The difficulty in existence

Based on a true story

I have seen this family for 7 years now. The woman in this story forgot to live while she was handling her responsibilities and nurturing her two daughters. Recently, I got to meet her after a long time. She looked weak, feeble and wrecked with mental pain. She doesn’t go out anymore to work. Her day starts and ends in those four walled rooms of her house. She had lost all her glittering smile and life was merely a passage of responsibilities and duties. She is being denied of basic amenities. I will tell you about it through an incident I saw. She bought a washing machine which is now a dumping yard of clothes as she is not allowed by her husband and his family to use it - they say it will consume too much electricity, though the machine is being used by her in-laws to wash clothes.

She was a young vivacious girl who had completed her masters in science with honors. She got married at an early age due to family pressure though she wanted to work. She still accepted this whole-heartedly and stepped into her new life. All went well but destiny had different plans. Her husband and his family started abusing her physically and mentally. He had married her only for dowry reasons. She underwent depression and had to seek medical advice for the same. She divorced her husband and came back to her home. Work was her priority but it wasn’t easy to get a job after a leap. Her family found a divorced man for her. She got married for the second time when all her resistance was unfruitful. She got up with confidence and rejuvenated herself to restart. Life treated her well initially and blessed her with two daughters in the first two and a half years of marriage but somehow in between she had started to see the changing colors of life. Her husband had started to drink when she was pregnant for the second time. After a year of second daughter’s birth, he lost his business in the course of gambling. Her husband and her in-laws began to torture her physically. She left her family many a times and went to her mother’s place but came back again to save the reputation of her parents. Why does a girl always have to take the responsibility of family reputation? Her aspirations and desires - are they of no consequence? What is the fault of children? Swaggered men and their dowry demands will keep on eating women if we don’t do anything about the issue.

Written by Aakshi Kalra

I DIED FOR ONE DAY

            

Blossom walked into the kitchen behind my ten-year old daughter, Gift, with a scowl on her face. They had both just returned from the morning market on Saturday. Gift carried a huge sack on her neck, the load making her sag. Blossom, a thirty year old, held a small nylon bag in her hand and nothing more.

My daughter went on her knees and lowered the sack to the floor.

“If you break anything in that sack, I’ll break your head!” Blossom said between her teeth. My Gift looked up at her and shook her head. She then proceeded to unload the sack, putting things away.

Blossom caught her by the arm and flung her toward the entrance. “What about the other sack?”

“I’m sorry,” Gift mumbled and ran to bring yet another heavy sack.

I never knew my daughter had so much strength. Blossom opened the refrigerator and removed a chilled bottle of sparkling water. She uncorked it and swallowed a healthy gulp, rather in an unladylike manner.

Blossom belched. “When you are through, call me!”

“Yes, aunty.”

Gift proceeded to unload the sacks. She brought out yams, onions, potatoes, and arranged them neatly on the floor, the way I had taught her. She washed the fruits and refrigerated them. Plucked pepper… Oh my God. I had not yet allowed her to pluck pepper…

Gift was humming gently to herself the song, ‘more of you, more of you.’ She washed some of the onions and tomatoes and put them in a large bowl. Then she rubbed her eyes, and let out a scream! Her hand was definitely still peppery!

Blossom rushed in and screamed at her for screaming.

“Pepper in my eyes, aunty!” Gift rubbed both eyes now frantically.

Blossom dealt her a dirty slap and her frail body staggered. “Are you stupid or something? Come on, go and wash your eyes!” She hissed elaborately. “And finish up here before I go crazy for you!” She turned round and bumped into my five-year-old son, Paul. He must have been woken from sleep by all the noise. He was drowsy and rubbing his eyes.

Blossom pushed him out of the way with such force, he fell hard on his bum, and burst into tears. My last baby, three-year-old Sharon walked up too, and Blossom scooped her up. Sharon had always been Blossom’s favourite of my children and she never hid it. I couldn’t fault her. Sharon was so cute, everyone simply loved her.

Blossom turned to Paul and yelled. “Ger up and sharrap! Stupid boy!”

My boy went completely still. Blossom hissed and stomped out of the room. I looked at Gift who seemed to have put herself together and continued to work in the kitchen. When she was sure Blossom was gone, she turned to Paul and hugged him. She peeled a banana for him and the boy smiled in appreciation, and a smile involuntarily touched my lips.

The rest of the morning was painful to watch. Blossom hit out and lashed out at my two older children without provocation, and petted the youngest most unnecessarily. They missed breakfast because Blossom was busy…

My husband, Steve, left for his morning jog and came back late, took a glass of fresh juice, took his bath, and left the house. He had spared the children about thirty minutes altogether when he came for the juice.

