Rajshahi sun.
Just the two weeks I’ve been gone…

But when the wave of Padma, the breeze of the Bay, or even reaching Dhaka, the petrol puffed air, hit me in my arms, I knew the wings that hide there, spread and outstretched, invisible and defiant!

Yeah I will fly high!
I’ll go wherever the fuck I need to go!
No matter how hard you bully,
bruise, and
batter!
We will walk the way, talk the thunder,
and sing the sweets!

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