Yamina Mabrouki

As I stood there, my hands resting lightly on the glass counter, I could feel my pulse in my fingertips. The man’s voice cut through the store like a blade—sharp, absolute. His wife’s eyes darted between the necklace she wanted and the one he insisted on, her lips pressed into a thin, helpless line.

I wanted to speak. Not as a saleswoman, but as a woman. To tell her that her desires mattered, that she wasn’t unreasonable for wanting something of her own. But my voice stayed locked behind my teeth. Instead, I adjusted my expression, keeping it smooth, professional, neutral.

When he grabbed her arm, the air in the store thickened. A small, almost imperceptible movement, but loaded with something heavy. My stomach turned. How many times had I seen this before—not here, not always so visible, but in the careful way some women chose their words, in the tension in their shoulders, in the silence they swallowed?

I live in Tunis, Tunisia. In this city, contradictions breathe through the streets. You can see women in business suits, their heels clicking confidently on the pavement, and others in their husbands' shadows, their steps hesitant. Tunisia was once a leader in women’s rights, but things are shifting. Some days, I feel proud of how free I am. Other days, I wonder if that freedom is just borrowed time.

I thought of my mother, her steady hands preparing tea, the way she would look my father in the eye when she disagreed. My brothers and I grew up knowing that was normal. But outside our home, I learned otherwise.

When the couple left, a hush settled over the store. I forced a deep breath. It wasn’t just the argument. It was the reminder—how easily a woman’s voice, her choices, could be dismissed.

I turned back to the counter, adjusting a necklace on its display. The gold caught the light, shining, perfect. But perfection is an illusion.