Blossom was extra sweet with my husband. She poured him the juice, caught up on events from the previous night; she even touched his forehead, and rubbed his back as he sat to drink the juice. The children loved Steve and crooned around him. Sharon climbed on his laps and took a sip from his juice. He gave Paul a sip as well.

Blossom called Gift out of the kitchen, chiding her lovingly for always wanting to be alone when the family was together. My daughter smiled shyly but her stance was stiff. Since they left for the market at about 7a.m, she had been working. This was eleven! She stood awkwardly beside her father’s seat and smiled at him with her lips but not her eyes.

Steve finished his juice, asked the children how they were and told them to keep praying for mummy. Then he stood up. Blossom pulled him into a hug, and he left the house.

My children had lunch at about three in the afternoon. Blossom had cooked and dished the plain noodles for them. Paul asked for more but didn’t get. Sharon passed her plate to him. As he dug into the food, Blossom snatched it away, and scolded Sharon for feeding her brother’s greed.

“I’m full, aunty,” Sharon said softly.

“Even though,” Blossom said. She took the plate of food to the kitchen and emptied it in the trash.

She had cooked a pot of soup as well. She dished a healthy portion for herself, made eba, and ate.

Later in the evening, she would dish from that same soup for Steve.

When my husband got home in the evening, at about 8p.m, my children had not had dinner but Blossom told him they had, and were already in bed.

What she had done was to flog the two older ones, give Sharon some ice cream and sent them all to bed. Then went to sit in the parlour and wait for Steve to return.

He looked tired and frustrated.

Blossom was all sweet and concerned. She served him semovita with the sumptuous-looking soup, and sat with him while he ate.

Afterward, she cleared up and as she washed the plates, he stood with her in the kitchen.

“How is Samantha?” Blossom asked.

Steve shrugged and sighed heavily. “Nothing has changed. She’s still unconscious.”

“Oh my!” She turned and looked at him. “That must be so hard for you. Have they told you what it is?”

“Stress. Shock… I don’t know. Threatened cardiac. And her blood pressure was very high…” He covered his face and sobbed. “I can’t lose her! God, please.”

I hugged my arms to my body.

The night before, I had slumped. My husband had rushed me to the hospital, and I was admitted in intensive care unit. I was unconscious. I was half-dead, half-alive.

Blossom turned to him and pulled him into her arms. She said soothing words to him. “You’ll be fine. You’ll be just fine. You have nothing to worry about. I’ll take care of you. You’ll be just fine…” She cooed on and on and on. Then she started to press her body closer, and pulled his face down to her. And tried to kiss him.

Steve jerked backwards and took a long deep breathe. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t fuss. “You don’t have to be.”

“I’ll just check in now. It’s been a long day.”

Blossom nodded. “Yeah. You do that.”

“Thanks, Blossom. Especially for looking after the kids for me.”

Blossom smiled. “You don’t ever have to worry about them.”

He took another deep breathe, and went into our bedroom.

Blossom was my friend who had divorced her husband in Port Harcourt, and needing a change of lifestyle, moved to Abuja to start over. They had been married for two years only, and didn’t have any children. She was a successful property broker, but had not yet found a suitable accommodation for herself, though her business was thriving. I had offered to accommodate her in my house. That was eight months earlier.

Tears shimmered in my eyes. I want to come home, God. I must come home if not tonight, tomorrow morning, first light. I need to be back to send Blossom out of my house and my life. She’s evil.

I died for one day and Blossom took over my life. No way. Lord, I have work to do in my home. My children need me. My husband needs me. My life needs me. Lord, help me, please. Save me. For the sake of those lovely children you blessed me with, save me. Help me, O Lord! I want to be with you but my family needs me right now. Save me. I don’t want to die. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live.

“There are tears in her eyes!” A female voice shrieked.

Footsteps followed all over and soon my ICU room was filled up.

“Water…” I whispered. Someone put a few drops on my lips. “Husba…”

“Call her husband!”

*

I was discharged first thing the following morning. My healing was a miracle. I don’t know if all I saw had happened for real or it was my unconsciousness dream. My children never mentioned it though I tried to make them tell me all that happened ‘while mummy was in the hospital.’

Blossom was very sweet to me.

But I refused to be fooled. Why would she still be in my house after eight months, when she could afford any accommodation she liked anywhere in Abuja… Yeah, she was that rich.

I would not wait for my dream to become real. I gave Blossom a week to find somewhere else to live.

Steve never objected.

By Sinmisola Ogúnyinka 

A Saudi Woman Speaks....

To the outsider, reading about life in Saudi Arabia is hardly window enough into the difficult life of women in the country. Be it the pages of a book such as Dr. Qanta Ahmed’s In the Land of Invisible Women, or in the twitter stream of brave girls, once we’re done reading, life moves on. To the girl on Saudi terrain, life is exactly what we read about, and continues to be so, well after their story may be forgotten in our daily lives. A girl, who goes by the twitter id @Saudi_Woman, spoke to DeltaWomen on the situation in Saudi Arabia, challenging women. No part of her identity shall be revealed in view of safeguarding her security.

