International Women’s Day: A Token Gesture or a Call to Action?
I’ll be honest—I’ve never been a fan of International Women’s Day. Why? Because women make up 51% of the population, yet we’re given just one day a year to be acknowledged.
And even then, IWD has become diluted to the point of meaninglessness. A day where men who identify as women are included, as if our struggles and experiences are interchangeable. A day when corporations and institutions post their obligatory slogans about empowering women, all while failing to address the gender pay gap, the erosion of women’s spaces, or the need to protect women from predatory men.
So yes, IWD leaves a sour taste. But despite my misgivings, I still want to offer a meaningful short story to mark the occasion.
The challenge was deciding what to write about, because women’s struggles are vast, complex, and devastatingly real. In Afghanistan, women are erased from public life by the Taliban. In Iran, young women are murdered for refusing to comply with an oppressive dress code. Across the world, so-called honour killings steal the lives of women who dare to seek freedom. Sexual violence, domestic abuse, forced marriage, female genital mutilation—the list of injustices is long, and it spans every continent.
But among all these horrors, there is one thing that unites women everywhere. Regardless of culture, class, or country, we are fierce protectors of our children. We nurture them, raise them, fight for them, and in too many cases, we suffer unimaginable loss for them. That is why my IWD story focuses on women in the Western world who are battling to protect their children—not from warlords or dictators, but from the very people who ought to care for them.
This story is for the mothers who are standing up, speaking out, and refusing to be silenced. Because women don’t need a day—we need action, protection, and respect, every single day of the year.
Enjoy the story—I hope it resonates.
The Nuremberg Trial of Doctor Mangle-Me
The courtroom was silent, save for the occasional shuffle of papers and the rhythmic ticking of the great clock above the judge’s bench. Doctor Mangle-Me sat stiff-backed in the defendant’s chair, his expression unreadable, his fingers lightly tapping the wooden table
before him.
“My work,” he said, in the measured tones of a man lecturing a room of dull students, “was for the good of these children.”
Gasps rippled through the gallery. The judge, an older man with deep lines etched into his face, adjusted his spectacles. “You experimented on them, Doctor. You sterilised them. You surgically mutilated them.”
Doctor Mangle-Me inclined his head slightly, as though considering the words carefully.
“Indeed, infertility is a regrettable side-effect of the treatment, Your Honour.”
A murmur of disgust spread through the room. At the prosecution table, the lead prosecutor, a woman in a crisp uniform, pushed back her chair and stood. Her voice was cool and deliberate, but steel lay beneath her words.
“You took healthy children and you poisoned them with unlicensed drugs. You cut into them. You robbed them of their future.”
Doctor Mangle-Me sighed, shaking his head ever so slightly. “Madam, I believe you are being rather dramatic.”
The prosecutor’s lips tightened. “Let’s be clear, Doctor. You administered drugs which were not approved for this use. You halted their natural development, destroyed their reproductive systems, and in many cases, permanently disfigured them.”
Doctor Mangle-Me’s gaze was steady. “Yes. Because it was necessary.”
Another wave of horror whispered through the gallery. The judge rapped his gavel.
“Necessary?”
Doctor Mangle-Me offered a condescending smile. “Do you understand how much suffering I have prevented? These children were troubled, uncertain, confused. They sought my help and I provided clarity. I gave them the gift of certainty. That is what medicine is for, is it not? To alleviate suffering?”
The prosecutor’s nostrils flared. “You sterilised children. ”I helped them.”
“No,” she said, voice like ice. “You played God.”
Doctor Mangle-Me waved a hand, as if swatting away an irritating fly. “History will judge me kindly.”
The prosecutor turned to the jury. “No, Doctor. We will judge you.”
Silence fell. The air in the courtroom seemed heavier, thick with the weight of horrors committed in the name of progress.
Then the clerk stood, ready to read the charges. He adjusted the microphone and began:
“Doctor Mangle-Me, you stand accused of crimes against humanity, committed in the years leading up to…” He hesitated, then continued.
“The year 2025.”
Doctor Mangle-Me’s fingers stilled on the desk. The judge’s voice was firm, his gaze unwavering. “This trial is conducted under the authority of the Nuremberg Code, established after the atrocities of the Second World War. You believed history would not come for you, Doctor.” He leaned forward. “But history has returned.”
Doctor Mangle-Me’s lips parted slightly, as if to protest, but no words came.
In the gallery, someone shouted, “Shame on you.”
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