#Title
I am a wall where many wars have ended; many conversations have drenched my texture, where many secrets have made it in through the cracks and dried up. I am a wall with many stories. My chapters are inked with revenge, abuse, and bias. I have a line drawn all around me, so that I remain five feet of concrete and serve my limited purpose. I cannot take a step or bend to breathe. The protective line around my existence, my Lakshmana rekha , is not just myth; it’s a constant metaphorical reminder of limits and rules set for me.
I am Rassundari Devi, who learned to read and write at the age of 26, wanting to respond to the letters from my son. I stole a sheet from my husband’s copy of Chaitanya Bhagavata , hid it in the kitchen, compared the palm leaves on which my son had practised handwriting, compared the letters with the sheet, and finally learned the language. I wrote on the walls of my kitchen and then published my story in 1876: Amar Jibon . Don’t wash my walls, ever. The akshara , the scratches, the scribbles are all mine.
I am Draupadi from the Mahabharata , disrobed in an open court as a result of being offered as a wager in a dice game; I am Joan of Arc, dying from the “purifying flames.” I am the Shrew, the Katherine of The Taming of the Shrew , who was once rich, witty, and lashed out at suitors. I was berated for my temper and tongue, diminished to being an obedient wife after being subjected to hunger and thirst. I now call the sun the moon, if my husband desires. I accept this as I realise that I am in a status quo of an identity which defines who I have become. I no longer need to be Tamed.
I am Wisława Szymborska, a Polish poet, who only wrote “I don’t know” to respond to every question being asked. I did not know my own name, my age, why I dug the burrow, how long I had been hiding, why I bit my finger, and whether my village existed or not. I just knew that I was a mother and I knew my children. My poem “ Vietnam ” was about me being only a mother, a childbearing machine.
I am Cecelia Payne, the English scientist who wasn’t given a degree by Cambridge University, which led me to migrate to the US to get my first PhD in Astronomy from Radcliffe. However, my dissertation was reviewed and I was dissuaded from concluding that the composition of stars was predominantly of hydrogen and helium, as that contradicted the consensus of male astronomers. Later on, I won my battle as I was acknowledged by the same astronomer, Russell. Nevertheless, instead of me, he is often credited for the thesis.
I am Ana Orantes. I was burned to death by my ex-husband in 1997 after I had appeared on a television show and described decades of abuse by him. After my death, I thought that the Machista was done for. But it was only the other day that I ended up being the kiss that Rubiales forced onto Hermoso (of Spain women’s national football team) to celebrate “his” win. Till date, I am being claimed as “consensual” while Hermoso is sticking to #SeAcabo (“It’s over”). Is it really over for Spain?
I also go by the name of enfranchisement. It was only in 1971 that the Swiss women won me, the right to vote, in federal elections; it was only in 1918 that Canada passed a legislation allowing suffrage to female citizens, yet excluding Asian-Canadian and Aboriginal women, who only won the right to vote in the 1940s and 1960s, respectively. Women in Greece started to vote from 1952. Japanese women won the right to vote in 1945; French women won me in 1944 while in the US, I was celebrated by all the women in 1920 through the 19th amendment to its constitution.
I am the prison that hosted women who needed permission to open bank accounts, rent apartments, start businesses, apply for passports, and last but not the least, seek permission to leave me even when the sentence was over. I used to be the place where women couldn’t drive for the longest time. Things have gradually changed; my iron bars have now been relatively weakened by the Crown Prince’s vision to build a modern economy where women make up a substantial percentage of the workforce. I am now warming up to Justin Bieber, BLACKPINK, and Bruno Mars headlining while humans mingle freely in public spaces. Yet, I am still the partitions which divide workplaces for men and women. When, indeed, will they finally issue another fatwa declaring me illegal? I truly can’t wait for my own demise.
I am the border that is supposed to be impervious to eager feet, yearning to cross over to freedom. I have gone through years of starvation, war, and terror that ultimately culminated to a new peak in August 2021 as the Taliban took power. Two-thirds of those who live within my territory depend on humanitarian assistance, where self-determination is a lost cause for women, who are still trying to make it to lands which promise them better. I am Populism that allowed Duterte and Bolsnaero to incorporate gibes about rape in their political rant. I allowed Salvini, the prominent figure in the Italian government, to use sexual slurs to insult female politicians.
I am the four pairs of shorts that the four female footballers of Tentultala Super Queen Football Academy in Khulna got beaten up for. Apparently, I am forbidden. Even with long, black stockings coming all the way up to their thighs, I am not supposed to be worn by the sportswomen. So far, the athletes have been given assurance of safety measures, while I hang to dry on their laundry lines at home. After all, with all the threats of acid attacks on the footballers, I should not be risked being worn, right? After all, I am also the corset, which caused breathing difficulties for women in the Victorian era, but was a sign of a well-bred woman. I also caused internal bleeding and indigestion. I am the crinoline, made of steel hoops to compliment the puffed shapes of the women’s gowns, and caused deaths to thousands of women while their dresses caught fire. Those who disallowed me then were known as “loose women.”
I am Apathy, too, who impacts every UN General Assembly, and makes SDG 5 look limp. And yet, I am the woman who is expected to know everything, from juta shelai to Chandipath .
So, stop asking me what my family situation is every time I apply for a job; stop asking me if there’s anything in my life that will affect my personal situation in the next year-and-a-half; stop asking me during an interview if I am averse to a high-pressure role, because I am going to rise above your boundaries and not be etched as an expected tragedy in the memories of all the newsrooms in the world.
Today, I am Mahsa Amini, the 22-year-old who died a little over a year ago in police custody for not complying with the dress code in force for women in Iran. I don’t want the bland. I want brighter and shorter. Today’s no more about wearing just the blacks, browns, or greys.
Take your hands off my body, State. That’s not too much to expect, right?