Hi there, I’m Zahrah

the grease seeps through the “lined” cardboard box, the half-eaten burger within long forgotten, now cold, the cheese shiny and hard, as though it had never been melted. my phone screen lights up for the upteenth time, messages from family groups, sharing their joy, sharing important information, just sharing. i hear it buzz yet again, and my chest stings. i’m not there. this is the only connection i have to anything familiar. and yet i don’t want to see it. ...

The Times article detailing the life of Hannah Neeleman, the woman the internet fondly knows as Ballerina Farm, has stirred up a lot. A lot of feminists proven right about trad-wife content. A lot of big feelings about how she’s a pretty, white woman who got herself into this. A lot of people trying to highlight to us all the red flags in Hannah’s relationship with her husband that are scattered throughout the article. A lot of thoughts on organized religion and its role in keeping women subservient. ...

A glimpse of grey. A flash of red. A breath so cold it reminds you of how painful it is to be alive. The ‘Peace Palace’ as it’s so aptly named, sits untouched, every brick perfectly in its place, every window cleaned to perfection, every door handle glistening under the spray of the drizzle. A picture of peace as we know it. Mere steps away, barricaded by thick metal, raging against the rain and wind stand some of the bravest souls this sick society has managed to cough up. Armed with the Palestinian flag and posters illustrating the harrowing statistics of Israel’s genocide of Palestine, they chant: “Brick by brick, wall by wall, colonisation will fall.” ...

the smell of death the stench leaching from every corner masked faintly by camphor and the memory of rose petals white cloths stacked to the heavens 30 000 and counting we’re not people anymore we’re a reminder of the failure of humanity

The incessant buzzing of the brightly lit grocery store lights makes it difficult to choose the packet of avocados that I’ll need for tonight. A dinner party. Why do I do this to myself? No, I need to see my friends. It’s been weeks. Months probably. I grab the closest bag, gently set it atop the other items in my cart and make my way to a cashier. I breathe a sigh of relief. The sunlight outside is a welcome sight and the slight breeze makes the regret of being alive fade just a little bit. The walk to my apartment is brisk and I barely notice the weight of the groceries. Once inside I begin to methodically set out the ingredients that I’ve bought in order of which I’ll need first. I fill in the gaps with glass bottles filled with spices and condiments from shelves around the kitchen. Seasoned grilled tomatoes. Mashed avocado. Homemade hummus. Fried mushrooms. Butter and jam. Peanut butter. Sourdough. Milk bread. Wholewheat. The menu isn’t elaborate but it’s familiar and familiar is good. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself as I try to soothe away my anxiety. Toast days used to be a regular occurrence when we were in university. Brought on by student budgets and odds and ends that somehow never left the fridge. ...

What is Misogyny? Derived from the Greek word “mīsoguníā” it can be explained as a hatred toward women. This takes many forms such as gender discrimination, sexual harassment, male privilege, belittling of women, patriarchy, violence against women, and sexual objectification. It’s often believed that the roots of misogyny lie in mythology. Men, as companions to the gods, were living in harmony until Prometheus decided to steal fire from the gods, angering Zeus. Zeus took it upon himself to punish mankind by creating Pandora, the first woman who carried with her a box that contained the evils of old age, death, sickness, and labour. ...

made a chicken and veg curry today, it smelled just like my grandmother’s i imagined we were about to sit down to lunch with freshly rolled rotis and she’d push back the dining room curtain so she could people watch while she told us stories of better days and now those stories live within us, told around cups of tea and i ache just a little for freshly rolled rotis and better days ...

the breeze is gentle as it wafts through the avocado tree, carrying with it a scent that promises rain the tree towers over the house, roots thicker than my arm creeping through the foundation, tossing aside the house that had stood for decades i missed the sunrise today, not from a lack of care but because clouds swirl thickly like confusion grey, ominous, but ultimately lending to no conclusions the breeze, still gentle, now carries a note ...

The air carried the scent of burning metal as small zaps of electricity lit the dark room with frantic succession. Could I have really found the last piece? My wondering was cut short by the searing pain I now felt in my left arm followed by the smell of scorched flesh. Small spots of burned skin decorated my arm like stars from where I had accidently burned with the welding machine. But it wasn’t enough to stop. I had found the flux capacitor and the giddy anticipation that my time machine would be able to take me back was all that mattered. ...