A woman, a Muslim

I stood behind the blinds of the stage. I tried counting the number of people who had come to see me, to hear me. I had come a long way...

I am a Muslim. Which is a religious minority in India. I was from a wealthy family.
Women in my family were reared as objects of reproduction. As long as a woman could cook and bear children they had fulfilled their obligations of being a woman.

As I turned 17, I learnt that women are not just childbearing machines. They too were human beings. I read stories of these “independent women” and I wanted to be more like them. This suddenly made me realize the bitter truth, that I was only raised to get married. In order to bring these so called “supreme beings” known as MEN into this world. I felt the pain, which betrayal brings. The pain was so intense that I ceased to feel any part of my body... until the red droplets on the floor brought me back to consciousness. My eyes started to focus on the blood flowing from my wrist, making me drop the blade that had found its way into my hand. I began to clean the crime scene I had created. I knew that it was not my time to die. I needed to fight for my independence.

I had to become empowered.

As time went by, I grew afraid to stand up for what I believed in. I feared my parents to such an extent that I convinced myself that I was crazy to think I had the right to be independent. Being empowered was for those who were cowards and wanted to go against their parents.

To go against GOD!

My 19th birthday arrived and my parents decided that it was time to give me the “good news”. They had found another form of imprisonment. They had found me a husband.

They did not even take a moment to consult me.

I found myself screaming at them, I screamed till I could scream no more. I screamed of the freedom that birds felt as they soared in the sky. I told them that it was my dream to be independent and empowered. The rest was all a blur. Their screams echoed in the darkest corner of our house and I could feel the pain which was caused by the beatings given to me by the men of the family. I reminded myself that they could break my bones but they could never break my soul.

My bleeding disfigured body lay in the middle of the road outside my house. I had become an outcaste in my own community. I felt isolated.

People of my community abused me as I walked past them. The women were the worst.

I was not allowed to enter restaurants owned by the people of my community. This was the price I had to pay for dreaming big.

But all this seemed unimportant ten years later. I had traveled the world, written books on women’s rights and finally a representative from the UN had invited me for a human rights conference. They had wanted to honor me for the work I had done for the empowerment of Muslim women. I finally felt accepted, a feeling that seemed alien to me now.

I walked across the stage with my head held high, knowing that I had made the right choice. Not regretting anything I had done.

Once I was done talking, the crowd started to clap and cheer me on. The auditorium resounded with the noise. As I began to walk off the stage, a young girl stopped me in my tracks and told me that I had changed her life. She had moved out of her house and is now independent of all the abuse her family caused her. I can truly say at that moment my happiness knew no bounds. I felt all the emotions in me become one, turning into the most beautiful colour.

A colour so hard to imitate, A colour that can never be defined.