Louder than Silence
By Rabia Akhtar
I was raised in patriarchy.
Not an idea—
a weight.
It sat on my shoulders,
pressed into my lungs.
Silence was law.
Obedience—oxygen.
I cracked it open.
Spoke when I wasn’t meant to.
Walked where I wasn’t welcome.
Burned their script,
page by page.
Crossed borders,
thought the fight would end.
It didn’t.
It just got dressed up—
new clothes, better manners.
Racism at the table.
Sexism in a grin.
Bias wrapped in clean grammar.
Walls made of glass.
Chains you can’t see.
Intersectionality means this:
not one thing or another—
but the collision of all I am.
A name that signals faith I no longer claim,
a passport that shuts doors before I arrive,
brown skin at boardroom tables,
a woman’s voice in rooms built for men.
Each identity a thread,
woven tight,
patterns of exclusion
hidden in plain sight.
Carrying double the weight,
earning half the credit.
Always too much.
Never enough.
But listen.
I am not fragile.
Not a guest.
Not a mistake.
I am the crack in their system.
The fire they can’t contain.
The voice they wanted hushed—
still rising.
Still louder.
Louder than silence.
Rabia Akhtar is a human rights defender focusing on gender and identities in contexts of conflict and war, currently based in Singapore. Her poetry explores themes of identity, gender-based crimes, and resilience, drawing on her experiences as a woman of color navigating complex forms of belonging and exclusion while championing others’ rights. Her work seeks to give voice to stories often left untold.
Photo by Joe Yates on Unsplash.
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