Unnoticed Invisibility
Uzma Rizvi January 1, 2000
#125 Posted by Vidyanjali on March 3, 2006 10:31:01 pm
I liked the casual style of this poem. You sounded almost like Imtiaz Dharker at places, a casual tone but with disturbed rumblings deep inside which only a very discerning ear can trace...
Patriarchy somehow has reduced woman to a life of anonymity; there aren`t much choices available for a woman and her only way to happiness is accepting life quietly as it were...
Patriarchy somehow has reduced woman to a life of anonymity; there aren`t much choices available for a woman and her only way to happiness is accepting life quietly as it were...
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#124 Posted by Centaur on January 23, 2005 8:44:53 am
i have been born and bred here. Its been long since i have started looking around and have undestood what happens around me in this society. It has suffocated me. I cant breath. I fully agree with with what you said. We treat most of our women as daulay shah`s mizaray which is so inhuman. Men, may it be husbands brothers or the fathers. They are the same.
#123 Posted by khwaab on May 4, 2000 1:33:55 am
Hi Uzma,
I find the tone and message of your works simple and powerful. I love Memories of the Monsoon. We`ve been lucky with the inches of rain this year in Southern California. Just wanted to say I appreciate your work.
Misbah
I find the tone and message of your works simple and powerful. I love Memories of the Monsoon. We`ve been lucky with the inches of rain this year in Southern California. Just wanted to say I appreciate your work.
Misbah
#122 Posted by temporal on January 22, 2000 4:31:19 pm
Rehan:
Sorry, yar, I stand corrected.
Bhaiyee itni bhi faragaht kis kaam ki? Kahan ghayab thay?
Anyways, welcome back.
rgds
t
Sorry, yar, I stand corrected.
Bhaiyee itni bhi faragaht kis kaam ki? Kahan ghayab thay?
Anyways, welcome back.
rgds
t
#120 Posted by temporal on January 13, 2000 10:33:52 am
Uzma:
What I am reproducing here from today`s rediff is the story of another woman. A son`s eulogy for the mother. Another tale of the indomitable spirit and the emotions felt from within. Another indicator of the inevitable. No matter where we live in the region, what national or religious (or irreligious) tags we carry: or are branded on us by others; we are the same. We are the same whether we end up six feet below (tons of mud), or six feet above (tons of sandalwood).And how we journey through life to that end. Our dreams, aspirations, hopes despite politics, divisions, and acrimony are the same. Just feel like sharing Pritish Nandy with you and others.
A SHORT PAUSE
Pritish Nandy
Mother died yesterday. Or was it today?
My favourite novel starts with these two sentences. L`Etranger by Albert Camus. Better known as The Outsider.
I feel like its protagonist Meursault today. For when your mother dies you lose all sense of time. The grief is so overwhelming that you do not even know where to begin, how to cry.
I am luckier than most people. I knew she was dying. I was, you could say, ready for it. She was old, ninety years old. Born in the first decade of the last century, she had seen everything that the world has now forgotten. Horse drawn tramcars on the streets of Calcutta. The coming of the first radio, the first typewriter. Her best friend in school threw a bomb at the Governor and went to prison. She was educated, more educated than my father and, as a teacher, earned more money than he did as the warden of a boys hostel. I was her youngest son, born when she was forty. More by accident than design, I guess.
I remember her as a teacher. A remarkable teacher who ended up as the first Indian vice principal of the school I went to. La Martiniere, founded by a French soldier of fortune who made enough money in India in the nineteenth century to set up three schools. One in Lyons where he was born and the other two in Calcutta and Lucknow. Schools in which some of the best known Indians studied. From Vivien Leigh and Merle Oberon to Harry Webb (alias Cliff Richards) to Arun Nehru, Vijay Mallya and my good friend Dilip De who was better known as DK in school.
My father died 21 years ago. He was her best friend and mine and had no business dying at 72. That, too, on his birthday. He was fit enough to live for a couple of decades more. But he had gone to visit his sisters in Jabalpore and, there, underwent a prostrate surgery that felled him. The surgery was fine but post-surgery care was inadequate and by the time I reached Jabalpore, hearing of the operation from someone else, he was already in a coma. He had specifically told everyone not to inform me about his hospitalisation because he was concerned that I would get unduly worried and might even hop onto a train and reach there.
