Leashed by Aid
A poem by an alumna of Cohort 7 of the Advanced Short Course on Advocacy for Reproductive Justice.
They call it help, yet tie our tongues,
A whispered rule, a silenced song.
Our mothers bleed, our daughters cry,
Yet choice is caged beneath the sky,
Where foreign hands decide our fate.
Their coins come wrapped in chains so tight,
A dance we do, but not our own.
To heal, to plan, to live, to know—
These rights they trade, yet still they owe,
For freedom lost in aid’s disguise.
The midwives stand with hands now bound,
No counsel left, no voice to sound.
The clinics shut, the wombs left bare,
While death walks in the village air,
And life is lost in choice denied.
Yet look around—our soil is gold,
Our rivers strong, our minds untold.
We need no script, no foreign guide,
No laws imposed from lands outside,
For wealth is ours to claim and grow.
So break the strings, unbind the song,
Our tune was here, it’s been all along.
We hold the seeds, the fire, the drum—
No need to bow, no need to succumb.
Let choice be ours. Let us decide.