Billene Seyoum Woldeyes

we were foetuses when they mapped out our lives

some of us would glide through birth canals

break open wombs

announce our arrival in bold wails

we were born protesting

then to be shushed at entry

and later made to believe our voices mattered little

She mostly comes from a poor community. She is female, which introduces a whole new dimension to her experiences in a foreign land. She’s mostly Christian, newly converted to Islam to meet the demands of her work. She’s black African. Add to that she hardly speaks a word of Arabic.

With the news of what happened to Aberash surfacing and spreading like wild-fire as of yesterday, her wounds and her pain are symbolic of a dysfunctional society stained by the tears and blood of countless women whose cries and plea have often gone unheard and silenced by the taboos of culture.

The blood it flowed
Down an undetermined path
Washing with it
The expressions of a non-violent wrath

The fire it blazed
Over the body of Bouazizi, vegetables he was selling
Igniting a flame
Of global freedom story telling

Mama, don’t put me under the knife
Give not to culture
A slice of my precious life

My body I feel you holding
In the warmth of a mothers touch
Betrayed by the act of folding
Into the excuse of social norms we use as a crutch