Imagine living in a country, where nearly five-hundred women become the victims of femicide each year. Every time you sit before the TV, a gut-wrenching feeling rises from your body; a feeling you are well acquainted with. You know what’s about to come, and you give rein to your foolish hopes; maybe not today. You turn on the TV and encounter a picture of her on the big screen. She looks content and peaceful, juxtaposing the somber reporter standing right before her picture. He looks at the camera, and says “She was only sixteen.” Her friends and family do not seem to be astonished by the frightening news. They say it was her dress, her smile, her failure to be a loyal and obedient wife. It was her fate. No one deems it a necessity to acknowledge her parents who forced their young daughter to marry a grown adult, the police officer who disregarded her desperate cries for help, and the man who stole away her hopes, her dreams, and eventually her life.
Read MoreI gazed at her from afar. Her eyes dreamy, her mind floating in her own world. I watched her fingers dancing triumphantly to different keys. The tranquil and tingling music added to her mystery. There was almost an invisible veil closing around her, separating her from me and the rest of the world. I longed to comprehend the stories she conveyed in the music. I stayed there, never advancing for fear of breaking the perfect image…
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