I was a child in this country. But a female child. And I still remember.

This is my tale of woe.I don't really know how to tell this story because it isn't one story. It's a collection of memories, incidents, and moments that have somehow followed me throughout my life. Some I remember so clearly I can still see the room. And sometimes, one ordinary incident is enough to make everything come rushing back.

I was little. Very little.My cousin and I were watching TV in one of my Chachi's rooms. My older cousin came into the room, locked it and started tickling me. Then he tried to take my trousers off. I resisted. I wouldn't let him. But what is more disturbing? He was doing this in front of his own younger sister. His sister was my cousin, my agemate and she was my friend too. She tried to stop him. I remember the little blue jigsaw puzzle I had in my hand, his sister standing near the edge of the bed. I remember which side of the bed I was on. I remember him trying and me resisting and kicking him. Then his mother knocked, came into the room for something. He stopped. She left hurriedly and said not to lock the door but still she didn't know anything. But he did and then he tried again but in vain.

His mother came back into the room a second time, and this time he stopped and left. Mind you, I was so little that I didn't even know what exactly he was trying to do. I didn't have the vocabulary for it. I didn't know what sexual abuse was. I didn't know what rape was. I couldn't have explained to anyone what was happening in that room.  But I knew one thing  Whatever he was doing was wrong. I have PTSD from this.I have even fear for jigsaw puzzles now.

I'd go to a tuition. My teacher had an older brother named Haroon. I remember playing with him when I was little. And he would put both his hands on my chest and touch me inappropriately. Again, I was too young to understand what hewas doing.But again, i knew it was wrong. So I'd run away from him.

I grew up.

I grew up in a place where I'd see men half-naked, wandering around, doing awara gardi, spitting paan on the streets. We wouldn't be even outside unnecessarily. The only time we'd usually leave the house was for school or college, basically just the commute. It didn't matter. Men would stare at, anyway. They stared when I was little. They stared when I was growing up. They stared when I was in college.

During college, there was a group of boys who would chase our rickshaw from our college almost all the way to our house. We told our family about them. One day my father tried to confront them when they came near our house.

They ran away. These WEREN'T some random grown men from the street. They were students and from the same college as us, just from the boys' section. Then after confronting, for the last time, they showed us middle finger and then ran away. I remember being so furious that I wanted to take control of the vehicle and wanted to run them over. 

I came to Islamabad for university.

And honestly, part of me hoped life would be different here..I thought maybe coming to a bigger city, going to university, living in a different environment would mean that I could finally exist without constantly thinking about this stuff.But how come? My roommate and i would go to the café on campus in the evening. One day, a guy passing by made a sexual joke about us. We kept walking. A little further down the road, a car slowed down beside us. And that happened repeatedly. Bunch of guys making you uncomfortable at an educational place.

Then there was an incident when I was staying at my Mamu's house in Islamabad. My cousin and I love a certain ice cream from Centaurus. The house is nearby, so we thought it would be a nice, simple plan let's have a short walk there and we'll get our ice cream and come back. We were walking along the PIMS route when an uncle in a car started trying to show us money from inside his car.  An incident i did make a post about earlier. Unfortunately, i happen to share stuff like that. 

We were at the entrance of imtiaz mall in Barakahu. My roommate and I walking past a little kid on a bike. He tried to grab my roommate's arm and said, "Ohoo, kahaan ja rhi ho?" A kid .A damn LITTLE KID!  Then when I passed, he tried to grab mine too. I jerked my hand away saying batameez choro " I started moving towards his parents because I wanted to confront them. I wanted to ask them what exactly they thought their child was doing but my roommate pulled me away.

Then there is my hostel. There is a window there that I love standing nearby and see the Margalla hills from there that I absolutely love. One day I was standing there, enjoying the fresh breeze And a group of boys down there started catcalling. So I closed it and left. Even a window in a girls hostel, one of the few places where men aren't there, became another place where I had to remove myself because some f** men couldn't leave me alone.

I've even started hating my fair skin.People always talk about fair skin being privilege in this country. But for me, I've increasingly associated it with being noticed, stared at and being made into a subject of curiosity. I reached the point where I sat in the sun for hours thinking that at least I'll become a little darker. And then maybe then I won't stand out 

There was a guy in my department, my senior, who told me he was interested in me and wanted to have tea with me. I said no. He wasn't willing to accept it. And I remember becoming afraid that I couldn't freely move around my own department because he was there too. Each and every time my no has been met with their ego.

And these are only a few incidents. There are so many more. There are stories that I don't even consciously think about until something happens and suddenly I remember them. Sometimes I close my eyes and it's like all these scenes are still there. And I think that is why sometimes my anger feels disproportionate even to me.

It's the accumulation. It's years of being told, directly and indirectly, that simply existing as a girl means you have to account for men's behaviour.

And then there are all the things I've seen happen to other women in my life. I remember my 16-year old classmate being forced into marriage. I remember another classmate not being allowed to continue her education ,our maid getting beaten by her husband. I remember a loved one say, " Aurat ko zyada izzat do tu wo sar pr chrh jatti hay" and another one say "abhi tu beti paida hu hay itni mehngi mithaian bant rhy ,beta paida hotta tu patta nhi kiya krtte"

I remember an aunty finding out that we didn't have a brother. She looked at my mother with pity. She said something along the lines of, " I feel sorry for you. I understand a son is the pride of a household."

I remember watching my cousin in the kitchen while her older brothers sat comfortably on the bed, expecting her to make food for them every evening even when that poor little thing had come home from the hostel for a few days. I remember each and everything. 

I don't know what I'm looking for by writing all of this. I just needed to put it somewhere outside my own head. I just know I hate being a woman and I hate that just being a woman brought attention I never asked for. I'm angry that my gender feels like a burden I never chose. I'm angry and I'm tired. I remember everything and I wish I didn't.