I Hope I Don't Forget Myself

I remember the schoolyard in summer. The ground was warm beneath our feet, and the air carried our laughter far beyond the walls. Our hair was loose, tangled in the wind, and our hearts were lighter than we knew. We played volleyball without thinking about time, without fear, without understanding how temporary those moments were. Back then, freedom didn’t need a definition. It was simply life.

Sometimes I ask myself if that girl was really me.
The girl who laughed easily.
The girl who ran without hesitation.
The girl who believed tomorrow would always arrive gently.

I am not sure when everything changed. I only know that one day, it did.

School disappeared—not slowly, not gradually, but all at once. The gate closed. The voices faded. The schoolyard fell silent. Friends became memories instead of classmates. The volleyball stayed untouched, and without realizing it, I forgot how to play. It sounds small, but it isn’t. When a girl forgets how to play, it means something much bigger has been taken from her.

My world grew smaller.
My days grew quieter.
Too quiet.

I was told this was for my safety.
I was told this was religion.
I was told this was how life should be now.
But nothing about it felt just.

I couldn’t raise my voice, so I found another way to speak.
I started to paint.

At first, I didn’t plan what would appear on the page. My hands moved faster than my thoughts. Faces emerged—distorted, angry, empty. Guns. Shadows. Fear pressed into color. I painted women trapped inside rules, walls, and violence. I painted what I saw around me and what I carried inside me: grief, rage, and questions no one wanted to answer.

In one painting, a man stands armed, surrounded by darkness. In front of him, a woman is reduced to silence—even in death. I didn’t paint this to shock. I painted it because this is what power looks like when it has no conscience. Because some truths are too heavy for words, and only art can hold them.

Painting became my resistance.

When I paint, I am not obedient.
I am not invisible.
I am not silent.
I am honest.

Art gave me a place where no one could interrupt me or tell me that my feelings were wrong. Every brushstroke became proof that I still existed—that my mind was still free, even when my body was confined.