Forgive us, our beloved daughters,
for making you feel unsafe
in your own country—
or rather, for the reality
of the vulnerability
we have forced upon you.
We should have stood beside you.
We should have kept you safe.
Who knows how many years it took?
Who knows how many sacrifices
were made by generations of your kin?
Who knows how many daughters
endured their pain in silence?
That silence never became your strength;
instead, people mistook your silence
for their own victory.
Questions were raised about your existence.
Questions were raised about your character.
Yet, regarding your suffering,
no voice was ever raised.
You were indeed preserved
to keep the cycle of creation moving,
but even that was counted
as a favour done to you.
Citing the fact that you are a girl,
we defined your limits.
We placed countless obstacles in your path
simply because of who you are.
We curbed your aspirations
by saying, “You are a girl.”
We limited your rights
by saying, “You are a girl.”
You are a girl—
and by saying this,
we have also defined your limits.
Because you were a girl,
we even decided
where and when you could go—
or whether you could go at all.
You are a living being.
Countless literary works
have been written about you.
We have naturally deemed you
worthy of reverence and respect,
and have proclaimed
your feminine form worthy of worship.
We, who have vociferously proclaimed
from every platform
that a daughter deserves respect,
are today acting
in direct contradiction
to those very words.
“My daughters, forgive us.”
This is what we say
after every horrific event
you have endured.
We reiterate all our old promises
and place them before you once again.
We fail to break
this never-ending cycle.
We neither manage
to fulfil the promises we have made,
nor are we able to keep you safe
in your homes,
nor can we provide you security
outside them.
After every atrocity committed against you,
aren’t we the ones
who hold candlelight marches?
Aren’t we the ones
who enact new, stringent laws?
Aren’t we the ones
who create funds for your safety?
And yet, in the meantime,
another atrocity occurs.
And once again,
we say—
“Forgive us, my daughters.”
Some apologies are repeated so often that they begin to lose their meaning. This poem is for the daughters who continue to wait for those apologies to become change.
Forgive us, our beloved daughters,
for making you feel unsafe
in your own country—
or rather, for the reality
of the vulnerability
we have forced upon you.
We should have stood beside you.
We should have kept you safe.
Who knows how many years it took?
Who knows how many sacrifices
were made by generations of your kin?
Who knows how many daughters
endured their pain in silence?
That silence never became your strength;
instead, people mistook your silence
for their own victory.
Questions were raised about your existence.
Questions were raised about your character.
Yet, regarding your suffering,
no voice was ever raised.
You were indeed preserved
to keep the cycle of creation moving,
but even that was counted
as a favour done to you.
Citing the fact that you are a girl,
we defined your limits.
We placed countless obstacles in your path
simply because of who you are.
We curbed your aspirations
by saying, “You are a girl.”
We limited your rights
by saying, “You are a girl.”
You are a girl—
and by saying this,
we have also defined your limits.
Because you were a girl,
we even decided
where and when you could go—
or whether you could go at all.
You are a living being.
Countless literary works
have been written about you.
We have naturally deemed you
worthy of reverence and respect,
and have proclaimed
your feminine form worthy of worship.
We, who have vociferously proclaimed
from every platform
that a daughter deserves respect,
are today acting
in direct contradiction
to those very words.
“My daughters, forgive us.”
This is what we say
after every horrific event
you have endured.
We reiterate all our old promises
and place them before you once again.
We fail to break
this never-ending cycle.
We neither manage
to fulfil the promises we have made,
nor are we able to keep you safe
in your homes,
nor can we provide you security
outside them.
After every atrocity committed against you,
aren’t we the ones
who hold candlelight marches?
Aren’t we the ones
who enact new, stringent laws?
Aren’t we the ones
who create funds for your safety?
And yet, in the meantime,
another atrocity occurs.
And once again, we say—
“Forgive us, my daughters.”
A Little Note to My Readers
This poem comes from a place of deep concern for our daughters and for the world we are creating around them.
I don’t want these words to leave us only with sadness or anger. I hope they make us pause and think about the promises we repeatedly make—and the responsibility we have to turn those promises into reality.
Every daughter deserves to live with dignity, freedom and a sense of safety, without having to constantly prove that she deserves them.
Thank you for reading, reflecting, and staying with my words.
With warmth,
Shalini