Half

I am half-Man. I am half-capable. I am half strong. I am half intelligent. I am a half. And the man is whole. In simple terms that is who the unlucky women are think they are: Halves, and not halves of a whole, because Man is whole. Woman is just a half that will never be complete.

If you did not grow up this way, then you are lucky. We are the women buried under ground. The seeds who never flowered because they were never watered. Told that they are seeds, and they will always be seeds, and they cannot be anything beyond a seed. A woman is small; A woman is weak; A woman is unintelligent—and because she is unintelligent, she needs a man. She needs to comply to certain standards, and those standards only: Cook, clean and say false pretty things to false pretty guests. (As if that is all a wife should be; as if that is all a woman can be.) A woman is, like the child and the mentally unstable, unable to form her own decisions. But unlike the child and the mentally unstable, a woman should be covered and invisible. Show your face or say your name, and you are shunned. A woman cannot be anything but a seed and a half.

This is why these women never hold authority, never speak up, and view the participation of their own sex in the workforce as blasphemy! Their mothers were never allowed to grow, and their mothers’ mothers’ were never allowed to grow and all their life they remained a seed and a half. Their life is half-important, their opinions are half-important, their capabilities are half-important. We are halves. We are presented with the right to earn an education, to build ourselves, to contribute to our society, but our voice cannot be heard, and should not be heard, and our independence is impossible because a woman will always be a half.

This hurts the Man too, the logic that he is whole. How many boys were raped in school? How many young men raped in universities? How many of them raped by strangers? How many by relatives? How many by inmates? None. A Man is a strong whole who cannot be hurt, and if he is hurt and traumatized and broken, then he is a half, no longer a whole—he is a Woman. If a man sheds a tear, he is a half. If Man follows the steps of the Prophet Mohammad PBUH, and Man cooks, cleans and values the opinions of his wives, then Man is half.

I’ve always hated myself, because I cannot be that Woman. Someone else has always hated them selves, because they cannot be that Man. We are a society that promotes self-hatred and underdevelopment. I realized my fault was in the way I never questioned my being a seed. It’s when I started to realize that Man was a seed too, and then man developed and blossomed. Why cant Woman do the same? Because Woman was never allowed to look beyond what was there. And Man is stuck in the illusion that he is in the position of power and dominance, when, in reality, Man is a half of a whole, just like Woman. 

As Women

I think women are taught four things growing up: To accept, to expect, to tolerate, and most importantly, to stay quiet. This is especially the case with harassment, which is often an issue that barely ever undergoes discussion, and if it does, the victim is usually the one the blame.

What I mean by that, is, basically, whenever I leave my house and get in my car, I am supposed to expect to be tailgated or to be honked at several times or to find someone on the next lane, pulling down their window, and asking for my number, or to find someone follow me around a mall, or to even find myself on social media being mocked at by a complete stranger. Then, I am required to accept this, as this is the reality of what it means to be a woman in my society. I must therefore tolerate all the insults and the condescending glares coming my way.

And most importantly, I must stay quiet. Never speak up. Because, in the case of which I do, I will get blamed. Most cases of sexual harassment go unreported, because most women cannot prove their case, and they are too afraid of the backlash they will, most likely receive, which includes actually being blamed for something that happened to them, and which was beyond their control.

Think about it, have you ever met a woman who bluntly talks about that one time when that one stranger followed her to her house; or that one stranger who kept calling her and sent her death threats?

And, have you ever met a woman who does not constantly have to worry about herself being harassed? Or the direct opposite: A woman who sees harassment as a norm? As a part of her reality?

That, at some point and stage of our lives, we are going to be demeaned; that we are going to be treated as though we are the slightest puff of winter air in the Arabian Peninsula: Here for a minute, and gone the next! Here to take full advantage of, gone the next. And then on to the next one, and then on and on the cycle goes.

Dinner with Demons

It was night and dark,

When I had dinner with my Demons.