And that is actually what I did the moment I heard about the surgery. But it was too late already. I sat beside him for ten long days, watching him die. It was an experience I would not wish on my worst enemy. The helplessness, the pain, the desperation of watching someone you love more than yourself dying before your eyes and not being able to do anything about it. I prayed. But what can prayers achieve in the face of death? I could not even cry. I cried, in fact, a whole week later when I realised that I would never ever meet him again. He was my best friend, my only confidante.
In many ways my mother died the day my father did. But her spirit was strong and even though she lost her will to live the moment she heard that my father had passed away, she did not show it. She lived with her grief, her pain for 19 long years till Alzheimer`s mercifully took her memory (and to an extent, I guess, her pain) away. She stopped recognising me and all those around her and lived, like a frightened child, in a dark, fearful world of her own surrounded by phantoms she alone knew and could recognise. Once in a while, a window would open for a moment and the light would come streaming in. She would recognise me and say a few familiar words. Otherwise, she would sit all day in a dark corner and cringe.
Nurse after nurse came and went. It was an unbearable duty.
She would be ill at times and need hospitalisation. Once she broke her hip and we took her to the Hinduja hospital. Another time she caught a death of a chill and we put her into Jaslok next door. The doctors were wonderful and she recovered from both but I can never forget those terrible days when she lay in bed, a small, crumpled, little figure, shrunk to half her size, combating pain and suffering without anyone by her side. For she recognised no one, she did not even understand where she was and why there were so many tubes and needles poked into her. I could see the fear in eyes. I could see the pain, the helplessness, the complete lack of understanding as to why she lay strapped to a bed for days and none of us around her would set her free.
She came back home smaller in size. And even smaller in spirit. More lost than she ever was. More confused. More bereft of hope than I had ever seen her. The big banyan tree under whose shadow we all played and grew up had shrivelled into this tiny, dry plant whose twigs seemed as if they would break off at the slightest rush of wind. She was so frail, so frightened that I left her alone. There was no communication possible between us. It was only love that kept us bonded. When she cried out loud I would go up to her and take her face between my hands and she would keep quiet. Even though she did not recognise me there was something in the way she responded to my touch that told me she knew she was in safe hands. It was like hiding under a bed during an earthquake. It gave her some hope but that was all. Fear hijacked her entire life.
Fear of what? I do not know. Doctors say that it is a strange, all encompassing, never leaving fear that all patients suffering from Alzheimer`s feel. An inexplicable, unknown miasma of dread that eventually destroys their will to live. I could see that happen to her. She would occasionally disappear for days inside a huge, ugly smog of hopelessness and not speak, not eat for days. We would plead, beg, shout, scream, threaten her. In fact, do anything and everything to wake her up to the world around her but she refused to budge. You could describe her world as virtual, sick. An imaginary world induced by the illness she suffered from but for her it was the only world she had, she knew.
She is gone now. She died yesterday or was it today, who knows? All I know is she is dead and I am left no wiser about life and death, happiness and sorrow, joy and anguish. The pain, ofcourse, will ease. I will be back at work tomorrow. I will write my usual columns, hop onto planes and go off to different cities. I will travel, campaign, fight for issues that I have always fought for. Smile, argue, politick, pick up the gauntlet thrown by life again. Everything will be back to normal.
But today I hope you will forgive me as I take a break from matters of state to write about my mother as her dead body lies on the cold floor, wrapped in an off white Bengali sari that evokes memories of the land she was born in, the culture she grew up with, the language she loved to speak, the literature she taught.
The agarbattis around her are glowing. There is a portrait of her and my father on the wall and far away, very far away the city bustles. To remind me that life goes on as usual.
For Mumbai it is just another busy day.
What I am reproducing here from today`s rediff is the story of another woman. A son`s eulogy for the mother. Another tale of the indomitable spirit and the emotions felt from within. Another indicator of the inevitable. No matter where we live in the region, what national or religious (or irreligious) tags we carry: or are branded on us by others; we are the same. We are the same whether we end up six feet below (tons of mud), or six feet above (tons of sandalwood).And how we journey through life to that end. Our dreams, aspirations, hopes despite politics, divisions, and acrimony are the same. Just feel like sharing Pritish Nandy with you and others.
