Silent Screams: Is Puberty a Blessing or a Curse for Women?

My daughter approached me, tears streaming down her face like a flood. I quickly rose from the bench where I had been sitting, grabbed her hands, and rushed toward my old hut like a missile. As I opened the door, the daylight illuminated the darkness inside. I ushered her into the small, worn-down hut—this place that held within its walls all the painful memories of my past. The hut, made of straw, seemed on the verge of collapse. A whirlwind of dark thoughts consumed With a trembling heart, I asked, harmed you?” terrible happened to you? Has someone me. A woman’s honor is all she has, “What’s wrong, my dear? Has something and in these times, trust is a luxury we cannot afford. Men have become like raging bulls, taking what they desire, whenever and wherever they please. They impose themselves on any woman who crosses their path—without distinction between a naive young girl who knows nothing of this world, an elderly woman who can barely walk, or a virtuous girl striving to protect her honor. Yet, when they seek a wife, they demand an untouched virgin, one who has never known a man before them. What hypocrisy!

My daughter trembled, her hands damp with the sweat of fear, her body cold, her heart pounding. Her face was as pale as if struck by lightning. She sat beside me like a helpless lamb and stammered, “Mother… I found blood on my clothes.” In a hysterical panic, I grabbed her arm and asked again, “Blood? What blood? What happened to you? Are you okay?” For a moment, I felt as if I had lost my mind. But then, I forced myself to calm down. I took a deep breath and said, “Go wash yourself well, then come back. I will be here waiting for you.”

I saw relief flicker in her eyes as she left the hut. The creaking door groaned as it slowly shut behind her, drawing my gaze to an old, patched-up bed in a dimly lit corner. My heart clenched as memories flooded back. I had once been in her place, on a day just like this, when I told my mother that I had reached puberty. She was overjoyed and said, “Go bathe, then come back.” That night, I remember her words clearly: “You are now a woman. Protect yourself well, for honor is all a woman has in our society.”

My mother taught me how to cleanse myself, how to guard my dignity. I was thirteen years old then. A few months later, she spoke to me again about something “important and necessary.” She was filled with joy, her happiness so vast it seemed the ground beneath her feet could not contain her. Our home echoed with ululations, the sound of celebration filling the air. Everyone was happy. But I paid little attention and continued my household chores—sweeping the yard, filling the water jars. Then, my mother called me into her hut. She stared at me for a long, deep moment, studying me as if she were proud of what she was about to do. I often wonder why those who suffer forget their suffering and inflict it upon others, as if they had never endured the same pain. My mother was married off at fourteen. I do not blame her entirely; she was a product of this society. We are all raised on flawed customs and traditions, but who has the courage to say no? Who dares stand against the storms of tradition? You may resist, cry, refuse— but in the end, you will surrender and become part of this flawed system.

She took my hands and said,“My dear, you are now a grown girl. A woman’s destiny is her home. A suitor has asked for your hand, and your father and uncles have agreed. Your wedding is next week.” Just like that, with no warning, no discussion, she announced my death sentence—my execution, my burial. My voice trembled as I protested, “No, Mother. I don’t want to get married. Who is this man? I don’t even know him.” With excitement, she replied, “Yes, you do. He is the ruler of our region.”
She thought I would be pleased upon hearing his name. Instead, I screamed—a scream that made my father rush into the hut. “That old man?! He is older than my father! He could be my grandfather! No, Mother, I don’t want to marry him.”

I hadn’t realized my father was standing behind me. Just as I turned to run, I felt the sting of his palm against my face, followed by his harsh words:
“You will marry him whether you like it or not! He is a wealthy man with many cattle. I need to feed your siblings. We bear daughters so they can marry and bring us cows. I also want to educate my sons because they carry my name. Your existence means nothing. Your wedding is next week, and that’s final.”

In that moment, I felt hatred crawl through my veins, darkness shrouding my vision. I was nothing but a commodity—something to be bought and sold. A living being deprived of freedom, of choice. My father never allowed me to go to school. He believed that educating girls was useless. “A girl’s destiny is marriage, childbirth, and serving her husband” he always said. The week passed in the blink of an eye, and I became a bride at thirteen. My aunts gathered around me in that small hut. Based on my father’s words, I had imagined my husband’s home to be grand, built of stone or brick. But to my bitter disappointment, it was no different from my own—just another straw hut. Where was the wealth they spoke of? Yes, he owned many cattle, but what good was that? How could my future be traded for a herd of cows? One by one, the women left the room, leaving me alone in my prison. My fate was sealed. In a month or two, I would meet the same destiny as his other wives before me.

Then, the old man entered. He sat beside me and said, “You are my little wife, and I will love you dearly.” I kept my gaze down and thought bitterly, “Do you think I’m a fool, old man? I am your fifteenth wife. Don’t you tire of repeating the same words to every young girl you prey upon? In no time, you’ll discard me and seek another.” He stood up, undressed, and approached me. I trembled with fear. He reached for my hands, trying to strip me. I resisted with all my might. But he turned into a monster—an animal driven by nothing but lust. He tore my clothes apart. I can still see him, his naked form repulsive. I can still feel the unbearable pain as he violated me. It was as if a knife was being driven into my insides, tearing me apart. I screamed, I wept— but my cries were in vain. He did not stop. He did not care.

Outside, his other wives did nothing. They did not save me. My screams were loud, but in that moment, I realized— they were silent. Silent screams that no one could hear but me. “Mama, I’m here.” My daughter’s voice pulled me from the abyss of my memories. She stood before me, innocent and unaware of the storm within me.
“Yes, my dear, sit down,” I said. I repeated to her what my mother had once told me:
“A woman’s honor is all she has in our society. You must protect it with your life.”
I explained to her, in painstaking detail, what she needed to know. “My daughter, you are now a woman. In our traditions, we celebrate a girl’s puberty. But I do not know if puberty is truly a blessing to be celebrated—or a curse.”

The days, and months passed. And history repeated itself. A suitor asked for my daughter’s hand. She was only fourteen. And my husband said, “I have given my word, and I will not break it.”