You think my women are oppressed

You think my women are oppressed—

because they walk with their heads covered,

because their hands are rough from labor,

because their voices do not shake the earth.

But my women do not speak of pain;

they swallow it, carry it, cradle it

like a child on their hip,

like a secret too heavy to share.

My women give birth under broken ceilings,

bite down on their screams so they do not wake the dead,

press newborns to their chests,

whispering, I am sorry

before the world even knows their names.

My women stand in lines for food

that may never come,

hold empty pots over dying flames,

break their own bread in half

so their children never feel hunger alone.

My women run barefoot through the dust,

one arm shielding their babies,

the other carrying what little is left—

a photograph, a key, a memory

of a door that no longer stands.

My women have learned how to mourn quietly,

how to dress their dead in the dark,

how to press their foreheads to the ground

and pray for a mercy

that never arrives.

My women sit in the quiet,

their eyes filled with things they can’t say—

the loss of a brother,

the absence of a father,

the emptiness that echoes in every room,

and yet they keep holding the door open

for whoever is left.

My women hold their children at night,

not with stories of the future,

but with stories of the past—

tales of green fields,

of laughter under the sun,

of skies that didn’t weep every night.

My women have scars no one can see—

scratches from rubble that never healed,

bruises from the weight of things

they should never have had to carry.

And still, they smile,

and still, they mother,

and still, they love.

You think my women are oppressed—

but you have never seen their strength.

They have watched the light fade from their homes

and still found a way to shine.

They have buried pieces of their hearts

and still, they hold each other close,

their hands still reaching for hope

when it feels so far away.

My women are not just surviving;

they are fighting with a fire

that has not been quenched by bombs,

that has not been silenced by loss.

They are burning with love,

burning with grief,

burning with a fierce will to live,

to heal,

to rebuild.

You think my women are oppressed—

but you have never seen them rise.

My women are the storm that refuses to be calmed,

the fire that burns even when it seems to have gone out,

the echo of generations that refuse to fade into silence.

They are not waiting for salvation.

They are saving themselves.

And with every breath,

they reclaim everything the world tries to take.