A SHORT PAUSE
Pritish Nandy
Mother died yesterday. Or was it today?
My favourite novel starts with these two sentences. L`Etranger by Albert Camus. Better known as The Outsider.
I feel like its protagonist Meursault today. For when your mother dies you lose all sense of time. The grief is so overwhelming that you do not even know where to begin, how to cry.
I am luckier than most people. I knew she was dying. I was, you could say, ready for it. She was old, ninety years old. Born in the first decade of the last century, she had seen everything that the world has now forgotten. Horse drawn tramcars on the streets of Calcutta. The coming of the first radio, the first typewriter. Her best friend in school threw a bomb at the Governor and went to prison. She was educated, more educated than my father and, as a teacher, earned more money than he did as the warden of a boys hostel. I was her youngest son, born when she was forty. More by accident than design, I guess.
I remember her as a teacher. A remarkable teacher who ended up as the first Indian vice principal of the school I went to. La Martiniere, founded by a French soldier of fortune who made enough money in India in the nineteenth century to set up three schools. One in Lyons where he was born and the other two in Calcutta and Lucknow. Schools in which some of the best known Indians studied. From Vivien Leigh and Merle Oberon to Harry Webb (alias Cliff Richards) to Arun Nehru, Vijay Mallya and my good friend Dilip De who was better known as DK in school.
My father died 21 years ago. He was her best friend and mine and had no business dying at 72. That, too, on his birthday. He was fit enough to live for a couple of decades more. But he had gone to visit his sisters in Jabalpore and, there, underwent a prostrate surgery that felled him. The surgery was fine but post-surgery care was inadequate and by the time I reached Jabalpore, hearing of the operation from someone else, he was already in a coma. He had specifically told everyone not to inform me about his hospitalisation because he was concerned that I would get unduly worried and might even hop onto a train and reach there.
And that is actually what I did the moment I heard about the surgery. But it was too late already. I sat beside him for ten long days, watching him die. It was an experience I would not wish on my worst enemy. The helplessness, the pain, the desperation of watching someone you love more than yourself dying before your eyes and not being able to do anything about it. I prayed. But what can prayers achieve in the face of death? I could not even cry. I cried, in fact, a whole week later when I realised that I would never ever meet him again. He was my best friend, my only confidante.
In many ways my mother died the day my father did. But her spirit was strong and even though she lost her will to live the moment she heard that my father had passed away, she did not show it. She lived with her grief, her pain for 19 long years till Alzheimer`s mercifully took her memory (and to an extent, I guess, her pain) away. She stopped recognising me and all those around her and lived, like a frightened child, in a dark, fearful world of her own surrounded by phantoms she alone knew and could recognise. Once in a while, a window would open for a moment and the light would come streaming in. She would recognise me and say a few familiar words. Otherwise, she would sit all day in a dark corner and cringe.
Nurse after nurse came and went. It was an unbearable duty.
She would be ill at times and need hospitalisation. Once she broke her hip and we took her to the Hinduja hospital. Another time she caught a death of a chill and we put her into Jaslok next door. The doctors were wonderful and she recovered from both but I can never forget those terrible days when she lay in bed, a small, crumpled, little figure, shrunk to half her size, combating pain and suffering without anyone by her side. For she recognised no one, she did not even understand where she was and why there were so many tubes and needles poked into her. I could see the fear in eyes. I could see the pain, the helplessness, the complete lack of understanding as to why she lay strapped to a bed for days and none of us around her would set her free.
She came back home smaller in size. And even smaller in spirit. More lost than she ever was. More confused. More bereft of hope than I had ever seen her. The big banyan tree under whose shadow we all played and grew up had shrivelled into this tiny, dry plant whose twigs seemed as if they would break off at the slightest rush of wind. She was so frail, so frightened that I left her alone. There was no communication possible between us. It was only love that kept us bonded. When she cried out loud I would go up to her and take her face between my hands and she would keep quiet. Even though she did not recognise me there was something in the way she responded to my touch that told me she knew she was in safe hands. It was like hiding under a bed during an earthquake. It gave her some hope but that was all. Fear hijacked her entire life.
