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Circles of Women 22 April 2008

Posted by Ayesha Mattu in BARAKA, Culture, Relationships.
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[Photo by the great Pakistani photographer F. E. Choudhry, Lahore, circa 1950s. HT: ATP]

Before we moved to Pakistan in the mid-80s we used to visit the extended clan, many of whom were feudal zameendar (landowners) outside of Lahore, every year.

I ran through the twisting narrow village streets jumping over buffalo tails, goats, and chickens with a gaggle of raggedy urchins at my heels.

I went to the tubewell to see the water being pumped out to feed mustard, wheat, or rice fields depending on the season.

And I read books sitting on the deep windowsill in the room where my mother grew up, dreaming as surely as she had all those years ago, watching the sunset and listening to the adhan (call to prayer) mixing with the sounds of animals coming home from pasture.

The village girls who played with us – Bina, Naz, Parveen, and Toti – taught us games, ganay and galiyan (songs and curses) and they would also inevitably share their lice with us at some point on our trip.

In our antiseptic US culture lice are horrific. They aren’t a picnic in Pakistan either, but they are indications of people, life, and dirt all jostling up against each other and rubbing literal shoulders. The lines of sanitation and class get very blurry here at times – just as they do in the grave.

Time gilds the oddest memories – looking back some of my golden moments are of my khalas (maternal aunts) and mumanis (maternal uncles’ wives) picking lice out of our long black hair.

They’d haul us out into the sunlight of the enclosed courtyard, sit us on peeris (stools), and pick through our hair, nonchalantly crushing any lice that they found scampering about between their nails and picking off the eggs clinging to individual hairs too.

Then they’d oil our hair thoroughly and brush it with a fine-tooth comb without once losing their indulgent smiles.

What I remember about those days most isn’t the stinging smelly medicinal shampoos we had to use afterwards until our scalps showed pinkly clean, but the conversations that my khalas and mumanis engaged in, the laughter, gossip and good-natured ribbing as exhausted women found respite and camaraderie.

We’d sit at their feet squirming at first and then become slowly hypnotized by the warmth of the sun and the soothing motion of fingers through hair.

Eventually it seemed they’d forget how young we were and the conversation would move from child-friendly topics of recounting who had the biggest lice ever when they themselves were girls and which child had the most now, to the nature of possession supernatural, material, and of the heart, and whispered speculation on deaths, madness and pregnancies in the village.

They were a circle of women telling us stories about what it meant to be a woman in that day and age – of the boundaries, happiness, secrets and sadness inherent to womanhood.

They told tales of women who shouted their labor pain into muffling granaries because a woman’s voice mustn’t be heard outside of her home.

Of women who dressed up as men and escaped into the night with their lovers to achieve freedom and were never heard from again, living only as a spark of possibility in the lowered eyes of the women left behind.

Of women who were widowed young and stood up to protect their children from the inheritance vultures…and who fasted till their bodies and fleshly desires were eaten away because remarriage was not an honorable option.

Of women who dishonored their families by becoming pregnant out of wedlock, were taken away for a time and came home childless. (No one ever asked what became of those children.)

We were just kids listening in, barely comprehending, half-hearing possible futures but often just thinking about playing baraf pani (freeze tag) as soon as we were done.

On a subsequent trip to the village I approached the front door to go out and play. My Mamu (maternal uncle) barred the way in typical dramatic Punjabi fashion, saying that I had become a woman and could no longer go out without a chador, nor was I to mingle with my playgroup anymore. (‘ You women, “you blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things”’ his unyielding hand seemed to say as I tried to get around him.) Instead I was to amuse myself by playing quietly indoors with my four older, patakhi (fiery) but well-bred cousins.

I was 11 on the day that I became a woman in his eyes.

Those illiterate village girls whom I had played with and now only saw when they were working around the house: one had a pressure cooker on a wood fire blow up in her face, another died in childbirth, a third became pregnant out of wedlock and was married off to a decrepit old man because she had lost the one thing that gave her worth, and the fourth eventually married and had enough children to weary her once-young body.

