The Voices that Nursed the Massacre – Female War Poets

Who’s for the game, the biggest that’s played,

The red crashing game of a fight?

Who’ll grip and tackle the job unafraid?

And who thinks he’d rather sit tight?

 

Women writers have explored and written on the subject of war alongside men but there is a stark difference because of women’s general lack of firsthand experience in the war. Women were not included in the army in World War I and only a few worked as nurses in hospitals which received injured army officials. Most women writers explored the theme of losing loved ones who went to  war or they assumed a soldier’s perspective to write. They wrote about terror, despair, loss and the harrowing effects of war.

 

Women were left behind in houses to endure, grieve, wait and survive without their brothers, fathers, sons, husbands and lovers. Their experience is different from men’s experience. The constant battle and atmosphere of terror affected their mental health and well-being, and their poetry laments the world’s collective loss.

 

Many of these women were educated which is why they had more mastery over language and technical skills when it came to writing poetry. This gave them an advantage over the men in the army who were uneducated and worked all day. The soldiers wrote poetry that lacked conventional poetic techniques whereas women avoided the critically frowned upon verbal clichés and heroic formula of verse in their writings which were common in male-written war poetry. The sonnet was used by them to express the grief of loss and symbolism and imagery for distinct purposes.

 

The publication of Catherine Reilley’s ‘Scars Upon my Heart’, an anthology which included women’s poetic verse of World War I, was significant in bringing forth women’s sentiments and experiences during the war. The poems in it showed frustration and indignity at not being able to share what the men were experiencing. Women were expected to support the morale of men in the army, but their poetry appeared more feminist and pacifist.

 

Charlotte Mew was one of the war poets whose poems revolved around seasons, particularly spring, which symbolized rebirth, hope and drew attention to the suffering of the war in the present where thousands of lives were lost, by portraying the death of small animals. ‘The Farmer’s Bride’ is the anthology that was published when she was alive, containing only 17 poems. She wrote 68 poems, most of which were short lyrics. She started as a prose writer but turned to poetry later.

 

Other poets like Rebecca West imagined trench life and the experiences of being in a ‘No Man’s land’ while Marian Allen’s sonnets exude loneliness and exclusions. Vera Brittain experienced war, as part of a Voluntary Aid Detachment unit, from home and from the Front. For her, poetry was something that comforted her whenever she read it or wrote it. Her poems were anti-war and feminist and she was admired because of them. Her interest in politics was due to her ambition to learn the effects of war and she hoped that a repetition could be avoided. Jessie Pope wrote light verse, light fiction for children and published three volumes of war poetry. Her writing was humorous.

 

As the war went on and men came to fully realize the harsh realities of war, they began despising the patriotic poems written to motivate them and to urge them to fight . The young women on the other hand did not have a chance to realize this, and the glorification of war shown by the media encouraged them to keep writing the patriotic poems that they were so fond of. Owen and other major male war poets criticized them in some of their poems and the female poets were generally despised.

 

Women’s position in society changed drastically as they were employed, gained economic independence, self-confidence and discovered that they could live their lives differently. This helped them in demanding voting rights  and the ‘suffragette movement’ achieved its aim faster. Their role in munitions factories and in regulating the economy of the country helped them gain political and voting rights. Their poetry had romantic and heroic expressions for the bravery of men and was filled with  disgust and outrage at the war. Women’s poetry revealed a different aspect of war than the direct attack and its consequences, and helped understand the things that shaped the society after the war.

 

But here, where the watchers by lonely hearths from the thrust of an inward sword have more slowly bled,

We shall build the Cenotaph: Victory, winged, with Peace, winged too, at the column’s head.

 

 

My First poetry Chapbook – The Struggle Within available on Amazon

Order here: https://amzn.eu/d/096AanGy

My love for poetry has been there since she started reading at a young age, but I only began writing poems when I read and studied poetry frequently during my studies, delving into the various forms of poetry.

These poems were written during 2014-2017, the most inspiring and productive years of my life.

I hope my little collection of poetry will inspire other South Asian women to write bravely as well.

About Me

I am an English Literature graduate from the University of Karachi, in Pakistan. I currently works as a Communications Specialist at Aga Khan University, at the Centre of Excellence in Women and Child Health, having experience in the publishing industry, journalism, and teaching.

I have worked at Oxford University Press Pakistan for four years, editing and creating content for children’s readers and secondary school books. I also has a passion of writing about women’s football in Pakistan, particularly the northern areas, for which I have been working closely with Dawn Newspaper.