You are a vociferous tweeter from Saudi Arabia. What keeps you going? What gives you the courage?

I don't think I am courageous- it is the opposite actually. I was raised with the belief that a courageous woman is rude and immoral and it goes on and on. Not to sound melodramatic, but, what really keeps me going is the simple fact that I have no other choice. We live once, and even the most peaceful human being will come to a point where she/he realizes that enough is enough and they have to do something. 

What are your biggest threats? Do you fear anything?

My family. I love them and they love me but things are different here. Last time when I my twitter account was traced back to me, the authority called for me and my father. They gave him a hard time, telling him that he wasn't man enough to "leash" his daughter. And "leash" he did. Out of fear and love, of course. But it was the hardest thing. 

Dr. Qanta Ahmed, the author of In the Land of Invisible Women wrote about the plight of women in Saudi, describing it as a case of abject sexism. What are your thoughts on that?

I am a big fan of Dr. Qanta and what she wrote is true, but I start seeing a different picture now, probably even worse, and one that reflects a much deeper problem than what Dr. Qanta had described. I recently read a novel by I.M. Hussaini titled The Detour, The Legendary book of Fatim. In his book, Hussaini linked between how early Muslims treated Mohammed's daughter, Fatima, and the way Saudis are treating women now. Between the critical role Fatima played and the way she died, one can reach to some sound conclusions. Although it is a novel, the facts the author had unearthed were really scary and I think Hussaini meant it as a wakeup call that in order to end women rights violations in Saudi (and other Islamic countries) we need to know the problem well or else we will just keep curing some symptoms. 

When Islam does not prohibit the equality of women at all, why is it so harsh for women in reality?

There is a difference between the Islamic teachings and Muslims. The Arabic culture was (and still is) very biased against women. Maybe the best example to this was the introduction of a novel I recently read: “She grows up to be either someone’s slave or a whore. She dies, and the family's honor remains intact.” With these words, Arabs used to bury their girls before they reached puberty. Islam came in and stopped this habit. As for the mind-set… well, that's another story.

Your twitter profile says: "If you think you know about our suffering, think again." Tell us about some of these instances, please, let us be your voice to the world.

I will give you an example, but please do not take it out of context. As I said, in our family we have normal relations. Both my parents loved my brother and me fairly. But because my father considered anything he hears from the Sheikh in the mosque (the religious scholars or the religious guides) as an Islamic non-disputable order, our life became a living hell. Two months ago, the Sheikh told my father that neither he nor my brother can sit in the same room with me alone. And even if my mother is there, I had still better wear a Hijab at home in front of them. When you read this for the first time you might chuckle and laugh, thinking of how stupid this Sheikh was and how my father could do what he said. But maybe if you really think about the implication of the day-to-day hell that I am supposed to live in now, you would only pity us. If I am watching a TV show and my brother comes in to watch the same show I am watching, I have to leave the living room until my mother joins us. I am thirty for crying out loud! And because my brother is so caring, he spends most of the time out of house just to avoid "breaking the law" with me. Of course this is not what all Muslim sects believe in. Actually it is a "proprietary" of the Saudi interpretation. 

Your neighbouring countries have lit and shared the spark of revolution. Will it ever be so in Saudi?

We had a tiny spark. But it died out so fast. I really don't know. I think they caught us so fast and we were not even organized. There is anger. But aside from the social media groups there is nothing solid. Maybe we need a leadership with a vision and people to unite behind it. I really don't know, but I just don't see it happening the same way it did in Egypt of Tunisia. And Islamic extremists are way out-numbering those with a brain of their own. 

Manal Shariff fought back a ridiculous law that decided that women could not drive. Is it safe to conclude that women in Saudi are fighting back?

Manal is a hero. But how can we fight back? When our families (fathers and brothers and husbands and even our mothers) will be the first to stone us (metaphorically-speaking, at least for now) once we start demanding something out of the ordinary. Couple of days ago, I went to my school (where I work as a teacher and it's a girls-only school) with a new Burka where my eyes are visibile. Just a tiny little opening for my eyes as I needed to wear glasses and it was so annoying wearing the glasses under Burka. (Try it and you will know!) Imagine, my mother scowled at me once she lay her eyes on me! "You are bringing the family honor to the dirt." WTF?, I think to myself. I am a good Muslim and a good girl (so far) but God help me, one day I just wish I could go out wearing Bikini. How is that for the family honour? 

There were talks of a new legal rule that women should keep their eyes covered, to avoid "seductive" looks. Is it just us, or is it that the government seems to find newer means to basically keep women underfoot?

