All Those Hands. - by Albarka.

Maya was just a girl, one who was classified as the belle of the whole village. She had a brave, graceful smile, full lips, bright eyes, and long, dark hair that matched her beautifully. Her voice, like that of a siren, was ready to bewitch everyone who heard it. Her body carried the effortless confidence a woman should have. When she walked, the fullness of her curves came into play. She moved naturally and gracefully, without even trying. Yet, somehow, she drew everyone's eyes wherever she went. Men admired her from afar, both far and near. Not until...Not until she was taken advantage of. It was a lot for her.More than she could explain. More than she knew how to carry. Her parents blamed and insulted her for a situation she never wished for. Her friends judged, mocked her and sidelined her for a situation she never wished for. Even the people who once admired her judged and blamed her for a situation she never wished for. And perhaps the worst part was not even what happened to her.It was what happened afterwards. The parents, friends, and society that once admired her to the point of almost worshipping her neglected her. Oh, they still reached out to her. In fact, almost all the time.But how? They reached out to her for accountability.They questioned her. They sought answers from her every day. “How did it happen?” “Did you seduce your rapist?” “Oh, you are beautiful. It is something you can do, so there is no need to ask.” “How do you plan to find a man to settle down with after all you have done?” Oh, wait.What she did? Yes. That is what they said. Nobody wanted to support her. Nobody wanted to believe that she was innocent, even when the evidence was as clear as crystal. And perhaps she began to question herself too. Maybe they were right.Maybe she should have dressed differently. Maybe she should have stayed home. Maybe she should not have smiled. Maybe she should not have trusted anyone. Maybe being beautiful had somehow become her fault. Maybe surviving was not enough. Maybe she also had to prove that she deserved to be believed. Imagine being hurt and then being asked to explain why you were hurt.Imagine needing comfort and instead being handed questions. Imagine reaching for someone because you thought they would hold you, only to discover that their hands were there to point fingers. What do we call that?Jealousy? Society's stupid expectations? Unprotection? Misplaced priorities? Because, basically, what we are saying now is that it is a crime to look good.It is a crime to be created beautifully. It is a crime to be admired. It is a crime to be a woman whose beauty people notice. It is a crime to be humble. Oh, please.And this pattern is not about Maya alone. It is not just about her situation. It has become a pattern for many people to have so many hands reaching out to them, but none reaching out to protect them. Hands that ask questions.Hands that demand explanations. Hands that tell you what you should have done. Hands that tell you who you should become. Hands that claim to know what is best for you. Hands that hold you so tightly that you can no longer breathe. They give out so many hands, but no help. They are there, but somehow, you are still alone. They love you, but their love feels like pressure. They protect you, but their protection feels like a cage. They care about you, but sometimes, you wonder whether they care more about who they want you to be than who you actually are. Overprotective hands.Expectations' hands. Family-control hands. Judgment hands. Anxiety hands. Some hands are visible, while some are not. Some hands touch you. Some hands hold you. Some hands pull you back. And some hands never touch you at all, yet somehow, you feel them everywhere. Around your choices.Around your body. Around your voice. Around your life. And maybe that is why I keep caving in.Maybe I keep making myself smaller just to fit into the spaces their hands have left for me. Maybe I keep stepping backwards because every time I try to move forward, another hand reaches out to pull me back. But perhaps one day, I will stop.Perhaps one day, I will loosen myself from every hand that was never meant to hold me. Perhaps one day, I will breathe without asking for permission. And maybe, just maybe, I will keep caving in, away from all those hands, until I become free.

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