Send your feedback at ayehshaizhar94@gmail.com or reach out to me on X @UnitedsFreak, and @inkedandlenses on Instagram.

Sexism in Healthcare – How Gender Bias Denies Healthcare Rights and Body Autonomy to Women

In this day and age when gender equality is a major concern in strictly patriarchal societies, anyone who dares to venture in the history of sexism and control at the very roots of societal structures will find themselves amidst severe discrimination in the medical industry. Medicine, as a field, was much more prone to blatant displays of gender bias when compared to other fields of life where the prejudice was more verbal or dealt with complete ostracisation of women.

The brutal Victorian-era practices in the healthcare industry stemmed from basic prejudices about women’s bodies and women’s conduct. Ranging from not trusting women’s narratives, to labeling them as liars who ‘faked’ illnesses to escape domestic responsibilities, medical practitioners have been well known for disregarding women’s recounts of their experiences with different types of ailments. To make matters worse, these women were sent to receive horrible treatments that centered on mutilation and painful regimes. Arising from a direct lack of understanding of women’s bodies and treating them as unequal to man’s stature in society, medical professionals had severe misunderstandings about the reproductive organs present, and the diseases that occurred within them. Moreover, mysoginistic ideas revolving around femininity and womanhood did more harm to those seeking medical attention and proper diagnoses. The portrayal of women as more emotional beings who blow things out of proportion and exaggerate illnesses due to their frailty has done relentless harm to the female population. Since scientific fields were dominated by men, their lack of understanding of women’s bodies and stubborn biasness led them to promote false scientific ‘evidence’ which heightened narratives that promoted emotional aspects in women. Through more research later, sexist scientific research was debunked and rendered useless, but the ideas propagated by them still linger and continue doing harm.

The most intriguing illness that was labeled as being characteristic in women was ‘hysteria’. Having its origins in the Ancient Egyptian medical texts, doctors adopted the belief that the uterus could float away from its natural position and cause problems in the female body. This ‘superstition’ filled the gaps for the lack of knowledge that existed, and a lot of different medical ailments were grouped under one term to make treatment easier. The direct effects of this disease included hallucinations, heightened sexual desires and anxiety, which led to witch hunts across Europe in which women were burnt alive owing to the superstition of a doctor. Sick women were accused of witchcraft and terminated in trials where they were proven guilty.

Another unknown disease was spreading among housewives, and doctors freely prescribed sedatives to control the mysterious sickness. Housewives, being confined in houses for long hours were suffering from definite psychological issues that stemmed from a strict routine and domestic drudgery. Since mental illnesses were not well researched in those days, this disease became an unnamed calamity that was regarded as a fake or useless illness that could be treated with tranquilizers, without caring about the side effects that affected the patients.

Apart from direct physical damage, misdiagnosis from a doctor’s end occurred from the perception that women did not have an idea about what they were experiencing and could not describe their symptoms. This gave a free pass for doctors to ignore the details recounted by women, or silencing them in order to assert their diagnosis and consequently, treatment too. One of the aspects of humanizing healthcare in today’s age is to give immense care to the patient’s verbal recount, and diagnosis depends largely on the descriptions given in order to give fair and correct treatment.

The struggle for sexual and reproductive freedom and access to healthcare rights has been long sought for by women who recognized the lack of medical treatment they received and the horrendous mutilation they suffered at the hands of male practitioners. The fact that medical colleges did not allow women to enroll in their programs, as did other universities, can help us trace the lack of women’s representation in the various fields of society. Since the basic gender role assigned to women was to procreate, satisfy sexual needs and indulge in domestic labor, it is not surprising that women did not reach professionalism early on. More than that, absence of female medical professionals became the reason why women’s bodies and ailments were not well understood and sexism in research prevailed for ages. When medical practices became scientific and professional, traditional practices done by women were ruled out since they did not hold a ‘degree’ and so began the silencing of midwives and their torture at witch hunts.

‘A common rhetorical trope in histories not written by female midwives or their advocates is to portray female midwives as ignorant. For example, in 1962 the then leading American historian of pre-modern midwives, the Yale professor of anatomy, Thomas R. Forbes, claimed that, ‘The midwife, at that time usually an ignorant and incompetent elderly woman, received meager fees, occupied the lowest level of society, and lived a long and probably unhappy life’. The arrival of medical men, with their anatomical knowledge and obstetrical tools, signalled the salvation of women who had for centuries suffered at the hands of ‘ignorant and incompetent elderly wom[e]n’.25 This battle over historical narratives seems to have been pitched most forcefully in the United States, which witnessed the most extreme suppression of midwives as independent practitioners. Little wonder that American feminists of the 1960s and 1970s reacted against the misogynist master narrative with a ‘mistress narrative’ that saw pre-modern midwives as learned in empirical wisdom, authoritative and independent (Monica H. Green – Gendering the History of Women’s Healthcare).’