Not only the government. I have mentioned this before. The problem is deeper. You can refer to a novel by Yusif Al-Mohaimed "Pigeons Don't Fly in Taba" or “The Detour” by I.M.Hussaini to have more insight into the situation. Both books are talking about another dimension of the organized oppression in Saudi. I have the first one as a paperback and it was one of the things that was considered as “evidence" against me a year ago. The Detour was the first novel I read on my KindleFire and I love my little device as it's perfect to hide such books.

One of your tweets, dated 14th Jan, speaks of a probable incident where your family might have caught you. Is this the harsh reality? Girls cannot trust their own families to get their back?

They are just afraid from the society and the government. They love me and they think this is for my best. Many other girls suffer from the same "love".

A recent headline says that "Princess Basma bint Saud bin Abd Al-Aziz Aal Saud Describes a Treatment of Women in Saudi Arabia as ‘Slavery’ and Says: Nobody Is Immune to a Winds of Change Sweeping a Arab Nation; ‘We Must Grant Freedoms Before They Become Challenges’". Is the government so blind to the plight of women, even when the Princess herself speaks so? If this is the princess' plight... it hurts to imagine what the real girl in Saudi would be going through...

Ah, you don't know Saudi Arabia. There are probably over 10,000 royal family members, 2,000 of them in power. All goes under the title prince and princess. Let them talk. The real influential people are the long-bearded Salafi scholars and they treat us (women) as if we were the devil himself, sometimes even worse. 

Is the empowerment of Saudi Women even a possibility? What can we do to help?

I am not sure. But I think the most important thing is that you have to understand what the real problem is. With all due respect, applying the Western-culture or the free-world values on our society won't work. I wish I can live in the United States or Europe or that I was born there. But since I am not, and since I was born for a Saudi and Muslim family I think I have to play within the society's rules. There is a lot of baggage and a lot of bad heritage that we need to clear. You can help us by learning more about us, about our problems and the root of our problems. It's not easy, I know, but understanding the problem is the first step to solve them, right? Another colleague and I had bought an old copier machine and started copying books by Dr. Qanta Ahmed, I.M Hussaini and Al-Mohaimed to give them to some of our enthusiastic students. They need to realize what they are up against before signing in. 

By Kirthi Gita Jayakumar

Blamed: My Child, My Fault

This piece is based on a true story submitted to us by a lovely lady who wishes to remain anonymous. 

When I named her, I was sure of my happiness for her birth. I named her Nkechiyerem, a verbal equivalent for the devoted acceptance of whatever God has given me. It was the best amplification of my emotions at her birth- happy that she was born. And despite all the things that followed from when she was born, nothing changed that feeling- the feeling of the warmth that flooded my body, the feeling that I held in the palm of my hand, a joyful life together.

The doctors decided her fate. She was autistic.

And then my husband decided my fate.

You are responsible for it, he said.

You ate fish when you were pregnant, he shouted, Fish has mercury in it and you killed the potential for our baby to be anything normal!

I knew it was not my fault. Nobody from the line of my family has autism. I wanted, at one point, to blame the doctor who advised that we give the child a vaccine. I wanted to lash out, to point fingers, to shout at the world and to paint everything black. Doctors are not to be blamed. And my in-laws’ ignorance knows nothing else. I resolved to myself that I would not blame anybody but accept my faith and take care of my child.

But his mother decided that I was the reason for Nkechiyerem’s autism. She ran to a herbalist, in the hope of “curing” me and the bad omen that I was for the family. The herbalist was the exact dose of salt those wounds needed to sear and roar in red hot pain and anger. Get rid of her, immediately! He warned. She is a bad force for your family! His sister decided that I had caused Nkechiyerem's autism by opting for an epidural. Lazy woman! She couldn't give birth without it and now see what it has cost? And she had never, ever given birth herself. 

Within hours of the auguring herbalist’s ominous warnings, I was chastised for something I had never done. I was given barbs with words and beatings for being the vilest dark force to have ever touched their family. They cursed me. They cursed the day I got married to their son. They cursed the devil that I was, for tricking their poor, innocent son into believing he had fallen in love with me. The Black Soul, they called me. Bad luck I brought him, they said. I had to be gotten rid of, or else I would drain his money.

It wasn’t long before he divorced me.

When I married him, he was then the man I loved, the man who I believed, didn’t have this side to him. I kept house for him, worked two jobs with my graduate degree in tow to keep money flowing, while he attended school. When I left him, I still had to keep two jobs with my graduate degree in tow, to keep money flowing.

I see Nkechiyerem sitting before me. A sweet angelic face. She is my daughter, and I will always love her. I will always be there for her, and take care of her, no matter what. I sing to her. I know somewhere that we will be happy. I wait for that day.