Is it my turn already? Can I answer the questions now? Or am I not allowed to speak?  But to hell, to hell with that. I had my fair share of silence.

“But who would care for you in the future, when you grey and old?”

But who? Is it supposed to be my kids? Who I want to see thrive? I have many dreams, and none say, “I want to burden my own kids.”

But do we even have the luxury to contemplate about the future? When the glacier melts and seas rise, and everyone claims to be at the forefront of guarding the planet, while nobody actually lifts fingers—unless pointing fingers counts.

Do we even have the privilege of thinking about the future when children cycling in and out of hospitals with lungs heavy from pollution, and the best solution offered is calculated based on profits? Can electric cars, conceived from child labor, razed forests, and toxic waste, truly be our salvation?

Do we have to add another mouth to feed to the billions, when crops refuse to grow, and wealth distributed so unfairly that my stomach is full and others are scrounging for something to nibble, and there at the other parts of the world some are waiting for whatever other nations send them, sometimes at a costly price, sometimes at the cost of suffering.

Who would care for me? Maybe I’ll die a painful death, discarded by the roadside, knowing fully I birthed no soul to treat as an asset in a world drowning in agony.

“But don’t you know it’s in your nature to give birth and raise a child?

Right—now it comes down to my body. We women don’t own our bodies. We carry with us a womb, the vessel of life; thus, this body of mine is owned by many. Oh, we are the holy mothers. We have songs sung for us; we have a day celebrated for us. We are a symbol of protection, yet paradoxically, in need of protection.

And we are labeled sluts, for falling in love, for merely speaking to a man—an endless list, unknown even to us. We are called prostitutes for mothering a fatherless child, who never asked to be born, whose innocence is stripped for mere adornment. We are deemed bad mothers because we cannot shield our children from sickness, because we dare to work leaving our babies in others’ care—not a choice, as a single income is never enough.

You raised us with quality education, but you don’t want us to dream because our bodies have a sole purpose. Have you forgotten how you call us “a generation that gives up”? We cannot buy houses and cars—not without a mortgage. We are not loyal to our company since we must move jobs to secure a promotion. “What a lazy generation, when they have a better qualification than us!”

Tell me about it—research declares our lifetime savings will never suffice to send our kids to university. And still, we must raise them in a morally ambivalent world, where justice is weighed by the gold in one’s pocket, where trust in institutions crumbles like dry bread, even at home.

“You might fret right now, but once you bear a child, your motherhood instinct will kick in.”

Tell that to mothers who grapple with post-partum depression. Who struggle to love their own kids, and sometimes mix it with hate. And their heart breaks to pieces knowing the innocent soul doesn’t deserve it, knowing that they turn into monsters. And when they cry in silence or yell and shout to their kids, when their hands move faster than their brain, is that their motherhood instinct that kicks in? These are the young women you convinced everything would be okay, and left alone after giving birth, because you trust they are designed for child-rearing.

Oh, then what of me? Will motherhood arrive like a savior, when I am too consumed by thoughts of dying to connect even with the person beside me each day? How can I nurture a child when I struggle to care for myself—when I rely on pills to keep me sane, when my own mind constantly betrays me with false alarms? Call me weak; I am lacking the confidence that I could ever care for another soul—as I should.

“I pray for you to have a baby soon.”

Oh, thank you for your well wishes, but that was misplaced. Have you ever asked about what I want? What about praying for my health and happiness? What about praying to those who are genuinely yearning to have a child on their own? You heartlessly call them fruitless, when they deserve and need that prayer better than the selfish me. How about praying for those children who are neglected and thirsty for love?

How about praying for the children who become statistics every second that matter, dying in a bloodbath they never know what for? Not for their sake, that is all I know for. It’s the manchild who isn’t satisfied playing war games when they were growing up, and now they find new reasons to fight—for resources, for land, for power, for wealth. Those children are just obstacles, human shields, and those tiny, bleeding hands that are reaching for angels—they do not matter.

And with this grim picture in the background, I am happy enough to see my nieces, nephews, and any other kids running around with smiles on their faces, and I am willing to give anything to protect their smiles.

They are not my babies. But every kid is my baby. My responsibility. And yours, too.

Now, do I have to spell it out loud for you?

I. Do. Not. Want. A. Baby.

My declaration is now clear as day. What else do you want to ask of me?