Privilege comes in many forms. In my culture, it comes in the form of having parents who are more interested in your grades and university choices rather than the number of suitors lining up outside your door (or their door technically) the minute you finish high school.
By age eighteen, an average Pakistani girl has visited enough weddings and family reunions to *supposedly* attract at least ten different mothers who’re on the bride hunt for their exceptionally handsome, well-settled and highly qualified sons who are probably ten years her senior and surely not all that hot as their moms sketch them out to be. *If you don’t believe the 10-suiter statistic, you haven’t heard the ‘oh but we have SO many proposals to choose from’ conversations. I’m being conservative with 10 here.*
Such is the norm.
It doesn’t necessarily mean there will be a wedding. It just means that society has now spotted fresh meat and is welcoming her by dropping hints as to what her future holds: a house, a husband, some kids and all that.
Please, don’t get us wrong. Not all of us are in favor of early marriages or are crushers of a young girl’s dreams! Most of us are very sympathetic towards her cute plans of going to college and maybe even dreaming of a career, perhaps getting a job as well. The more money makers in the family the better, right? But whatever plans she has, marriage will eventually trump all. And then, she will obviously do whatever hubby requires. Obviously.
The problem is not getting married early, late or not at all. The problem is the stereotypical molds that we women are shoved into according to the choices we make or how our life pans out before us.
Married with kids and settled: poster girl for positively happy life and cultural values regardless of how her life actually is.
Educated, single and doesn’t even care: failure, embarrassment, dishonor, slut, bad influence, stay-away-from-her!
It’s all about fitting that particular mold the society wants to fit you in. Mothers, wives, sisters, daughters – these are the respectable roles we shall play and we shall play by the rules that aren’t meant to be broken. There is no life outside the mold. The idea is to transition from one mold to another without disturbing the layout.
If I make my mold makers proud, serve dutifully and be the perfect object that beautifies my mold, I’ll be worshipped. Placed on a mantle, high above everyone else as a shining example – the goddess. That’s the highest mold. But it is still a mold and cannot be broken. The moment I stir, the moment a crack appears, the moment I struggle to break free, the very society that was hailing me a second ago will come at me with a vengeance.
This goes for every woman out there struggling to be herself.
Reminds me of perfectly packaged plastic dolls placed on a shelf of a toy store. If the box is damaged, nobody buys the doll. But honestly, even these boxes at least need a pair of scissors, a chainsaw and a cleaver to come apart. *If you’ve ever opened a toy box, you’ll know.*
Unfortunately for women, our boxes aren’t as tough. And you should read the fine print before trying to tackle your life. It specifically states that every circumstance as this and that but not limited to such and such will damage the box. For instance:
Your box will break if you demanded your right to choose whom you should marry; if you fell in love; if you decided to break off a relationship; if you were cast away by your husband for whatever reason. And it will break if you continued to live after committing these horrid crimes even when it was your world that fell apart, even when you were the victim.
Your mold will splinter if you, a girl, asked to go to school; wanted to be a CEO rather than a bride or perhaps be both; dared to believe you have as much right as any man to walk down the street not feeling unsafe, stared at, cat-called or ridiculed in any way possible.
The mold will break if you decided to protest against an injustice done to you, fight for your rights, drag your aggressor to court, scream out to the world how much you suffered; if you exposed men for the same crimes they want to hang the women for.
The mold will break if you, a woman, had an opinion.
Well, I got opinions by the truckload because, unfortunately for patriarchy, I was taught to think for myself. *Yes, even the men in my life didn’t think it weird. Imagine that!*
Hence, for many, I’m no longer a goddess at the mantle but a trouble making, pot stirring witch. Just another of the kohl-eyed, olive skinned, some head baring but all of them bold of stance and loud of voice, dangerous rebels who conspire to topple kingdoms of men.
I’m a writer. I face it with every blog I publish. While there is praise for my ‘courage’ to raise what little awareness I can about the plight of women in our societies, there is much hate that goes with it.
You’re a traitor.
You hate men!
You’re shaming/ridiculing/destroying the country, nation, all life forms and aliens.
Why don’t you write about the positive aspects?
These are few of the comments I have thrown my way often.
The only criticism I do sympathize with is the last one. Yes, there is always a positive side of things to hail. But my fear is if we don’t point out the negatives, the positives will die a slow and painful death. Like weeds killing your perfect garden.
Also, this rule of highlighting just the positives is another mold to tame the outspoken shrew.
But my kind has a problem. We speak our minds. We rule our own hearts. And there is no place for a heart and a mind in a mold. The moment these come to life, the mold cracks. And that is when our battle begins.