I came across her name the way I’ve come across too many lately, as a hashtag.
#JusticeForMoumita.
At first I stared, wishing it wasn’t what I thought. Hoping I was wrong. But I wasn’t. And as I read, it felt like the walls closed in on me.
Because this is how it keeps happening, isn’t it?
Another woman gone.
Another hashtag piled onto a mountain of grief.
Another reason for me and girls like me to lower our voices, shrink our dreams, bolt our doors tighter.
And even as we do all that, we know. We know it still won’t be enough.
She didn’t just save lives. She deserved to live hers.
Dr Moumita wasn’t just a name in a headline. She was 31. A doctor. A woman who stayed up nights saving other people’s lives while no one saved hers.
Her best friend would tell you how Moumita filled rooms with her laughter.
The kind of person who stayed up with you through heartbreak, through exams, who made you believe in dreams that felt too big to say out loud.
Her little brother would tell you she was his hero.
The one who protected him, helped him with his homework, brought him treats after long shifts. The one who promised she’d be there for his graduation.
And now she’s gone.
And I’m left wondering, what’s left for the rest of us?
Every hashtag like this chips away at me. I don’t just mourn Moumita. I mourn the parts of myself I lock away every time I see another woman stolen.
They called it suicide because murder means accountability.
They said it fast: suicide. Case closed. Move along.
But her body told the truth: signs of assault. Signs of struggle. Signs of a woman who fought for her life, until someone stronger, crueler, entitled ended it.
And still they tried to make us believe she did it to herself. Because that’s easier, isn’t it?
Easier to blame a woman than confront what’s broken.
Easier to protect a man’s future than to grieve a woman’s stolen one.
Easier to hush it up than admit the system did this.
Moumita didn’t take her own life. The system did. And it left just enough rope for her killer to walk free.
And every time I read about it, I lock up tighter. I dream smaller. And I know, I know it won’t save me either.
It wasn’t just his hands that killed her. It was every hand that stayed folded and every time I thought staying small would keep me safe.
Every hashtag I see carves out another piece of me.
Every time I see a name like Moumita’s, I tell myself: be smaller, be quieter, maybe then you’ll survive.
Every time I see a woman stolen, I lower my voice, shrink my dreams, bolt my doors and I know it won’t be enough.
That’s what Moumita’s death did to me.
She didn’t die because she was weak. She died because a man was sure no one would stop him.
Because he moved through a world that let him believe her life was his to take.
He didn’t just tighten that noose. The world handed it to him and then looked away.
And I hate that I feel myself folding smaller and smaller, as if that will save me. I hate that Moumita’s story made me dream less, not more. I hate that I even have to think like this at all.
Her future wasn’t lost. It was stolen and we all saw it happen.
Moumita deserved everything.
A wedding. A home. A life she could choose.
A world that kept her safe inside that hospital, not one that left her hanging from its ceiling.
But she was robbed. Robbed by him. Robbed by a system that protected him. Robbed by every silence that wrapped around him like armor.
He didn’t just kill Moumita. He killed the lie that working hard, being kind, and following the rules will keep us safe.
And now I can’t stop thinking: if Moumita, with all her goodness, brilliance, and strength, wasn’t safe. Who is?
Every hashtag feels like a warning and no matter what I do, I know it won’t be enough.
Each time I see a name like Moumita’s, it feels less like grief and more like a countdown.
Like we’re all standing in line, waiting for the world to decide who’s next.
I lock my doors. I shrink my voice. I fold my dreams smaller and smaller but I can feel it in my bones:
It was never about how loud I spoke, or how carefully I moved. It was always about how much the world lets them get away with.
That’s what keeps me up at night.
Not if there will be another Moumita but when.
Moumita deserved more than a hashtag. She deserved a lifetime.
I don’t want to light candles anymore.
I want to see women like Moumita live.
I want to see a world where we don’t have to write blogs like this at all.
But until that world exists I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep raging. I’ll keep grieving.
Because staying silent didn’t save Moumita.
And it won’t save me either.