You
found me
alone in
an unlit room;
running around
in circles;
chasing my tail.
You
asked
what I was doing;
I smiled and said
“I’m content,”
(even though
that wasn’t really your question).
“but, are you happy?”
I cringed,
“don’t ask questions like that.”
Standing
side by side-
covered
top to tip
sweating.
Longingly wishing
to free our
pale skin to the sun.
Walking,
hand in hand,
smothered:
thought to breath
in lust for impulse.
Searching
without meaning.
Roasting
Our skin,
Our blood,
Our bones,
Our veins.
Slowly, roasting but
cycling.
Aimlessly.
Shoulder to shoulder.
Trying to understand
the world;
Touching everything but
getting burned and
moving on.
Daring to question once,
but facing loud voices shouting to
shut
up. To
stop
thinking. To
follow.
Follow.
Follow
the rules.
“SHUT UP.”
We’re repeating to
our wandering thoughts.
“Follow.”
We’re repeating to our damp skin.
They say.
They said.
They’re always repeating
that if you
place your lips
on wounds and suck-
you’ll remove the infiltrating poison.
But what they’re not telling you is
the hardest of all the poisons is
the stagnancy
that is continuing
to fill our veins;
simplifying our minds.
Daily,
we’re striding
silently.
Wearing our layers of silk gracefully
masking our impurities.
Side by side.
Hand in hand.
Shoulder to shoulder;
Afraid to let go of each other
seeking that physical reminder
that;
captivity breeds resilience.
She was faced with a choice;
To shout
Off the top of her lungs
Off the edge of a cliff
Off for the whole world to hear
That this isn’t it
That this is not what she wants
This is not how she sees her life going
This isn’t right
A choice to yell
At her family
At her friends
At her society
At her life
At herself
That this isn’t it
This is not what she wants
This is not how she sees her life going
This isn’t right
A choice to scream
Out every bit of air within her lungs
Out every honest thought shes ever had of him
Out a description of exactly how disgusted she is from all of this
Out that this isn’t it
This is not what she wants
This is not how she sees her life going
This isn’t right
It can’t be right.
He isn’t right
He can’t be;
How can he be right when his touch sends shudders of indifference down her spine
How can he be right when his choice of perfume is a freshly smoked cigarette
How can he be right when he embodies everything she is against
How can he be right when all she feels when their eyes meet is nervousness, frustration, anger
How can he be right when her eyes do not look at him with love
or curiosity,
but fear.
How can he be right when the very thought of him feeling her skin repulses her.
Or, to choose
To remain quiet for the sake of all the burdens they’ve placed on her beaten shoulders;
Burdens of honor
Of righteousness
Of propriety
Of diligence
Burdens of norms
Of purity
Of family name
Burdens that drag her body down with the weight of an anchor meant only to position her into their cold fingertips, without exception
Burdens that she cannot argue with or voice
Burdens that she has to live with,
lovingly accepting.
The angst that she needs to unleash is vibrating every fiber of her being
The power of her thoughts is going to war with
The power of her heart
Of the love she has no idea why she feels for them
And the supposed love she’ll grow for him, for them.
The powerlessness she feels
And the acceptance she’s telling herself she will have.
She finally convinced herself that
Their will matters more than her own.
So, she decided to get away from them-
That this is a new door that’s opening for all the freedoms she’s been telling herself she doesn’t need for years.
She’s decided
this
is her only escape.
She clutched the dead flowers in her hands and walked as appropriately slow as she could.
As her mind was fighting the trembling ankles that wanted with all their might to carry her towards the door.
She walked with her head slouched low, as she couldn’t look at the faces that were celebrating the end of her life.
She wanted to shout again, to yell that they look like grimacing prison guards.
She looked down to keep her mind quiet and try to embrace the decision they made for her.
That didn’t stop the tears streaming down her face when it came down to her trembling lips whispering the one word that destroyed her life,
“نعم”
Boxed in an alternate reality
clouded by truth and insecurities
in love with a notion of freedom
that I will never be accustomed to having
shackled to a world of the dominating
fighting and screaming to leave
to shatter it all;
and live,
and breathe,
and love,
and exist.
Boxed in a world of don’ts
a world of no’s
a world of must-not’s
lusting over mischief
with an appetite for my own self-destruction
craving life
and an exhilarating breath
craving a love that will knock me out of everything I know
craving a meaningful existence.
And no matter how many traditions I desolately stampede,
I am expected to abide, unshaken.
I am expected to feel grateful it’s not worse.
The first time the police drove me home I was eighteen years old. I couldn’t be at home anymore, I couldn’t breathe in that unswerving state. It didn’t matter how hard I inhaled, I was gasping empty breaths. I carried around a wrinkled old brown bag everywhere with me. I couldn’t even go to the bathroom without it. It was an extension to my being. The more wrinkled that bag got, the more I realized that this isn’t it for me. That’s when it all started. That’s when I realized I couldn’t live that life anymore. The way I saw it, I was living in a small cave in an undiscovered mountain in a far corner in the world. I had no contact with the outside world, the only places I saw were the ones I read and dreamt about. There are still two parts to who I am. There is the voice inside my head that whispered in my ear, telling me I need to run, and then there is the exhausting good girl in me that tells me I have to be patient, because patience is the only virtue that will allow me to keep existing. At the time, I knew life had more to offer. I knew it was impossible that all the women of the world lived like this. I knew that I had some strength in me, despite the years he spent dedicating his time to overpower me. Despite the years he spent teaching me nothing but diligence.
The three meals I cooked daily were the staples that dictated what I could do. I was only allowed to cook and clean in between meals. On a bad day when his sloppiness conquered the house and lunch was a little late, a bruise would blaze my supple skin. The only time I had to myself was when I went to take a bath and even then, if I took longer than expected the door would burst open and I would be pinned down for my time of judgement. I remember going for my usual “bath”, which actually just consisted of a quick shower, wiping down the bathtub and rolling my books out of the towels I had allocated in the corner under the sink. I memorized those books cover to cover, but they were still as exciting to read as they were the first time I picked them up.
I knew if I didn’t do it that day, those smothering cave walls were all I was ever going to see. All I had to do was wait for him to fall asleep and only then I could finally do it. Breathe. I could finally breathe. It’s all I ever wanted. I just wanted to tear that bag into shreds and surrender to my own will.
As soon as I heard his frail snores, I grabbed my empty wallet and took my first real step. I looked at the brown bag, threw it under the bathroom sink next to the stack of my veiled books and took my last solid lungful. Every step I took until the age of eighteen was fixed. It was watched. It was planned. This is the first time I had taken a real decision. My own real decision.
I couldn’t believe that I had managed to build up the courage to tread outside of the house without consent. My whole body was shaking with fear.
Don’t look back. Don’t think twice. Don’t talk yourself out of this. Don’t. Don’t. Just don’t.
I unlocked the kitchen door, with the key I hid a week before, as quickly and quietly as possible. As soon as the wind touched my virgin skin, there I was in the welcoming warmth of the world.
7AWRAA WRITES 