“Are you unmarried?” or “Are you a virgin?” is a question that follows women everywhere in Iraq—in the workplace, on the streets, at home, school, university, in their dreams, demands, belongings, and even in gynaecological clinics. The gynaecologist does not treat you if you are single, meaning unmarried or have never been married. Wait until you get married. Only then will you have the right to treatment.
It is not easy to convince a doctor to treat you, and it might take a long time before they agree to offer a simple solution to help you cope with your symptoms without truly curing the problem. Faced with this, a woman finds herself with two options: either marriage or living with pain, sometimes for life.
When will my consent be considered? When your husband agrees.
Esraa Mohammed
An employee at a private company in Baghdad, holding a bachelor’s degree in computer science.
In my mid-twenties, I developed sebaceous cysts on my scalp. It wasn’t anything serious, just a cyst. I had a simple procedure to open it and stitch the wound. That was it.
The cyst returned, but not in the same spot. It reappeared in the “nether regions” as far as doctors were concerned. I panicked at its appearance. It was hard and big. My first instinct was to seek a diagnosis from specialist female doctors.
The doctors shut their doors in my face. They rejected me when I answered their question, “Are you married?” with, “No, just engaged”. I couldn’t understand the logic behind rejecting a patient because she was unmarried. Some even refused to see me because I visited the clinic alone without a companion.
Finally, one doctor agreed to see me. When I explained the issue, she scolded me. “Why are you so concerned and poking around your body like this?” Her tone was accusatory, as if I dared to care about my health while unmarried and without a companion! “Doctor, isn’t it my body? How can I not care about it?” My reasoning didn’t convince her. She told me to leave my body alone and not to investigate things too much since I wasn’t married yet. After all, my husband wasn’t part of the equation at that point.
I couldn’t understand the difference between a sebaceous cyst on my scalp and one at the entrance of my vagina—not inside it, not deep—nowhere near the imaginary hymen. It wouldn’t affect anything. It was just a sebaceous cyst on the outer surface. What’s the problem?
Everyone’s reaction terrified me. At the time, I didn’t realise the problem was my status. I thought the cyst might develop into something worse, and these doctors didn’t want to deal with complicated surgery. This was the only explanation I had for their rejection.
I eventually found a doctor who welcomed me and listened to my problem without turning me away. She reassured me that it was a simple matter, nothing to panic over and that removing it would leave a scar similar to those we get from running and falling—nothing more serious than that. However, when she learned that my wedding date was approaching, she suggested waiting because the wound would take time to heal. She also advised me to discuss the issue with my fiancé “if you trust him” so he could decide whether he was okay with my condition.
All I wanted was a doctor to tell me I wouldn’t die from a sebaceous cyst that caused doctors to panic and reject me, that removing it was simple, and that recovery would take no more than two weeks of rest.
I try not to think about this incident much, avoiding it like someone avoids an old trauma. I reassured myself that plenty of doctors in the country would see me. But sometimes, I remember they might only see me because of my husband. If my husband approves, they will, too—of anything and everything.
No solution but Prince Charming
Dhay Ahmed
Iraqi Journalist
My life turned upside down the moment I saw blood covering my legs. Everything suddenly took on a new meaning. I was transformed from a child into a so-called young woman, gaining a new kind of privacy in the eyes of others. If I ever said I was in pain, the immediate assumption was that it must be my period. No one ever asked, “What’s hurting you, Dhay?”
During my first visit to a gynaecologist, I complained about the absence of my period. It had come once when I first reached puberty and then disappeared. My abdomen was swollen, as three months had passed, with blood accumulating inside me day after day. The receptionist asked, “Are you in your third month, sweetheart?” I was only 13 years old.
Inside, the doctor asked if I was married. I told her no and repeated that I was only 13 years old, thinking my age was an obvious answer. “No, how could I possibly be married?” But apparently, I was the only one who felt that way. The doctor smiled at me gently, as if she were informing someone that they had only a week left to live, and said, “I can’t do anything for you, my dear. You’re single. You need to get married for your problem to be solved”.
The solution sounded strange, but it was the first time I heard it—and not the last.
For ten years, I would hear different gynaecologists, holding degrees from Basra, Baghdad, America, Britain, Germany, and other countries, tell me that there was no solution except for a Prince Charming to rescue me from this pain. The solution wasn’t the husband himself but pregnancy, which meant I had to turn into a non-stop baby-making machine, hoping that my uterus might grant me a temporary truce.
I hated gynaecologists, their clinics, and even the medical field itself.
At 13, I was in pain from something no one would explain to me. At 15, I was sitting for my ninth-grade exams with my right hand doing the writing and my left hand massaging my abdomen, hoping to stop the pain. At 17, I was trying to focus on answering a question about Islam’s instructions for women in a final religious studies exam, shaking my leg to distract myself from the pain spreading through my body. At 19, I was filling out my college application form with tears in my eyes because all I could think about was the pain. At 23, I walked out of a new gynaecologist’s office after my graduation party, where she told me, “Don’t come back. There’s nothing I can do for you.”
My last gynaecologist explained that all the doctors I’d seen before had worsened my condition. All the medications, tests, and methods they imposed on me without explaining my condition would take years to recover from. She told me the only solution was to “accept it”.
When I asked her what was wrong and why it had to be so complicated, she said it was simply Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS), nothing more, nothing less. The solution was to live with it.
“Don’t worry, you’ll have children just fine,” she added.
Great, I thought, I’ll have kids. But what about the pain?
“Oh, there’s no solution for the pain. Haven’t you gotten used to it by now? You said it’s been ten years. You must be accustomed to it by now.”
I left the clinic, tears blurring my vision. My mother panicked when she saw me crying. She didn’t understand. I told her I’d be able to have kids if that was what worried her. But that wasn’t what bothered me.
