‘My only crime?’ she asked the Judge, who was going to lay down her sentence, ‘was that I was not strong enough to do it earlier. He, who claimed to be my protector, my husband, violated me. He violated every inch of me. Not only did I suffer abuse by him, but I was repeatedly raped for not complying with his sexual urges. I stayed silent. I stayed a dutiful wife. I stayed because, I was told to always comply with my husband’s wishes. Be kind to him, and not fight him. Or I will be damned in the afterlife. Allah will damn me to hell. But when he killed our daughter, because she was a girl, it developed something in me. It spurred a long forgotten thought. A thought, which was a sin for me. A thought, which was taught to be a sin. I had stayed awake, long after he had gone to bed. I tiptoed to my bathroom. Saw his razor. Took it with me and came back to bed. He was sleeping soundlessly. I decided to play with his penis. To try to give him an orgasm, so he would think I was being kind to him. Like a wife should be. He moved in his sleep, and started murmuring dirty words to me. He liked saying them. It made him think, I would like when he uttered them to me, during his rape of me. I loathed them.
Nevertheless, Your Honour, I, I still had the blade in my other hand, and as I felt his eyes open, I squeezed it within the palms of my sinful hands, even if it bled them. As it should have, you all would have said. He was wide awake now, and he liked what I was doing, little did he know, I was bleeding on his penis. He thought it was my saliva, I let him. I took the blade now, and started scratching his penis. You see. When you are experiencing pleasure, you forget the pain. That is what I wanted for him. I wanted him to feel the pain. Slowly. Gradually. Similar to how I had endured it. Every second after our wedding. Every minute, after he forced himself upon me, on our wedding night. How he taunted me, for my rights. How he slapped me, when he was wrong. How he fucked me, when everyone was looking. He felt as if he owned me. Like, I was his property. Like I was some cattle, he had won after a contract. I felt worse than a prostitute. So, I started scratching it even more, and he started to moan. I was so happy then, because he was bleeding even more than me. Blood was oozing out instead of his semen. It felt orgasmic to me. It felt like I had taken some drug, which was exhilarating every moment, I was enjoying at that time.
He felt it too. But it was too late. He screamed at me. As soon as he stood up, he was horrified at the sight and looked down. His own penis, the object which was used to harm me; the weapon, he wielded against me, was making him less of a man, and more of a wounded pig. I seized the moment, and crept up behind him, and slashing his throat with the razor. The razor, he used to make his beard with. The razor, he used on me, when I disobeyed his orders. When I was being chastised. He screeched in anguish. Music to my ears. I started humming the lullaby, my mother used to sing to me, when I was sad. It would invigorate me, as a child. I felt that child again. I felt 4 again. Not 24. I ask you again, Your Honour. My crime? There was never a crime, I committed. My only crime is that I am a woman. I am the weaker sex. I have a vagina. I have breasts. I was born to sin. Because, ever since Eve tempted Adam, womankind has been cursed. As the temptress. The seductress. As nothing more, but evil. And worse. Womankind will always be cursed and damned. Not man. Woman. Even if you think, I am innocent, God may not. Atleast this is what we are taught. Right?’
-Sania Iqbal Siddiqui