Today is International Women’s Day. Last year I focused on women as a whole and spoke of the hardships some of us endure from single parenthood to dying in war torn nations. But this year I want to focus on the women, the girls, the prisoners of war, who are being treated like objects and are being sold into slavery and treated as sex slaves. These girls and women are being raped countless times every day and are giving birth to babies at young ages and dying during childbirth. These victims of sex slavery are not only traumatized physically but also emotionally. When, if they are released from their imprisonments’, they are not able to speak to their families of what really happened to them, rape, because if they do they’ll be cast away from their families because of their family honor. These women are told that being raped by a man or men is acceptable within Islam, this is false information. These women are the thousands and hundreds of thousands of Yazidi women who have been taken away from their homes and captured by ISIS and are being treated as sex properties and raped countless times a day by many different men and some are being forced into marrying their captors. What I’ve realized is there are not enough words any of us could possibly use to describe what is happening to the Yazidi women. I feel the photographs that have been used to portray the sufferings of the Yazidi women cry out the pain they are facing and will forever be harnessed with.
idden truths I try to bury it deep within the library of memories I keep filed away, in an effort to shield myself from the pain which gnaws at me time and time again, but I hopelessly fail. The need to look over my shoulder is crucial. One lost look and it will eat into the deep embers of my soul. When I am reminded an incomplete smile forms around the corners of my mouth before my face contorts and small drops of tears begin to fall down my downtrodden facade. I say downtrodden because the memories are as sweet as honey and yet bitter as a glass of lemonade on a hot summers day. Night Over head the rain drops form their own rhythm on the tin roof while outside in the courtyard the squishing of mud by the feet of rushed servants begins another. This song was the perfect lullaby, but my eyes would not give into temptation. The guests were outside scrambling for whatever shelter they could find from the splash of monsoon rains. I sat as upright as I possibly could but it was get
Comments
Post a Comment