At first, people looked at me with pity.
Then with surprise.
And finally, with respect.
I didn’t want to beg. I didn’t want people to feed me out of sympathy.
So I walked into the mountains.
I gathered thyme, wild herbs, and wild figs. The bags were heavy. The paths were difficult. My whole body ached, but I carried everything to the market and sold it with dignity.
At first, some people bought from me because they felt sorry for me.
Later, they bought from me because they knew I had earned every coin through hard work.
The years passed.
People came to hear my story. Mothers brought their daughters to me and said,
“Tell them what you survived.”
But I never told my story just to make people cry.
I told it so women would understand that cruelty does not begin in a field. It begins much earlier—in the anger that people excuse, in the silence women are forced to swallow, and in the first moment a wife begins to fear the man who is supposed to protect her.