Fear of what? I do not know. Doctors say that it is a strange, all encompassing, never leaving fear that all patients suffering from Alzheimer`s feel. An inexplicable, unknown miasma of dread that eventually destroys their will to live. I could see that happen to her. She would occasionally disappear for days inside a huge, ugly smog of hopelessness and not speak, not eat for days. We would plead, beg, shout, scream, threaten her. In fact, do anything and everything to wake her up to the world around her but she refused to budge. You could describe her world as virtual, sick. An imaginary world induced by the illness she suffered from but for her it was the only world she had, she knew.
She is gone now. She died yesterday or was it today, who knows? All I know is she is dead and I am left no wiser about life and death, happiness and sorrow, joy and anguish. The pain, ofcourse, will ease. I will be back at work tomorrow. I will write my usual columns, hop onto planes and go off to different cities. I will travel, campaign, fight for issues that I have always fought for. Smile, argue, politick, pick up the gauntlet thrown by life again. Everything will be back to normal.
But today I hope you will forgive me as I take a break from matters of state to write about my mother as her dead body lies on the cold floor, wrapped in an off white Bengali sari that evokes memories of the land she was born in, the culture she grew up with, the language she loved to speak, the literature she taught.
The agarbattis around her are glowing. There is a portrait of her and my father on the wall and far away, very far away the city bustles. To remind me that life goes on as usual.
For Mumbai it is just another busy day.
#119 Posted by temporal on January 10, 2000 7:18:54 pm
Uzma:
Where is the pertinency? Well, why do we look for relevancy in all things? Here on Chowk, somebody wrote an essay on `nothing` -- could be Ansari or Asim Hayat in which........sorry to drift.... Like I was saying I have lost that chain of thought.......oh do we have to talk about Adam and Eve, Khuda or Bhagwaan, (should I use a capital B or a small one will do?) and when was the last time any poetic effort merited this many responses; I mean we all understand those trigger words that merit hundreds of responses, don`t we? oh all those three, four, five, seven and eight letter words. Astagfirullah, as hamidm would say? what is m for? well, never mind, the more important thing is; is it Astaghfirullah or Astaghfarullah? and should A be caps? like I mean aren’t there other important things we can deal with than those 3,4,5, 7 and 8 letter words; yaar what happened to propensity for life and living? oh I can ramble on and on but there is this hadith; but then why bother ---- who bother when we have the whole book; but then what about others who have books too... yaar, kiya baikaar ka chuckkar hay yeh saab. Gotta go and have that double, or is it triple whammy of doodh, patti and sutta. Double or triple?
rgds & aah (that`s adab-arz-hay)
t
Where is the pertinency? Well, why do we look for relevancy in all things? Here on Chowk, somebody wrote an essay on `nothing` -- could be Ansari or Asim Hayat in which........sorry to drift.... Like I was saying I have lost that chain of thought.......oh do we have to talk about Adam and Eve, Khuda or Bhagwaan, (should I use a capital B or a small one will do?) and when was the last time any poetic effort merited this many responses; I mean we all understand those trigger words that merit hundreds of responses, don`t we? oh all those three, four, five, seven and eight letter words. Astagfirullah, as hamidm would say? what is m for? well, never mind, the more important thing is; is it Astaghfirullah or Astaghfarullah? and should A be caps? like I mean aren’t there other important things we can deal with than those 3,4,5, 7 and 8 letter words; yaar what happened to propensity for life and living? oh I can ramble on and on but there is this hadith; but then why bother ---- who bother when we have the whole book; but then what about others who have books too... yaar, kiya baikaar ka chuckkar hay yeh saab. Gotta go and have that double, or is it triple whammy of doodh, patti and sutta. Double or triple?
rgds & aah (that`s adab-arz-hay)
t
#118 Posted by temporal on January 8, 2000 4:05:50 pm
rajanjua:
Amir why don`t you do a piece on Sukayna and alongwith it the early phase of Umar bin Abdul Aziz, before he became the Amir ul Momineen, and the latter phase of the fifth caliph. That will surely disturb the hornet`s nest. I have heard these rumours.......
rgds & mubaraks
t
Amir why don`t you do a piece on Sukayna and alongwith it the early phase of Umar bin Abdul Aziz, before he became the Amir ul Momineen, and the latter phase of the fifth caliph. That will surely disturb the hornet`s nest. I have heard these rumours.......
rgds & mubaraks
t
#117 Posted by temporal on January 8, 2000 3:53:50 pm
PM re# 85:
The subject, shall we refer to her as Ms. Piggy?
