 The title of my poem is The Women's Dilemma. Am I just some material or am I supposed to be the perfect girlfriend or wife to you? Why am I bounded by all these chains, non-existent chains? Why am I more judged when you keep asking me all sorts of questions? But am I supposed to get the answers at all? Don't talk to me about society. Society is just the figment of our creation. It is you who is trapped in the mentality of hate, of discriminating, of being biased and of being dominating. By law, we are all equal. But however, by this system, we are labeled and we are broadly categorized. That's reality and that's just what is said. The things I do like breastfeeding in public, wearing the dresses I feel comfortable with, coming home late, going for parties and going out for further studies, gets your demons out. Remember, we came out naked and naked shall we go. A humble request to all those saints to kindly change their perspective, if not stop burning themselves more. For we are all but a product of their sins, hence imperfections are meant to be. The cases of crimes, violence and desperately acts against the women are rising. Teasing of women on roads, sexual harassment of women in the workplace, rapes and even murder of the rapes. Where are we heading? Safety is just a deceit and law and order is just a sham. Anarchy is what is prevailing. Am I entitled to my citizenship? Am I not allowing my father's property sham? Or am I not to have my own identity? And it is you who criticized me for demanding what is right and for demanding to be treated fairly. You have made me, you are the reason. You have sown the seeds behind the demand for reservation. You have made me feel insecure. You have made me be the weaker sex. But I hold no grudge, no remorse. I am a proud girl, I am a woman with dignity. For I am who I am, for I will be whom I wish to be. Thank you. A woman. Girl pick, Barbies and dress ups. Girl kitchen, chores and cookers tour. Girl creative, crafts and gardens. Girl intelligent, trophy-tholders and rank holders. Ah, levels and precious. I woman, she who birthed you. A woman. We loved when cosmos deceived. We were your first friends. We sheltered, we nurtured, we protected, we gave. We were constant. My class dresses descent to the nines on Sundays. Yet I sheep. I wear pants and drive a gypsy to. I sheep. The house, I am the perfect daughter. Yet I sheep. I cheat on my diet. I turn into a gag and laze around. Paint my nails red. What if I wear many skirts and fancy tops? What if I drink pipe and what if I have tons of male friends? Does that mean I relish the abuses in Jesus? No. She who supports my every decisions. Help me to be strong and intellectual with my thoughts. I was raised by seeing the independent as sick and my strong character. I was raised by my aunts and uncles who littered my ambitions and aspirations. I was raised by my neighbors who respected my privacy yet treated me as their own. I was raised by a church who instilled in me a great sense of responsibility of always being good and kind. I was raised by God by wishes and listened to all my woes. Listen. My mother did not raise a goer. Neither did the Almighty God. So why treat me as a subject? Why treat me as a tool for your pleasure and fun? Why treat me as- This is not weakness. I survived. I fought. She raises her voice, though her throat aches and runs dry with rage. Pain endured too long, mouths shut prolonged, hands tied to no use, slammed across the floor. Kid- She wears those scars like an armor. Those scars. Those against all that ridicule those marks. The marks of abuse. The marks that last left. The marks that almost took her life. Body shaming, drama enduring. Nulls that fight and shout, cry, scream if needed but never give in because the wounds left are unattended, ignored, silenced and disregarded. Enough with pain. Enough with violence. Enough with silence. Enough you want to be treated. With kindness. At the same time, none hold the weight of the world. Generations after generations, stressing on generating, a generation equality. Opens genesis. Perhaps both given life at the same minute. Exha- At the same minute. Equality exhausts. The same air. Equal is our grave. But we pay the price of your rip. I, she and women. Being a man, I was taught to have my head held high. Today, I humbly bow my head down in shame and regret. Oh, now I wonder how I would call myself a man if I don't raise my voice now. I'm proud of my country. It's filled with diversity and many new thoughts. But others, none of the changes come so far. On these hideous and shameful crimes call right. It's men who commit this crime and men are the ones who always point to the blame to the girl for what she was wearing. Dear brothers and fathers, is this how we are protecting our mothers, brothers, our mothers, sisters and daughters? With those last full days and our dirty thoughts, are you, are we really fit to be called the protectors? Yes, you may be the shield of the women of your family. But are you brave enough to clear your tough guess from a stranger's daughter or accession of this? No. I refuse to live in a world where red news has just become a headline to keep the news running. And many cases are still pending in the courts. And if you are a man and if you are okay with that, then how do we truly happen, Lena? How many candle marches more should we do in order for this crime to stop? Yes, my brother and father laugh while the daughter or sister is crying for help and her mouth is being covered and those sandwiches are tearing her up. But wait, don't you have a daughter or sister back at home whom you laugh and will protect from the rest of the world? Khudana kareki havas, in havaski sheetano ki nazar teri beti o bheheno beti, like that. In sheetano ne to armenegi bachiko binai chona. Today mothers are afraid, not afraid to have a girl child not because of beti parao beti bachao but because of the fear of meeting beti kokon bachai ga in havaski sheetano se. There are many cases that didn't make it to the FIO books and women were suppressed due to the fear and shame that they had to face the society. One day I want to wake up in a world where our brothers and fathers have all come together not just to stand up but have a clear thought and have a clear thought to create a safe future for our future daughters and our sisters. Voice out, stand up now so that when your daughter go out from the house for school or work she might be able to return home safe and protect a girl who is all along and help her to reach her safe home so that the stranger might do the same for you. Dear brothers and fathers I'm not blaming all for this crime but let's create a world and a barrier so high and so strong that not even... not these savages but even the thoughts should be afraid to cross their love to cross their head to go through all of us first. Thank you. Good morning everyone. My poem is called Strong. From the moment I was born my father called me from the very essence of being a daughter. As a child I grew up receiving lessons on how to be a woman when I was still called son. I grew up and got my first job. Sure, my father was proud but all of that pride was for the son and for the daughter. But why? I feel of my work, I'm excited but I should have looked forward to something else perhaps. They sit there in a group of two or three and call me names. I avoid just like I've been told and they start to play their games. What happened next? Oh, that's not even water. They tore my clothes. They touched my parts which I did not adore. Was it my destiny? I saw my world flash before my eyes and I was all alone. I was with sympathy others with disgust and the thunder of my home with the hope of getting a love and comfort that none had shown. All their faces, how my mother went pale how my father lowered his gazes in shame and called me Oh, I had to stand up, I had to fight. No, no, I said I'd be greeted by the question was it late? You, I feel of course they did not say it out loud I turned my gaze to justice Oh, that mighty justice which I read about not like they sure gave them saying they were juveniles or maybe it's just the never ending trials Oh, empty handed I was given with the overnight fame which gave me a spotlight in the headings of the newspapers that read It's astonishing to see how my country united with one night and the whole postcards and the mother for adjusting my screams and I was trying to spit Do not come now let the light of hypocrisy shine bright on your face just after you've made with the symbol of a disgrace All this time I stood alone I know I'm scarred but I am strong I'm the best daughter and this is my story I love judges My name is Anjumila Lokomar and my poem is on being a woman It's titled I write anyway Rush in Is this right? Do not shy away Voice out! What's unfair? Women should walk under a mask shadow and he will care for them and he will sexually deprive them because she could be someone's daughter she could be someone's mother Opportunities to at peace I wish to see and the sense of free homage Thank you very much