Written by: Manal Rabiey
I am Artemis.
I was born not from light, but from pain—birthed upon an exile island tossed by the winds, where neither earth welcomed me nor sky blessed my coming. My mother, Leto, was hunted by Hera’s burning rage, and she fled while carrying me, seeking a refuge no land dared to offer. And when her hour of labor came, I was the first to emerge from her womb. I did not cry—I opened my eyes and gazed into hers… and I saw all sorrow residing in them. In my silence, I said: “I am yours, and I will always be yours.”
I was born, and before I had even dried from the waters of life, I reached into my mother’s belly and brought forth my twin—the light that rose after me… Apollo. I was the first to hold him, the first to hear his cry, the first to see in his eyes the fire of the sun. From that moment, he and I have orbited each other—he ruling the day, I guarding the night.
My father? Zeus?
I do not say he wasn’t there—I say he was always present… through his absence.
He left my mother to give birth in exile, afraid of Hera’s wrath. He wasn’t there when I was born. He didn’t kiss my forehead. He wasn’t her shield. I saw my mother weep for him, hiding her wound from me, and I understood: men do not bring safety, even if they are gods.
Since I was young, I asked that no man touch me, that I not be made a slave in love’s court. I asked for a silver bow, a company of virgin companions, and a life in the forests and mountains, where no one could command me. I wanted to be free—as my mother never was.
I lived among deer and wolves, watching the world from afar. I did not come close, nor did I let anyone near. And when Actaeon, that curious hunter, crept upon me as I bathed in my sacred spring, I did not scream, nor did I hide. I looked him in the eyes and said, “What the soul does not permit, the eyes may not see.”
Then I exhaled, and he became a stag, torn apart by the very hounds he had raised.
I do not kill in cruelty—I teach in severity.
As for my twin Apollo, he loved often… but never possessed.
He loved Daphne, but she fled and turned into a tree. He loved Cassandra, but she rejected him and was cursed. He loves—but from afar. He chose to sing of love, not to live within it, for he too saw what our father Zeus had done, and refused to become his echo.
We are both children of a woman wounded by love, and we chose to be pure, even if it meant dying alone.
I am Artemis.
Goddess of the hunt, of chastity, of the moon.
I am the one who cannot be caged, reduced, or given as a prize.
I do not reject love—but I reject love that wounds my dignity.
I do not hate men—but I hate the legacy that makes them repeat Zeus’s sins with a smile.
I am the moon.
I move alone through the sky, yet I do not lose my way.
I light the shadows of maidens. I hear the prayers of the untouched.
I send longing into the hearts of those who believe solitude is weakness.
My solitude is a crown, not a chain.
My silence is strength, not retreat.
I am Artemis.
And no one touches the moon—
unless they truly deserve it.