Ms. Piggy is another one chasing young ones! Particularly one that has made her life living hell. (Uzma, you mind if I use this space to digress?) Some say the mere fact of surviving in that dysfunctional city is hell. Am not sure if I am compounding the hell correctly. Will append your message to my greetings. Hope she responds. If it fails, will mention to some Chowkies visiting the said city, to jolt her out of her lethargy.
As for sheer-khorma and other artery clogging delicacies, email your phone number (if you are still in southern Ontario. Who knows I may let bygones be bygones and invite you over!
As for the Islam bit I can give you some unique interpretations out of existing wordings. But I am understandably loathe to do so. I mean there is this one fatwa exciting our dull lives already....
Too bad you missed that little gem. Will let you know shortly when I post a new one there.
rgds
t
The subject, shall we refer to her as Ms. Piggy?
Ms. Piggy is another one chasing young ones! Particularly one that has made her life living hell. (Uzma, you mind if I use this space to digress?) Some say the mere fact of surviving in that dysfunctional city is hell. Am not sure if I am compounding the hell correctly. Will append your message to my greetings. Hope she responds. If it fails, will mention to some Chowkies visiting the said city, to jolt her out of her lethargy.
As for sheer-khorma and other artery clogging delicacies, email your phone number (if you are still in southern Ontario. Who knows I may let bygones be bygones and invite you over!
As for the Islam bit I can give you some unique interpretations out of existing wordings. But I am understandably loathe to do so. I mean there is this one fatwa exciting our dull lives already....
Too bad you missed that little gem. Will let you know shortly when I post a new one there.
rgds
t
#116 Posted by temporal on January 7, 2000 6:11:57 pm
Oh, in the spirit of time;
EID MUBARAK
and seasonal GREETINGS
to one and all
EID MUBARAK
and seasonal GREETINGS
to one and all
#115 Posted by temporal on January 7, 2000 6:03:05 pm
PM: Re #72
Interesting thoughts.
Allow me to build an analogy before I pose a query
The constitution of the Excited States was written over two hundred years ago. The Supreme Court was appointed the guardian over it to interpret it according to changed sensibilities. The founding fathers in their wildest dreams could not have predicted the societal changes that were to come. But we see that the Justices have tackled abortion, busing, presidential rights, legislature rights, fundamental rights etc. interpreting and reinterpreting those eight thousand words.
Now. let us come to Kor`an. For now, we do not have to go into who created it. It is enough simply to acknowledge it as a written document more or less intact down the centuries. If we make a slight presumption that this is for all times then there must be a mechanism for continuous reinterpretation to go with changing times without alienating the original intent. My query for you is, what happened to that mechanism?
Iqbal (Muhammed, Sir Allama) has raised and dealt with these issues among others in The Reconstruction of Religious Thought in Islam. (if memory serves right, particularly in the sixth lecture.) Zeemax earlier and elswhere has indicated this book is banned in Pakistan now. Others say it is not banned, but everytime it is reprinted, certain religious factions buy off all copies to make it extinct again.
regards
t
P.S. Am still waiting for the `review`.
P.P.S. The poem is replaced by an story on that page.
Interesting thoughts.
Allow me to build an analogy before I pose a query
The constitution of the Excited States was written over two hundred years ago. The Supreme Court was appointed the guardian over it to interpret it according to changed sensibilities. The founding fathers in their wildest dreams could not have predicted the societal changes that were to come. But we see that the Justices have tackled abortion, busing, presidential rights, legislature rights, fundamental rights etc. interpreting and reinterpreting those eight thousand words.
Now. let us come to Kor`an. For now, we do not have to go into who created it. It is enough simply to acknowledge it as a written document more or less intact down the centuries. If we make a slight presumption that this is for all times then there must be a mechanism for continuous reinterpretation to go with changing times without alienating the original intent. My query for you is, what happened to that mechanism?