I think about them sometimes and wonder at how different our lives are, lives that intersected briefly years ago when we were all children who didn’t know better, girls I shared lice with. (Bugs suck our flesh equally and will again someday.)

I think about the women in my extended family more often, knowing that for them being a woman often means being dukhi (sorrowful). Centuries of biting one’s tongue, being patient, forced to bend one’s neck in submission not to God but to a man, an idol, a majazi-khuda (god on earth/husband) has culminated in me, my sisters, and female cousins: a generation of women who study religious and secular texts here and abroad, have the choice to work inside and outside of the home, marry whom we please, and explore a world that our foremothers may have been too harried to even dream about.

In spite of (because of?) their suffering they maintained their iman (faith) in God and attained a spirituality I can only aspire to.

Too often, I forget where I come from (‘Why teach a girl to read? She will only dishonor us by writing love letters.’) and what a great gift all of my opportunities are.

My youngest Khala who is visiting us in Islamabad right now saw our cook itching her head and, fearing we all might be infected with that childhood bug, dragged us outside to sit in the sun as she picked through our hair.

We three sisters are all in our thirties now and it was funny and strange to sit before her so. Memories of other times, village times, that I’d forgotten came tumbling forth…I have heard so many stories and learned so many things while sitting at the feet of women.

By barring the door my Mamu reaffirmed that some types of freedom remain the domain of men, but one thing that he could not take away from me, and probably cared nothing about, was the knowledge of the secret, interior life of women.

Often a reluctant participant in that circle of women, it took me years to realize that while politics, international affairs, and other (predominantly male) pursuits are important, they are often considered the only topics worthy of serious discussion.

But the study of relationships, creativity, spirituality, aesthetics, and personal landscapes, the underlying, intertwined “female” aspects of life if you will, are just as consequential.

I am just one woman, one stone dropped in a vast pool and that line between the personal and the political is one I keep smudging in remembrance of the generations of women radiating in circles behind and beyond me.

I stand on their shoulders as surely as you do. Remain firm for the women who will climb up onto us in turn.

– From the collection Safarnama: The Republic of Tea 2006

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Comments»

1. Anonymous - 22 April 2008

I liked this. I liked it alot. Thankyou. May Allah grant all our opressed women the highest ranks of Jannah for their patience.Ameen

2. ladyperfection - 22 April 2008

Monkeys also like to do it. It’s one of the most ancient things.

3. koonj - 22 April 2008

for them being a woman often means being dukhi (sorrowful). Centuries of biting one’s tongue, being patient, forced to bend one’s neck in submission not to God but to a man, an idol, a majazi-khuda (god on earth/husband) has culminated in me, my sisters, and female cousins: a generation of women who study religious and secular texts here and abroad, have the choice to work inside and outside of the home, marry whom we please, and explore a world that our foremothers may have been too harried to even dream about.

It’s true, and yet not everything has changed for us. we have choices and possibilities that are broad beyond their wildest dreams but the choices are not limitless.

THis was beautiful, Baraka. Thank you. I will try to remain firm for the Raihanas that will stand on our shoulders.

4. yasmine - 22 April 2008

what a beautiful post, baraka.
you’ve moved me so much.
even though i was born and raised (mostly) here in the U.S., i grew up with a constant reminder that i am so much more than my life here in america. that ‘where i come from’ is not just northern california, but a village of generations ‘radiating in circles’ behind me, as you wrote. i, too, am ‘village people,’ and so much of your post resonates with me because of that.

so much of who i am today is because of where i come from.
i am like this both in spite of and BECAUSE of the people behind me. of the women i come from, some are submissive and patient. most are sharp-tongued and stubborn and creative and fiery-tempered. this does not always make their lives easier, or better. in fact, most of them have more difficult lives because of this. but they give me hope that women can shift the paradigm, that we can find the independence and equity and balance we seek, that we can be patient and love unconditionally, but still create and tell our own stories.

PS: the reference to the ‘peeriyaan’ made me smile. =) we call it a ‘peeri’ in hindko, too, and i could never figure out if it was an urdu word as well.

5. UmmFarouq - 22 April 2008

I was transplanted momentarily to a sunny courtyard, where aunties put their hands in my hair. (I am now back at my desk drinking coffee, however.)

