I was born in 2003. I do not know my father. I wish I didn’t know my mother. It is not strange for a country girl to become a woman at the age of ten, at least not around us. Becoming a woman means being rented for a month’s worth of food.

In the many books I read, I felt that the author knew me. The only safe place for me
was the city library, even for a few hours. I did not understand my body, and I committed suicide several times before the age of sixteen. I couldn’t imagine living past my twenties.

I couldn’t define myself until I got acquainted with the anarchist friend’s page through the articles thrown in my relative’s house. From that day on, all my happiness has been fighting, and I know that there are thousands and thousands of girls like me in Iran, Afghanistan, and other parts of the world, for whom even imagining the future is considered a crime. When we run in the street at night with spray paints, agitprops, and tracts in our bags, I feel alive. I forget that even my own uncle held me in his dirty arms… I forget that my mother does not understand the pain and hatred I endure.

We anarchist fighters have written our own wills. Not that we have anything to give… No. It is that the rest of the comrades know that the only way to imagine a future for men and women is through the destruction of fundamentalist religions, fascism, and dictatorship. They have to fight. They have to rise up. They should challenge the enemy with all means and might.

Footnote: For security reasons, changes have been made to the text.

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