Hope You Don’t Get Killed This Week! Hope You Stay Cute If You Do!

It took me years — years of resistance, defiance, and relentless struggle — to break free from the chains that history and culture wrapped around me. The constitution of tradition dictated my every move, but I longed for something more.

All I ever wanted was to be independent, to stand tall and chase my dreams without fear. I wanted the freedom to drive a car, earn my own money, take my dad to the office, and accompany my mum to the market.

I devoured books — literature that opened my eyes, feminist readings that ignited my spirit. I spoke out, changed things, at least in my own life. I started earning, and my parents beamed with pride.

I fought for a future where one day, people would say:

“Having a girl as a first child is just as good as having a boy. She isn’t a burden; she’s a blessing.”

I did that. I’m still doing that, every single day.

I thought I was winning, even when I had to rebel against not just the world, but even the men I loved — the ones I considered friends, allies.

I thought I was winning, even as I tucked pepper spray into my handbag, a small weapon of protection that should never have been necessary.

I thought I was winning, as I enrolled in karate classes, determined to turn my body into its own defense, to be my own shield.

I thought I was winning, even when I switched train compartments to escape the searing, predatory gaze of men who devoured me with their eyes, reducing me to an object.

I thought I was winning, stepping out of my house at night, even though every step was haunted by fear. I sent my live location, shared the cab driver’s ID — precautions that were supposed to be unnecessary in a world where women are free.

I thought I was winning, even when panic clawed at my chest as the cab driver took an unexpected shortcut, every second stretching into a lifetime of terror.

I thought I was winning, even as I sat my young niece down to teach her about good touch and bad touch — lessons that should never have to be taught to a child.

But was I?

No. It’s all an illusion. A fragile, brittle facade. Even if you give every ounce of yourself to being truly independent and safe, the world is still ready to break you.

I’m exhausted. I can’t convince my mind that the horrors are far away, happening to someone else, somewhere else.

And I can’t convince myself that “not all men” is a comfort, because the threat feels universal, inescapable.

I’m still losing, because even today, I carry a blade disguised as a pencil, hidden in the folds of my belongings like a secret, shameful talisman.

I’m still losing, because I changed from sleeveless to full sleeves, sacrificing my comfort for a false sense of security.

I’m still losing, because I can’t find the courage to stand in a dark place without the creeping dread that someone is lurking, someone is waiting.

I’m fed up.

Today, it’s her. Tomorrow? It could be me. I can’t convince myself otherwise.

Please, I’m tired — so tired. I no longer have the energy to educate you, to explain the endless, exhausting fight.

I thought I was winning until I heard “not all men” fall from the lips of a man I trusted — a man who should have understood.

Maybe I’ll stay home. Maybe I’ll take my brother with me everywhere I go. I’ll beg the men in my life to escort me to places, to shield me from a world that sees me as prey.

I’ll stop wearing the dresses I love, the clothes that make me feel like myself.

And I’ll go back to where women were before I thought I was winning — before I dared to believe that freedom was within my grasp.

But will things change then? Will it be okay?

No.

We are all sliding back, retreating into the shadows of a past we thought we’d left behind. And if we do, my generation, the next generation, will face the same battles, the same heartache, the same fears.

I’m fed up, but I refuse to surrender. Because even though it feels like I’m losing, I know the fight is far from over.