And they made me this crown.

They said that it was dipped in ivy.

And I wore the Demons’ crown with pride.

Til its ivy bore my neck.

I had dinner with my Demons,

And now they come every night--

They tailored me this cape,

They said we made it with venom.

And I wore my Demons’ cape,

Til my back held no more flesh.

I have dinner with my demons,

And there is nothing of me left.

I have dinner with my demons,

And I am now a Demon myself.

To that One Manipulative Indigent,

I am not a property that can be owned and manipulated to fashion your needs. My face, my hair, and my body are tailored to my own liking. I function with my own set of principles and beliefs. I do not belong to a man, nor do I belong to a woman, nor do I belong to certain group of certain people. I belong to myself. And I am rock solid strong, and I will not be broken or manipulated. Bring me a mold, and I will destroy it.

My body is clothed with the clothes that I choose for myself, and my hair is covered with the scarf that I choose for myself. My face and my hair will wear whatever fashion suits me. 

I repeat: I belong to myself. I was not built for your box; I was not made for your mold, and I definitely was not crafted to be carbon copy. I was made for my own happiness. In its purest form. I was made to satisfy what feels right to me.  And if acknowledging my right to my own body makes me selfish or offensive to you, then I am afraid that I just don’t care. As a matter of fact, I care so little that I did not bother to come up with a little witty one liner.

It is humiliating to remind you that I was not made for you, but I end this idiocy here.

Thanks.

Into a Grandeur Gathering of Grandeur Women in a Grandeur Setting.

Ameena and her mother were invited to her mother’s friend’s house. They sat in the brightly lit majlis, with its grandeur chandeliers, grandeur Persian carpet, and grandeur couches laid at every end of every wall, before a grandeur table, which sat a grandeur tray with grandeur tea cups, and grandeur tea kettles.

Grandeur women were sprinkled all around the couches, with their grandeur makeup and grandeur shoes and grandeur dresses and grandeur shoes. Ameena was talking to a grandeur young lady named Layla. They were discussing important grandeur matters and important grandeur problems. Like, that one girl in Layla’s class who wouldn’t shut up about their group project, and that one time her not-so-grandeur nanny almost burned her grandeur dress while ironing. It was a grandeur nightmare.

They then went on to discuss less-grandeur matters. Such as Ameena’s life. Ameena talked about her not-so-grandeur aspirations to further her studies, and also not-so-grandeur books.

Grandeur Layla responded in her grandeur way: “I don’t know why you bother with all these books.” She said. “Studying and working will get you nowhere. Trust me. Tomorrow you’ll be a married a housewife.”

“But I hope I continue with my work and my studies,” Said Ameena “I enjoy it very much. Who knows where I could be in the future.” Ameena smiled and  Layla turned her head back and laughed her grandeur laugh “We’ll see. Once he comes knocking, you’ll forget about all of this. After all, a woman’s college degree is only a… well,” She said with her hand decorated with grandeur bracelets and rings, and grandeur fuchsia nail polish, under her grandeur chin contemplatively. “A precautionary thing, y’know? In case, God forbid, you lose your father or, God forbid, God forbid, you get a divorce or something.” She turned back to the grandeur mini cupcake she’d been carefully picking tiny pieces of, and graciously placing into her lips with careful grandeur.

How Ameena hated grandeur gatherings. She turned to her mother, lost in conversation with the grandeur hostess, who blended quiet well with the grandeur furniture. She looked down at the ostentatiously dressed grandeur tea cup in her hands. With its grandeur gold rims and intricate grandeur floral petals, that contrasted with her pale blue kaftan.

Ameena turned back to Grandeur Layla and said “So, you’re not planning on working then?” Layla shook her had quickly and said “God, no! Not at all. I’m a woman, thank the Lord, I don’t need to work.” She finished her cupcake, and folded its paper cup in a perfect, grandeur, little square, and held it, before saying with grandeur “And you’re going to work, huh? Who’ll marry you then? You’ll be single forever.” She giggled with grandeur softly as she got up to place her little folded paper cup in the decorated, grandeur bin.

