THE WORLD NEEDS HER ANGER
Asma Tariq
This world doesn’t need quiet girls
who smile through pain.
It needs the kind of woman
who can set fire with her name.
It needs her anger,
the kind she hides in her chest,
when they say,
“It’s just how the world works,
do your best.”
But what of the girl
who never made it home?
What of the woman
who was blamed when she said no?
She was told to stay small,
to dress right, to speak light,
while men tore her world
in the middle of the night.
She is not weak.
She is not wrong.
She is a storm
they’ve silenced too long.
Rape.
Murder.
War on her skin.
They call it shame,
but it’s the world’s sin.
This world needs her,
not dressed in gold,
but covered in dust,
carrying truth that burns,
and a heart full of must.
We need the kind of woman
who stops asking why,
and starts shouting No more,
with fire in her eyes.
Like Kali, with her wild black hair,
dancing on hate with fearless care.
Like Jhansi Ki Rani, sword held high,
riding into battle, not afraid to die.
Let her cry; but don’t mistake her tears.
Each drop is a warning,
a story, a scream.
Let her feel rage,
raw, honest, loud.
Let her punch through the silence
they’ve wrapped like a shroud.
Her anger is holy.
Her fury is fair.
She doesn’t want revenge,
She wants to repair.
Not just her wounds,
but the world she walks in.
A world where girls
can live without fear in their skin.
So no, she won’t stay silent.
No, she won’t stay nice.
This world needs her voice,
not once, but twice.
It needs her shaking,
her sobbing, her fight,
her breaking and rising
deep in the night.
So don’t call her bitter
when she dares to speak.
She is the roar of the earth,
not some soft, helpless thing.
This world needs her
wild, tired, brave and true.
Because nothing will change
until she is allowed to be her too.
Reflection of Author:
I was born into a silence I did not choose. The eldest of four daughters in a land where fireworks greet sons and apologies greet girls. At first, I was celebrated, but with every sister, the joy dimmed. Whispers grew: “No son? No heir?” Their pity pressed against my skin before I knew how to speak.
My childhood was marked by contradictions, love at home, yet abuse from a teacher entrusted with my faith. I carried a secret I did not understand, stitched into me with fear and shame. At school, my difference was ridiculed. My body too weak, my voice too soft, my questions too much. I began to hate myself, believing their gaze defined me.
Then death entered, my father’s sudden absence at fourteen turned me into caretaker, protector, second parent. I buried my grief to shoulder burdens too heavy for a girl still breaking. I dreamed of becoming a doctor, but patriarchy closed the door: “You cannot leave the city, you are a girl.” That sentence cut deeper than failure.
So I turned inward. With a basic phone and borrowed time, I taught myself to rebuild. I read, wrote, learned, and began to stitch my silence into stories. And stories became survival.
From that survival, I created Chupaal, a gathering where quiet transforms into voice. Here, we speak of body safety, abuse, climate, mental health, and the dreams denied to girls like us. What began as my wound became a collective healing.
My politics is simple: to break the myth of the “good and strong woman” who suffers quietly and smiles. I believe strength is honesty, vulnerability, and choosing yourself even when the world calls you selfish.
I am the daughter of silence, shaped by grief, shame, and love. But I chose voice. I chose creation. And now, I am the echo I once needed—a storyteller, a questioner, a builder of spaces where others may rise.