Words: Amina Yaqub, Design: Betina Spasova
Rebirth of a Daughter Sunshine peeped through the curtains into the dark room; this had always been an hour of great relief for her. The sun rose every morning as an antidote to the anxiety of the night, which manifested as horrifying nightmares and daunting thoughts. Its rays sifted through the barricading layers of the window. The window was the perfect representation of the tempest brewing within her mind, her soul, her being. There were four layers in its design. The first was the curtain, sewn in thick fabric adorned with art, but ironically, its suffocatingly opaque existence killed any room for creativity. Then, there was the metallic mesh embedded in a wooden frame, forming a perforated screen. Next was the robust bars of pure, raw metal, which smelled like incarceration, pushing back at all efforts for an escape. The solid yet fragile glass formed the final layer. It was hard to question the ideas being fed to her in this room. It was difficult to question when she was raised in a severely patriarchal household, on bigoted ideas against her gender. It was difficult to pierce through the veil of abusive restrictions. It was difficult to not drown in self-doubt. ‘Girls shouldn’t,’ people would say. ‘Girls don’t, they are not meant to,’their voices echoed.
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It was an act of resistance to break free of this mindset. She undertook this journey with tiny hesitant steps. One morning the sunlight peeking through the slits in the same window teased the courage into her. She gained the strength to question, to open the curtain. Years of discrimination distorted her judgement with self-doubt and underestimation of her abilities and worth like the latticed mesh distorted the vision of the outside world. The harsh backlash then tested her valour like the merciless metal bars, which reeked of incarceration and only offered the most resilient a chance at survival. She had fought through these levels of indoctrination and could now clearly see the other side through the glass. However, the glass was solid. It was solid like the comfort of familiarity. It was solid like the bonds of familial love, honour, and duty. It was solid like the fear of a child venturing into the unknown. There was a fierce grapple for dominance between the urge to break through the shackles and paying the cost of freedom. Despite second-guessing herself and challenging the conviction of her ideas repeatedly, she pushed this window open. A reformed, more powerful, and happier version of herself awaited on the other end like a draught of fresh air, finally entering the room.
Prose