 “Tea? Anyone?” She said nodding to every grandeur woman in the room. “Half a cup, please.” Said a heavy and heavily dressed grandeur woman. “Thank you my dear,” She said “Such manners, such morality! Oh, Amal, you are so lucky to have a daughter like Lamees. A role-model to all these girls, truly.”

She turned to Grandeur Amal, Grandeur Layla’s mother and said “You know, my son just graduated from University of… Mona! Mona..” She turned to her grandeur daughter “Mona, what’s that university that Ahmad graduated from?”

“University of Colorado!” Replied Grandeur Mona, elongating C o l a r a d o to make sure she was grandeur clear. “Yes! Yes! Colalador! From America. He studied Business, and he’s continuing his masters right there! Oh, he’d be wonderful for little Lamees here!”

“My name is Lay—“ Layla began when her mother suddenly said “Oh, I know your son, habeebti! He’s my brother’s son’s cousin’s friend. Respected among his brothers, Ma’sha’Allah.” She smiled as she nodded to her own grandeur lie that made no grandeur sense.

The room smelled of three things: Grandeur tea, grandeur dukhoon, and the heavy stench of grandeur absurdity. The kind that sticks in your grandeur head.  But GrandeurLayla sat with her grandeur back straight, and her grandeur nose so high up, it almost scraped the grandeur chandelier that she almost outshined.

The two grandeur women smiled. The grandeur arrangement has been grandeur-made.  

Ameena slipped her phone out of her little black purse laying on the other side of the couch, away from the grandeur Chanels and thegrandeur Lady Diors who were seated comfortably next to their owners. “When can we go? I’m tired.” She texted her mother, just as a grandeur woman sat next to her and almost blinded her with bright layers of grandeur necklace and grandeur rings, and suddenly said “You must be Huda’s daughter, yes? You’re still in university?”

“Oh, no, I’ve graduated two years ago.” Said Ameena, laying her phone face down on the grandeur space where Grandeur Layla had been sitting.

“Really? So you must be engaged, huh sweetie?” She raised her grandeur eyebrows and grandeur-smiled.

“No, I’m… erm, single?” She shifted in her seat uncomfortably.

“Oh, how unfortunate. So How old are you?” She grandeur-squinted and moved grandeur-closer.

“I’m turning twenty three in June.”

The grandeur woman shook her with grandeur apology and said “It’s what Allah wanted, habeebti, don’t worry, they always come, even to girls who are a little too grown up like you.” She grandeur-winked. The woman turned away from her, and whispered to the equally shiny grandeur woman on her left, and said “Poor girl has no hope by now. She’s old. No man would want a twenty two year old, a month shy from twenty three. He might as well marry his own mother! “

She then felt her phone vibrate, and turned her attention away. It was a text from her mother: “Two minutes. The woman next to me is admiring her fat son for me.”  She turned to her mother and saw her smiling as she was saying something. The grandeur woman zipped her lips together, raised her grandeur nose ambitiously high, turned away in her grandeur demeanor and then frowned in all her grandeur.  The grandeur like to take their grandeur time. Even with their expressions, you see.

A few minutes later and they made their awkward and horridly long salams before leaving. “What did you say to the woman?” Asked Ameena, driving her mother home. “She was telling me how fantastic her fat, 2.4 GPA son was, and so I told her about my daughter’s 3.8 GPA and her promotion.” Replied her mother, as she scrolled through her instagram page.

 “What promotion?” Ameena asked in confusion.

“Oh, I don’t know, Ameena. I lied. Her son’s fat! You think I’d let my daughter marry a fat boy!” She said, as she scrolled through her instagram page.

“What grandeur woman would.” Said Ameena