I am Ayla Pasdar. Perhaps now, my voice will echo only as a faint murmur of pain and
abandonment in the dark corridors of history.
Ever since I lost my father, life in that tiny 12-square-meter room in my uncle’s house
became a prison for me—a place where every corner held a silence heavy with
unspoken words and shattered dreams.
At the age of eleven, when an engagement was arranged for me, my heart trembled
under the weight of choices forced upon me. Days passed, and I kept the hope of
freedom burning inside me—freedom from restrictions, from the oppressive “honor”
laws that never allowed my inner voice to rise.
When a boy entered my life and offered me the hope of escape from this cage, my heart
was filled with joy. I decided to run away with him, hoping to create a new life. But it
seemed I had no share in life at all. We were arrested, and I was forcibly returned to the
very place I had hoped to escape forever.
That night, in Izeh, darkness fell heavy over the land. In the silence of our home, I heard
the footsteps of my brother and uncles. Those moments felt like my final breaths in the
face of oppression. The sound of weapons, the helpless screams, the brutal
blows—each one proved that in a world where “honor” defines the limits of freedom,
there is no place for a girl like me.
Now I, Ayla, am gone from this world.
But my dreams live on—dreams of a world where no young girl is ever forced to live in
the cage of “honor-worship,” silenced and unseen.
Maybe my death will be the start of change. Maybe this bitter story will become a lesson
for a world that must understand: Oppression in the name of “honor” must end.

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