“The doctor said there’s no solution. I’ll stay like this for the rest of my life!” But my mother didn’t understand, just as I didn’t understand how doctors could offer only two options: marriage or endurance.
The doctor will ruin and shame you. On the mythical gynaecologist
Muna Ali
An Iraqi visual artist interested in women’s issues
When I turned 14, two years after reaching puberty, the torment of menstruation began to haunt me. The pain was unbearable, and my schoolmates got used to me fainting and leaving school early whenever my period came. To my family, the pain wasn’t real. The usual remarks were always, “It will go away when you get married” or “Your generation is so weak” or “How will you handle a man or childbirth then?” I had to endure all this pain because, to others, I was fragile, and going to see a gynaecologist would “ruin me”.
By the time I turned 19, I started searching online, like any tortured soul, hoping to find a solution somewhere. The internet told me the pain was normal—it was the price of being female—but fainting, staying in bed, and staring at the ceiling for hours because it was the only activity that didn’t hurt were not normal, even for a female. I shared this information with my family and told my cousin about my desire to visit a gynaecologist to find the cause. The pain I had trained myself to tolerate wasn’t normal, and I wasn’t as fragile as everyone claimed.
The whole family treated this decision as a catastrophe. “You’re a virgin, you’re too young!” The phrase “going to a gynaecologist will ruin you” resurfaced, which essentially meant losing my imaginary virginity. The belief was that visiting a gynaecologist could only mean one thing: the hymen would be broken.
So, I didn’t go.
Years of pain and suffering were not enough to allow me to visit a gynaecology clinic even once. I didn’t know what a gynaecological exam was until I left Iraq, moved to Europe, and got pregnant for the first time.
The first time the European doctor examined me, he asked, “Your periods are excruciating, right?” I replied, “Yes, how did you know?” He then told me I had what is known as endometriosis. The mystery was finally solved. “You need surgery,” the doctor decided. So, I wasn’t exaggerating. The pain was severe. I, the so-called fragile one, had endured pain that required surgical intervention for a decade without any consultations, painkillers, or a doctor to reassure me. I bore it alone without much complaint.
I underwent surgery last year at the age of 29, meaning I endured fifteen years of pain without any solution.
The same thing happened with my niece, but my sister was too afraid to take her to a doctor. The exact phrase is still being used: “What will the doctors do? Just give her painkillers.” As long as you’re a virgin and far from marriage, gynaecologists treat you as though you don’t have reproductive organs or any problems and that this organ won’t “activate” until your wedding night.
The marriage and pregnancy that were promised to me as the ultimate cure for the pain didn’t change anything. I suffered during marriage and pregnancy. Without the surgery, I’d still be in pain, wondering, “If I were still in Iraq, what would have happened? How long would I have endured the pain?”
Years of chasing the correct diagnosis
Zeina Abdul-Ridha
Engineer and artist who is passionate about reading and programming
The journey of finding a doctor who doesn’t dismiss pain is often a part of every young woman’s life. I am one of them. My journey began when I turned twenty. At the time, the pain was mild and bearable and could be alleviated with a single painkiller like Paracetamol. It helped ease the discomfort that occasionally lingered. Today, when I look back on these memories, I realise they marked the beginning of an illness that turned into a long period of searching and suffering.
During my first visit to a doctor at Al-Faiha Hospital in Basra, she said, “The pain is normal, and you’re a girl. You should know that. Why would I need to do an ultrasound or tests?” She decided that I should know this because I am a girl, and therefore, there was no need to examine the pain. Nothing further.
A second doctor diagnosed me with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS). She said one of the cysts was very large and prescribed a lot of painkillers and birth control, which later caused me stomach and kidney issues. When I informed a third doctor about the cyst problem, she said she couldn’t help me until I got married, claiming that PCOS was present in all girls and was normal. The word normal felt alien to me, even though the pain was debilitating, hindering my life every time my period started again. No activities or hobbies were possible—only crying and waiting for the pain to end.
It wasn’t just the word normal that felt strange. The doctor herself treated patients like a mother selecting tomatoes at a vegetable stand. She might as well have said, “How much per kilo?” in the middle of the clinic. She would see about ten patients at once without caring for privacy. It was worse for married women, whom she examined in front of everyone. As I tried to explain my condition, she was busy prescribing medication to another patient. It was a pointless attempt. When I told her the pain was unbearable, she offered me two options. “Get married, or we’ll make a cross-shaped incision to remove the cysts.” She then prescribed painkillers that had nothing to do with my condition.
All the doctors who told me my pain was normal made me doubt myself. Was I exaggerating? Was this really what all women experience? And if it was normal for everyone, why did it feel so uniquely unbearable for me?
I was fortunate to have my family. None of them suggested marriage as a solution to end the pain, except for my mother in moments of desperation and fear for me. She would say, “I’m ready to marry you off if it means the pain will stop and you’ll be okay.” Once, my head rested on her lap as she stroked my hair while I cried from the unbearable pain. My two-year-old nephew saw me and offered me his bottle to comfort me and make me stop crying. My siblings too were busy looking for new doctors, effective painkillers, or hot compresses and tools to help me cope. The pain wasn’t mine alone. As a family, we all suffered.
A friend recommended a doctor. It was my last attempt. I explained my history and when it all began. That’s when she said the magic words, “This pain isn’t normal, Zeina.” Four words, “It is not normal”, were enough to erase all the self-doubt and questions. I stopped asking myself if I was overreacting.
The doctor discovered that I had endometriosis. Together, we agreed on a precise treatment plan a few weeks ago. I hope it pays off.
Sometimes, I think about those who don’t have anyone to support them or whose families side with the doctors. How do they endure? How do they live full lives alone with the pain?