Thank you for this, dear.

6. sha - 22 April 2008

Thank you!!It was great mashallah.I had a similar childhood sans the Mamu.I dont like the feminist streak the article has though.Yes some of my male cousins did place some restrictions on us but even they had similar restrictions placed on them.I couldnt play with them any more and I was reminded of it not by a man but by a woman.I was reminded of “sharam” and “haya” by the womenfolk not by the men.The men sometimes get a bit too much blame

7. Ibrahim A. - 22 April 2008

I can’t suppress the publisher in me (though I’m not in the game now), but I can see an excellent piece like this in an anthology of travel essays (not travelogues), but folks finding meaning when on the move or during. Movement and meaning work well together.

8. ABD - 22 April 2008

BARAKA, there is so much here to reflect on. the shift from “politics, international affairs and other (predominantly) male pursuits” to the “secret, interior life of women” is refreshing. and i’m tempted to throw in my support for sha on the question of blame (would these women call themselves victims?). but i know i have limited cred as a guy, so i won’t pursue the point any further.

Ibrahim, this is now your second anthology idea (the first was on what it means to be a moderate muslim). you can take the man out of publishing but you can’t take publishing out of the man…

9. Basil - 23 April 2008

This is a beautifully written piece, I feel as though I am present in the moment throughout its entirety.

10. Muslimah Media Watch - 23 April 2008

This is beautiful, mashallah.
I hope you don’t mind if we link to it on Friday.

11. Saifuddin - 23 April 2008

BismillaharRahmanirRahim

as-salaamu ‘alaikum. Very good writing, mashaAllah! It evokes a number of feelings, agreements, disagreements and affinities, all a sign of good writing.

-Saifuddin

12. Safiyyah - 23 April 2008

Salaams Sister Baraka:

Very beautiful and moving, Masha Allah. I also love the photograph.

Especially, I like this line:

“The lines of sanitation and class get very blurry here at times – just as they do in the grave.”

Have a nice day, dear!
Love and Salaams/Safiyyah

13. Baraka - 23 April 2008

Salaams all:

Anon: Thank you and ameen to your duas!

Ladyperfection: Yes, it is an ancient ritual – perhaps that’s what makes it so comforting on some level.

Koonj: True, the choices never are limitless; all we can do is to make the best of what we’ve been given. Raihana is lucky to have such beautiful, wise, and strong shoulders to climb up on masha-Allah.

Yasmine: i am like this both in spite of and BECAUSE of the people behind me.

Amen, sister. With partnership, balance and compassion I too hope we can shift the paradigm.

Umm Farouq: You’re welcome my dear, glad it transported you for that moment.

Sha: Thank you and I’m glad you enjoyed parts of it.

I dont like the feminist streak the article has though.

Your experience was different from mine.

For me, honoring the women in my family doesn’t automatically result in blaming the men. The situation is more complex.

Ibrahim: Thank you. I hadn’t been back to Pakistan for two years at that time, so my time there was spent discovering a country both new and familiar.

ABD: I really don’t see this as a blame/victim piece so I’m surprised that it reads that way to you and Sha, but I’ll take that into consideration. This is what I feel the piece is about:

They were a circle of women telling us stories about what it meant to be a woman in that day and age – of the boundaries, happiness, secrets and sadness inherent to womanhood.

I don’t see the women in my clan as victims, but sometimes their womanhood weighs heavily upon them.

Basil: Thank you!

MMW: Thank you and please do, that would be lovely!

Saifuddin: Walaykum asalaam and thank you for the reminder that provoking differing opinions can be a good thing.

Saffiyah: I’m so glad you liked it – and have a beautiful day!

Thank you all for your comments!

Warmly,
Baraka

14. Maithri - 28 April 2008

My dear Sister Baraka,

I want you to write a book. I could read your writing all day long.

Thank you for these words kissed by your spirit,

My love to you,

Maithri

15. Baraka - 28 April 2008

Warm greetings of peace dear Maithri,

Thank you so much for your kind and generous words – you are a beautiful soul!

Warmly,
Baraka


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