Thamine Nayeem
At age six, I carried a secret deep inside of me. Sometimes it would summersault inside my stomach and stroke its dirty fingers against my fragile heart. Sometimes I would look in the mirror and see it morphing, attempting to define me. I would ask myself, “Impure—sinful—is that what I am?” When I closed my eyes, it would creep its way into my thoughts, propelling me to remember the feeling of his hands navigating across my flat chest—like nails against my skin. “He is your dad’s friend and he cares about you,” I would think to reassure myself. Yet I could not comprehend why I still felt as if I was a bud who was being pried open—robbed of its beauty; after all, I was only six.
At age ten, another secret burned deep inside of me. Every day it would boil in the pit of my stomach and scrape its dirty claws against my broken heart. Every day I would look in the mirror to only see that this secret now defined me. I would tell myself, “You are impure and Allah does not like those who are impure.” I was too frightened to close my eyes, knowing all too well that the darkness was the gate to the menacing memories of the unfamiliar man’s hands gripping my developing breasts—like fire licking across my skin. “This man is hurting you!” I would cry to myself helplessly. I hated him for ripping the petals off my already forced open bud. Yet, I felt as if there was absolutely nothing I could do; after all, I was only ten.
At age fifteen, I discovered that my little sister had carried a secret deep inside of her since she was seven. She told me that sometimes it too would summersault inside of her stomach and stroke its dirty fingers against her fragile heart. Sometimes she too would look in the mirror and see it morphing, attempting to define her. She would wonder if she was impure—even sinful. When she closed her eyes, it would creep inside her mind, making her remember the feelings of our childhood friend’s hands sliding across her flat chest. With wet stained cheeks, she told me it was like nails against her skin. I took her into my arms, and told her it did not define her. I told her she was not impure. I told her that her petals would grow back far more beautiful than any other girl’s.
I saw these predators year after year look us in the eye and smile as if they could not see what they had robbed us of, and my hatred towards them continued to ignite. But I had to move forward for my little sister, who needed to know that we could move forward. Steadily, I liberated myself from being an object of their harassment—I taught myself to forgive.
At age ten, another secret burned deep inside of me. Every day it would boil in the pit of my stomach and scrape its dirty claws against my broken heart. Every day I would look in the mirror to only see that this secret now defined me. I would tell myself, “You are impure and Allah does not like those who are impure.” I was too frightened to close my eyes, knowing all too well that the darkness was the gate to the menacing memories of the unfamiliar man’s hands gripping my developing breasts—like fire licking across my skin. “This man is hurting you!” I would cry to myself helplessly. I hated him for ripping the petals off my already forced open bud. Yet, I felt as if there was absolutely nothing I could do; after all, I was only ten.
At age fifteen, I discovered that my little sister had carried a secret deep inside of her since she was seven. She told me that sometimes it too would summersault inside of her stomach and stroke its dirty fingers against her fragile heart. Sometimes she too would look in the mirror and see it morphing, attempting to define her. She would wonder if she was impure—even sinful. When she closed her eyes, it would creep inside her mind, making her remember the feelings of our childhood friend’s hands sliding across her flat chest. With wet stained cheeks, she told me it was like nails against her skin. I took her into my arms, and told her it did not define her. I told her she was not impure. I told her that her petals would grow back far more beautiful than any other girl’s.
I saw these predators year after year look us in the eye and smile as if they could not see what they had robbed us of, and my hatred towards them continued to ignite. But I had to move forward for my little sister, who needed to know that we could move forward. Steadily, I liberated myself from being an object of their harassment—I taught myself to forgive.