As the feminist movement rose in its power, the fight for healthcare rights gave way to the establishment of hospitals that catered to women and handled them much more responsibly and correctly than before. Instead of subjecting them to electrocution or other severe traumatic treatments, women’s lives were saved with proper attentive care and beneficial treatments.

It might seem to be a cruel account of the way medical practice has evolved throughout the ages, but sexism has played a huge part in the way women were treated in hospitals. Coupled with this, racism and other societal prejudices have also factored in when it came to research on women’s bodies. One such example can be taken from J. Marion Sims, a 19th century gynecologist who experimented on black slave women without using anesthesia. He claimed that black women did not feel pain and one is left to wonder how much entitlement he possessed to be able to certify which race of women felt pain and which ones did not. He executed inhumane procedures to find out the perfect technique to repair fistulas. It is quite clear that enslaved women could not prevent, let alone consent to these procedures being done on their bodies, which again illustrates the commodification of women’s bodies in male dominant societies. These women were treated as lab rats, without an ounce of care for their wellbeing.

Perhaps, this discussion has found the right track to indulge into one of the biggest crimes committed against women: obstetric violence. And violence it was rightly so. ‘Twilight Sleep’ was one of the most traumatic childbirth processes that were badly handled by the doctors in America. Women were given a glorified picture of having painless births but were given sedatives in high amounts which harmed them and the baby, without lessening any pain during childbirth. Recounts by nurses and women who underwent this brutal process describe horrific details of how the drugs made them psychotic. They would become violent, bang their heads on the wall and claw at their skin. This led to mothers being restrained by ankle and wrist cuffs or put into straight jackets. They were even tied inside their cots, and blinded with towels. Nevertheless, the mental trauma cause by the entire process and the sedatives involved left them grasping for their sanity. The drugs erased the memory of childbirth, which proved to be harmful for the bonding process with the babies. Many women felt no closeness for the child they had given birth to, and children born under this process were directly affected as the drugs passed through the placenta to attack the central nervous systems of the fetus, resulting in breathing problems. It wasn’t until several women died during childbirth, that the practice was decreased.
The alluring prospect of having a painless childbirth had trapped thousands into a practice where women were padded up because of violent thrashing.

“I’ve seen patients with no skin on their wrists from fighting the straps.” (Ladies Home Journal , May 1958).

Mothers experienced detachment from the babies, as they did not remember giving birth to them, just like they did not remember the pain and madness of the entire procedure. This procedure was highly distressing, but the obstetrics profession was riddled with male practitioners, and their contempt for women’s bodies translated into such practices. They considered birth as a ‘pathological process’ and the narrative around it made them write derogatory sentences for women:

‘I have often wondered whether Nature did not deliberately intend women should be used up in the process of reproduction…’ (The American Journal of Obstetrics and Gynecology, Volume I)

The Ladies Home Journal published women’s and nurses’ stories that exposed the method and details of Twilight Sleep, because of which it became known far and wide. The procedure received criticism, but more importantly, it helped bring the natural childbirth processes executed by midwives who used traditional methods back into the mainstream society. It showed how the institutionalization of birth processes had caused severe harm to women in the 20th century.

Changing tracks, I think it is important to mention Freud here, since mental illnesses were greatly talked about and researched in the modern era. Freud’s practice of psychology, to everybody’s surprise, was also riddled with sexism to the extent that he created imaginary envy and sexual attraction between children and parents. When he dwelled into hysteria, he found out that the women he used free association upon were actually victims of childhood sexual abuse at the hands of their fathers/husbands/male relatives and they suffered from PTSD. He was able to realize the extent of the problem and attempted to resolve their trauma through discussion. The dilemma arose when he understood that he could not reveal the actual cause of the disease because the same men that abused these women were paying for their therapy and he could not risk sabotaging his income. Therefore, he invalidated the experiences of those women, replaced the actual reasons with imaginary fantasies and allied himself with powerful men, resorting to a form of victim blaming. These women eventually ended up going back to the perpetuators of violence and became stuck in an endless loop of violence and therapy. Next time someone tries to dictate that capitalist notions aren’t the cause of discrimination, this account of Freud’s imaginary illnesses would make a good example. It would be useful to read up on Irigaray’s account of how the discipline of psychology is built upon lies, and acts of silencing women’s voices. The disadvantage of not acting honestly with PTSD victims was suffered later by men who returned from wars and displayed symptoms of hysteria, which denied them proper mental care.

