John Lennon imagined a world with no countries or religions; I’m imagining a world where my Arab homeland has no hymens.
No, this is not a typo. It’s that hymen. That sacred membrane that marks a woman’s virginity. That revered tissue, which unleashes wars, triggers tribal disputes, and breaks families.
That part of a woman’s body that men call their honor and vow to protect with all their might.
That membrane whose absence can cost women their lives while its rupture is celebrated on wedding nights.
That obscure body part that defines a woman’s journey.
Imagine there are no hymens, no virginity tests too.
I’m envisioning a hymen-less society where women are born without it due to a genetic mutation that becomes mainstream.
My world is a hymen-less tale, but instead of Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid Tale where women are property of the state, it’s a utopian one instead of dystopian.
In my world, Atwood’s Gilead is a place where women don’t bleed on their wedding nights and instead enjoy a night of intimacy without worrying about the menacing gauge of their morality.
In my world, the word honor is not an ugly one, a burden lugged by the whole society; it’s a beautiful word celebrated and cherished by all.
In my world, women are born whole and not turned into female adults after being taken by men.
ّIn my world, that genetic mutation, makes women whole.
A girl named Dalia
In my world, there is a 15-year-old teenager named Dalia who dwells in her happy place. She can ride bikes and horses without worrying about how this physical activity might rupture that membrane, turning her into used goods. She won’t have to think twice about how this will jeopardize her chances of finding a husband.
In my world, she has the choice to explore her sexuality, to love and make love, without fearing for her life.