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I have my body, and my body has me. I am not reducible to my body, but my body is not reducible to me. We are not separated but we don’t make a whole. We live with each other. We were born together. Ever since, someone has been laying claim to us. We are guided, replaced, demonstrated, passed from hand to hand, loved, and abused.

They said we were not okay. The redness isn’t just redness, it’s allergies. Breathing isn’t just breathing, it’s bronchial asthma. We started walking too late and talking too early. My body is different from other bodies: too weak, too sensitive. Then they told us I should control my body, my body should not control me. I should train my body: dancing, tennis, swimming pool. We let ourselves go. They say I do not control my body, my body controls me.

We are too boyish. We do not walk like girls. Girls do not climb trees, their bodies do not have bruises. Why am I a girl? How have I become a girl? “It’s a girl!” they said, now perform like one. They have chosen for me, God has chosen for me. To be born a girl is not enough, learn to be a girl, behave like a girl, look like a girl, and talk like a girl.

We are in pain. We have the wrong urine color and wrong blood chemistry. Our kidneys are screwed up. Osteochondrosis is not okay at our age. We are taken to a hospital for two weeks once and once again. Year after a year. They say my body gets better but I feel worse. I am too sensitive, too emotional. I feel bad, my body feels bad, we are losing eyesight. Hysterical blindness. The stomach lining is inflamed.

Are we under stress? Is it because of the separation? Where are cuts from? Why do you harm your body? This is not just sadness, this is diagnosis. Cover my cuts. It is not normal. Nobody should know. My body has changed, my brain does not operate normally. Take the pills to be normal. I am not normal. We have a disease. Live with this. Take yourselves into your hands or you will always be on drugs. You will always be on drugs. I am not normal without drugs, I am not normal because I am on drugs.

We starve. My body is not fat anymore. Now my body is too thin. They look at me another way. Now they see the women in me. Am I gurlish now? They look at me another way. Now my body looks sickly. They say it will be one more diagnosis. Eat. I am afraid my body will be fat again. My body stops menstruating but it should. It hurts every month. I can barely stand. It is okay. Endure. It should menstruate. It is a price.

My body is not just my body, it is the body of a future mother.

My body is for reproduction. My uterus is not mine. It is a place of political struggle. The uterus is not for me, it is for the state, for the family, for a future husband. The uterus is not mine, it is public. It is a religious space, a political space, a pharmaceutical one. My body is not mine. My body is the container for the uterus. It belongs to the future child with a uterus or without it. It belongs to the future husband. To the family. To the state. My body is not mine, it is public. It is a religious space, a political space, a pharmaceutical one. It is a place of political struggle.

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