The purpose of indulging into this exhaustive and detailed account of sexism in healthcare is to illustrate the main biases that underlie the politics that surround women’s healthcare rights. Proper birth control and abortion rights are still not accessible to women because men express distrust in them when it comes to making choices about their bodies, about conceiving and giving birth or terminating pregnancies. This inherent suspicion about women ‘changing their minds frequently’, not being sane enough to make proper decisions while being pregnant due to emotional effects or just simply taking advantage of abortion to stave off responsibility of raising children is not far from the same prejudice that doctors had before about women faking illnesses. This disdain lies at the heart of these problems, these rules and political struggle. The suffragette movement fought for the right to vote for decades and we can see how women have not backed down in voting and protesting for more access to birth control and abortion rights. Thousands of women lose their lives because they are not trusted to make these decisions and they suffer from severe problems during pregnancy which are simply disregarded as unimportant. Abortion rights have the power to make motherhood, planned parenthood, and safer pregnancies a possibility.

It would be an understatement to say that we have come far in this struggle for equality, but there are many practices that still linger in this system that are directly derived from sexist medical practices. One example is the ‘Daddy/Husband Stitch’ which is present in plain sight, yet women continue being subjected to it without understanding the disadvantage that it causes to them. In societies where a man’s sexual pleasure is given top priority, it is not a surprise that women are given extra stitches in the vagina while repairing tears to make it tighter for added pleasure for male partners. These stitches have painful consequences; women are unable to sit, stand or even move around without feeling immense pain, which just increases the pain already inflicted from normal delivery. To top off the torture, these stitches are added without the consent of women undergoing childbirth and are done when they are unconscious. This clearly proves that medical practitioners are still operating on women according to their own sexist beliefs and do not think about asking for consent before they apply these stitches. These extra stitches are not needed at all, and become the cause of extreme pain during sexual intercourse. Even though many men would never approve of this practice on their wives, they are simply kept in the dark. This exposes how women are blatantly objectified by practitioners, and no one has created any law to rule out this practice. Proper consent should be sought ought while operating on patients and violations should be punishable so as to make the practice obsolete.

Through this report, we can see that there are a lot of lingering practices and underlying biases that still exist, owing to the sexism that is rampant in societies which makes it very important to work actively to end it. What is imperative now is that practitioners become aware, and most importantly accept that these prejudices have existed in this industry. This will only make it easier for them to find ways to make healthcare better and more accessible to people. Acceptance is the key, because denial will only cause us more harm. Once we accept where we went wrong collectively as a society and embrace our flaws, we will be able to fix the faults and progress together. We should take the responsibility of becoming better listeners, of accepting patient’s detailed descriptions, and becoming more compassionate towards them. Medical practitioners are the ones who can make the field more inclusive and beneficial by penalizing and removing disrespectful and harmful practices. In envisioning a future, paint a picture that is more empathetic, and more generous.

References:

https://www.healthline.com/health-news/husband-stitch-is-not-just-myth

http://sahrawia.tumblr.com/post/167115723371/disease-danger-darkness-silence

The Monetization and Sensationalisation of Rape Cases in Pakistan – Umera Ahmed involved in yet another anti-women telefilm

‘Zainab’ is a name that is bound to send shivers down any person’s spine. The rape and murder of a little girl from Kasur shook the nation, but apparently became yet another story for telefilm writers. The brutal case of the rape of an underage girl proved to be profitable for the opportunist TV channels of Pakistan who are well capable of crossing all limits in order to garner money and ratings.

Umera Ahmed, a well known TV drama writer penned down a telefilm based on Zainab’s case, and the title of the film even used Zainab’s name instead of being fictional. The poster for the telefilm was released by A Plus and it portrayed a child actor wearing the same clothes that Zainab had donned in an old picture. A man is shown grabbing the child’s mouth, with the child’s eyes wide in fear. When one sees the poster, one is shocked with the detailing in the costumes chosen, the grim and bleak background of the poster and the highly exaggerated expressions of both the actors.

