April 24, 2017

You.

Headlines scream at me from newspapers. “Girl, 15, raped in a temple.” “Girl raped by eight teachers at school.” “Girl commits suicide after uncle rapes, films, blackmails her.” My stomach churns. On the internet, I hear about how Brock Turner will walk free while the girl he raped will be haunted by his terrible conduct. I read about the young woman in Chicago who was gang-raped and that entire incident was showcased on Facebook Live. I read about Farkhunda’s murder in Afghanistan, about such a large number of girls being hurt, abused and violated that they are but mere statistics.
I don’t have words, sometimes, because the pain is heavy, like a burning orb of grief sitting in the middle of my stomach, threading needle after needle into my heart each day. And so, I pour myself into art, doodling my grief away.

With this overwhelming grief, “You” was born. YOU, is a gift to each of you. For rising. For fighting. For persisting: every, single, day. For holding on. 

Does it make any difference? Did it make any difference? I have no way of telling you for sure.
But I know that it made enough of you think. Enough of you, so that when we rise in arms, half the sky will be out of place.

Source: My Heart. 

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