2015- When I get labeled as a whore for letting the sun kiss my arms and legs by the males and females of my culture. This is the year I get called a prostitute for going to an EDM concert dressed like every other girl there but it’s my skin color that gives me that label. It is still the year when men from my country shame me for not responding to their disrespectful remarks when I’m walking down the streets. 2015 is also the year my mother is called a bad mother because she didn’t teach me to not speak of what’s right and wrong-to hold back what I have to say to whoever I have to say it to. My father doesn’t want me visiting my beloved motherland because he won’t be there to protect me from the men who were taught to not cry because “boys don’t cry” instead of “don’t make someone cry.” And it is my fault if I become a victim of rape because of my outfit. It is the year when my childhood friends say that I am not a Bangladeshi anymore because I don’t cave in to the oh so “traditional” expectations to shut up and be ashamed of letting my heart and soul run wild and chase every opportunity that the universe has for each and every one of us.
Before we fight for women’s rights, we have to fight for human rights.