Questions are raised in our head. What is meant by this? Is the trauma of a child so cheap that it can be monetized like this? What is the purpose of using the same clothes, what is being symbolised by this? It is very clear from the highly sensationalized poster that the purpose is clear: the rape case gathered attention, and a telefilm on it will turn the same attention into ratings, money and praise. The telefilm will sell like hot dogs. It is the easiest way to open a franchise that sells merchandise from the wounds of every victim in this country. The message is quite clear, we will use your trauma for our personal gains.

One can only imagine how would every rape victim would feel after watching the film, and how triggering it would be? Do we factor in the parents? How will they feel? Many people defended the channel and writer by saying that they are ‘representing’ the case so that they can spread awareness and reduce the amount of rape cases with it.

Is this how awareness is raised? Do we not know the difference between capitalising on a rape case, by profiting from it, or by making a documentary that raises awareness? The freedom to perpetuate any form of art in society should be dealt with responsibly, specially when you are filling your pockets with someone else’s trauma and a nationwide epidemic. Writers do have the license to take on real life events, and depict them but they should not be highly exaggerated or created in a way that triggers memories of other victims and their families.

Umera Ahmed has been known for her novels and dramas, but a critical look at them shows how they are mysoginist and problematic. Ranging from being anti-Ahmedi to glorifying domestic abuse, the writer supports silence and compromise from a woman’s end which is absolutely disempowering for a country like Pakistan that is already steeped in too many problems.

A similar case of sensationalisation was witnessed in the depiction of Qandeel Baloch’s murder in the serial ‘Baaghi’. The very same TV channels who refused to hire her to fulfill her dreams used her name and story to earn money on a large scale.

Zainab’s parents have decided to sue the TV channel, as their consent and permission was not sought after before creating this telefilm. Along with this, we need to report to PEMRA on a larger scale in order to stop this telefilm from being released. It is our responsibility, to stop these channels from trivializing something as serious as rape and focus more on punishing victims instead of playing with their emotions and distracting everyone from the main case.

Published originally on https://jobaathai.pk/zainab-kay-qatil/

At our Grave

Indigo descended

Upon my being

As the sand gathered around my folded feet

My entire body bowing in prostration

Besides our grave.

 

Indigo descended

Slowly

Penetrating our souls

The life in me seeping

Slowly

Into the sand grains

Into our grave

A parasitic connection

Drawing upon my strength

My passion and my dreams

Our future lay into the folds of the earth

And I sat attached to it

Never letting go

My life and blood

Making its way into the mound

My hands and heart

Trembling at its command.

 

Indigo descended

Upon my drooping eyelids

Silencing my pleas

Upon my lips

Stitching them together

Upon my heart

Bruising it forever.

 

Indigo seeped

Into my being

Indigo spread

Down into our grave.

 

Indigo were your arms

Indigo your mouth

As I buried you alive

Into the dirt

Above the dirt

Together forever.

 

Indigo rusted

Indigo preserved

Our grave

Our corpse

Our funeral goes on

Under a thunderous sky.

 

Seven Devils by Florence + The Machine wrote this Poem in My Head.

You brought your dagger up to my lid,

Cut them open as they bowed down to you.

My body has reflex reactions,

Even when my heart wants to behold your mesmerising smile.

You cut my eye lid open,

because you wanted me to see you through scarlet pearls.

And as the red haze blinded me,

You chopped off my ear lobes,

A chunk of my cheek,

And my body screamed at me.

Blood rushed up to the call of the knife,

My neck surrendered to the silver gleam.

You loved my collar bones didn’t you?

Your knife loved it that night too.

And at that moment when pain hit its prime,

You caressed my face and embraced my lips.

The adrenaline trembled helplessly in the hollows,

Every nerve end was on fire.

My body was busy in saving itself,

Between the ends of the ruptured veins

And the desperate gasps of breath.

Every cut throbbed and every slit whimpered.

And I could not feel your lips,

As they teased me for my attention.

I was Adam on the verge of sinning,

Your rosy mouth; the forbidden fruit.

That night,

God screamed at me.

You smiled at me.

Guilt burnt me alive.

And I still ask myself,

Why the body preferred to feel pain,

Over pleasure.