Iqbal (Muhammed, Sir Allama) has raised and dealt with these issues among others in The Reconstruction of Religious Thought in Islam. (if memory serves right, particularly in the sixth lecture.) Zeemax earlier and elswhere has indicated this book is banned in Pakistan now. Others say it is not banned, but everytime it is reprinted, certain religious factions buy off all copies to make it extinct again.
regards
t
P.S. Am still waiting for the `review`.
P.P.S. The poem is replaced by an story on that page.
#114 Posted by Bina on January 7, 2000 5:06:40 am
HamidM:
Wow.
Moth Smoke? mean anything to you?
- Bina.
Wow.
Moth Smoke? mean anything to you?
- Bina.
#113 Posted by temporal on January 6, 2000 12:39:08 pm
Re: #10, 23, 25, 29, 49, & 52.
Have a tough time deciding between rant and rave.
Rant: n. loud, wild, extravagant speech.
Rave: v.i. to talk incoherently or wildly, as a delirious or demented person.
Are these sermons rants or raves?
t
Have a tough time deciding between rant and rave.
Rant: n. loud, wild, extravagant speech.
Rave: v.i. to talk incoherently or wildly, as a delirious or demented person.
Are these sermons rants or raves?
t
#112 Posted by temporal on January 5, 2000 1:49:52 pm
Uzma:
Interesting musings:
``... yet, sometimes in our zeal and passion for liberation, we become just as closed minded as the people we are fighting against. If we are truly ``open-minded`` that means we should be able to take people for what and who they are.`` And
``I then looked around and realized that these group of women talked to one another and understood one another, and were not getting as annoyed as I was by the entire event.``
After your musings, the lines I selected in an earlier interact here appear more potent:
We speak similar languages,
but do not communicate.
Is it because we do not talk -
or because you do not understand?
Reflectively, I would say these lines also sum up beautifully the KJs here on the Chowk, too. These Knee Jerkers who oft times monolpolise and wear one down by shouting and proclaiming the superiority of their religion, culture or country. (Clarification: am referring to KJs on either side of the great divide. No fear of monopolies here.)
love
t
Interesting musings:
``... yet, sometimes in our zeal and passion for liberation, we become just as closed minded as the people we are fighting against. If we are truly ``open-minded`` that means we should be able to take people for what and who they are.`` And
``I then looked around and realized that these group of women talked to one another and understood one another, and were not getting as annoyed as I was by the entire event.``
After your musings, the lines I selected in an earlier interact here appear more potent:
We speak similar languages,
but do not communicate.
Is it because we do not talk -
or because you do not understand?
Reflectively, I would say these lines also sum up beautifully the KJs here on the Chowk, too. These Knee Jerkers who oft times monolpolise and wear one down by shouting and proclaiming the superiority of their religion, culture or country. (Clarification: am referring to KJs on either side of the great divide. No fear of monopolies here.)
love
t
#111 Posted by solitude on January 4, 2000 11:46:49 am
``If you didnt get the point, that`s ok.`` Wow that is very generous of you to say ! It is Ok; I am OK! even though I do not get ``the point``. Thank you for giving yourself the permission to be OK despite my not ``Getting it``. Not to mention your patronizing recommendation ``maybe next time... perhaps you should attempt opening your mind before your open other vocal orifices.`` Wow, what wit and words (I will have to look up the Big Evil Western Words book for that word) You have forced me to look at this poetry thing again.
Let me try : Arranged Marriages are Ok, because they CAN be happy too! Translation :Don`t worry about gambling with someone`s life because you CAN hit the Jackpot too! Another try: having 15 kids pass through your birth canal though you may be young (and ill educated ill equipped to parent children) is OK; Not only should we understand this criminal behaviour we should approve of it too?
It may be that the most useful thing you ever did in your life might have been to cook, clean and watch children but you want us to believe nonetheless that one needs PHDs in these fields? So what if we dont give PHDs in the GREAT and VIRTUOUS ART of cooking cleaning and watching children!?! You dont need us anyway! (``I do not need you``) atleast you sit on your ass all day and go about your world-saving-cooking-cleaning-watching-children business (everyone should go to School Of Nannies And Maids And Ignored Muslim HouseWives and do research in this exciting area)
It may be that you want us to believe that you are NOT really giving into the ``patriarchy`` but actuallly having a ball, being productive (in a very literal sense) and everything. Forget any vocal opposition to your wonderful ways - you wont even allow people to leave you alone; now you want us to start approving and worshipping your ways: this culture or religion or crime that you are being all defensive about. We should all ``recognise`` your marrying-cooking/cleaning-kids-producing-ways; Would you like the Noble Prize for such an ORIGINAL, HUMANITARIAN invention?
I read a lot of this ``Oh you think just because I mutilate the clit and phallus of my youngborn and slaughter them to the deities I am ignorant? hah take this: I can write a sentence ! and whine very effectively too! and I can make you feel bad and guilty for feeling so superior to me... You think just because I wear the Hijab I am oppressed? Just because the hijab and the lack of sunlight causes bone infections in my sisters we are suffering? Hah, we will show you! when we buy that chiffon Paris scarf thanks to my oil rich husband [who by the way has never broken a bone in my body nor ever barbecued me on a stake] and then I will sit here and I will take this paper and pen thing and I will tell you about how intelligent and beautiful I really am- so that you may allow me to do the same thing to my children- oh please let me do the same to my children ;will you let me or not? please do! otherwise my husband will break my bones and barbeque me... pleeease hanh? HAH fool, I do not need you anyway! I exist as I am! I am NOT stupid by the way- you may think so- You may even think you are all that but you are not! look at your TV Shows ; Taubah Taubah who can imagine such immorality, people living together and everything! not me! who has to cook and clean and watch children and serve my husband ``
Let me try : Arranged Marriages are Ok, because they CAN be happy too! Translation :Don`t worry about gambling with someone`s life because you CAN hit the Jackpot too! Another try: having 15 kids pass through your birth canal though you may be young (and ill educated ill equipped to parent children) is OK; Not only should we understand this criminal behaviour we should approve of it too?
It may be that the most useful thing you ever did in your life might have been to cook, clean and watch children but you want us to believe nonetheless that one needs PHDs in these fields? So what if we dont give PHDs in the GREAT and VIRTUOUS ART of cooking cleaning and watching children!?! You dont need us anyway! (``I do not need you``) atleast you sit on your ass all day and go about your world-saving-cooking-cleaning-watching-children business (everyone should go to School Of Nannies And Maids And Ignored Muslim HouseWives and do research in this exciting area)
It may be that you want us to believe that you are NOT really giving into the ``patriarchy`` but actuallly having a ball, being productive (in a very literal sense) and everything. Forget any vocal opposition to your wonderful ways - you wont even allow people to leave you alone; now you want us to start approving and worshipping your ways: this culture or religion or crime that you are being all defensive about. We should all ``recognise`` your marrying-cooking/cleaning-kids-producing-ways; Would you like the Noble Prize for such an ORIGINAL, HUMANITARIAN invention?
I read a lot of this ``Oh you think just because I mutilate the clit and phallus of my youngborn and slaughter them to the deities I am ignorant? hah take this: I can write a sentence ! and whine very effectively too! and I can make you feel bad and guilty for feeling so superior to me... You think just because I wear the Hijab I am oppressed? Just because the hijab and the lack of sunlight causes bone infections in my sisters we are suffering? Hah, we will show you! when we buy that chiffon Paris scarf thanks to my oil rich husband [who by the way has never broken a bone in my body nor ever barbecued me on a stake] and then I will sit here and I will take this paper and pen thing and I will tell you about how intelligent and beautiful I really am- so that you may allow me to do the same thing to my children- oh please let me do the same to my children ;will you let me or not? please do! otherwise my husband will break my bones and barbeque me... pleeease hanh? HAH fool, I do not need you anyway! I exist as I am! I am NOT stupid by the way- you may think so- You may even think you are all that but you are not! look at your TV Shows ; Taubah Taubah who can imagine such immorality, people living together and everything! not me! who has to cook and clean and watch children and serve my husband ``
#110 Posted by JR on January 4, 2000 11:46:49 am
Solitude: Go Brother!
There is a vindictiveness pulsating in the modern feminist. She wants revenge. She needs to show (men) in a bad light in order to have her point heard.
There is a vindictiveness pulsating in the modern feminist. She wants revenge. She needs to show (men) in a bad light in order to have her point heard.
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