Stubborn

I whine like a child. I demand for what I want. This is not going how I planned. Why are you angry at something I did not envision you to be angry at? Why am I caught off guard? Things spin out of control so fast. They do not walk the track I carved for them, they do not follow my command! And so I lay, whining and crying, stubborn to make things reach the happy ending I wanted. Forget what happened, forget what mistake I made. Just be yourself again. Just love me the way you always do, smile like you forgot what I just did. Like it doesn’t matter. I want everything to go back to normal so fast. I just want us to be back to being us again. But you decide you will remain angry and I decide I will not accept that. Sorry after sorry after sorry. Apologies on stacks of apologies on stacks of mistakes. I won’t give up. You won’t change. Yeah, but you still love me. I’m stubborn. Give me all the love I deserve. Give me back the person I was happy with. No. So I whine and whine and refuse to let go. I cry like that child whom you scold and refuse to hand over your most precious belonging because the child will mess with it in her innocence and you will have to deal with the consequences. But that child does not understand. And so she keeps begging for you to give your most precious belonging to her. But you know she will mess with it again and you’ll be hurt so you become stern and refuse to take the risk. I am that child that demands you to pour your love even on days when you are most scared to give it because you get so hurt when she doesn’t understand how to take care of you. When she’s careless and hopeless and you snatch it all away in your anger to punish her. I am that child. That still wants the person she loves to hand over all his love even on days when she hurts you like hell. I want you to be forgiving, endlessly, even when I don’t deserve it. When i make mistakes and I need it most. When punishment only makes me even more stubborn. And so I will cling by your side like an annoying child and cry and whine and demand you to hand over all your love, no matter how hurt you are. Because I cannot live without it, and I cannot ask you to leave me unattended. I will cry and scream and make you lose your mind but I won’t budge until your heart melts and you forget what happened and decide to stop being angry. Like an eager child I will greedily consume all your love till I’m sure you’re not angry anymore. And then the stubborn child will sleep, peacefully and you won’t be able to help but feel love for her abundantly. Eternally. Like a stubborn child I’ll be. Always there.

Absence

Absences are difficult. Complex to understand. You believe your absence won’t make a difference. But why not? You think your simple disappearance would just be that? Simple? Do you even know what monsters absences create? Its not simple. You leaving and believing life still goes on in the same way in your wake. It doesn’t. You believing life suffers no changes, nothing, is ridiculous. Do you know what darkness is? Is it just the absence of light? Is it only a void left in the wake of the light that leaves? No. Darkness is a separate entity. Darkness is a being of its own. It lives. It lives in the absence of light because it exists. I know because I’ve felt it grow cold around the edges of my teardrops when I’m helpless and alone and the failure of making you stay overwhelms me. I know because darkness engulfs me, mocks me and laughs at what I’ve become when I’m unable to stop you. Sometimes it becomes so motherly, it covers me and lulls me into sleep. Gives me comfort but it makes sure it never fools me. It shows me the reality, the consequences of my actions. And I let it educate me. You think cold is just the absence of heat? Have you not seen what a monster this cold darkness becomes when the light of your love and the heat of your body leaves? Do you think their absence is just that? An absence. Can you not see what tentacles this cold sprouts and wraps it around me. How it seeps inside me, numbing me into silence. When I keep screaming at you not to be angry at me! The heat just doesn’t leave quietly, it leaves behind a monster that thrives on my desperate wails and feeds on my silent prayers. It tells me you’ve left. But the monster that raised its head in your absence will never tell you that your absence is not just your simple absence. It will rejoice in the delusion you live in and it will devour me. I have to survive it until you return. Cope with it, like a boil you can’t remove until your presence becomes too powerful for it to survive anymore.
So the next time you decide you cannot bear me anymore, just know that your absence isn’t a meaningless void in my life. A loved one doesn’t just leave, he becomes absent.

Foreign

Today was a big day for me. I stood beside my best friend, as she looked over at the altar towards the man she loved. She looked beautiful, glowing with beauty and ecstasy. I smiled at her smiling face. Her happiness brought peace to me.

All through the event, her cheeks blushed at the appreciation she received. Everyone loved her. We had chosen the most beautiful and intricate dress for today and she bedazzled it. Her soft, thick hair flew around her face in the soft breeze and her eyes harboured a calm for which I had fought storms to bring to her. As everyone complimented her and she bowed her head humbly, I quietly complimented myself. Only I knew how many tears those pretty eyes had shed all these years. Only I had witnessed how her hollow cheeks had gradually become chubby and how her thin, weak and disease ridden body had recovered. I could never forget all the cigarettes that she had burned, all the drugs that she had enslaved herself to. My beautiful little girl had fought her way back with me and I had never seen anyone stronger than that.

As I watched her walking around, talking to her husband, my mind pulled me back to a chaotic evening in this foreign country years ago. I had been living a miserable life in Amsterdam, away from my family and friends, struggling to make ends meet in this alien place. I had come here to study, to earn money but I realised that I was only fighting to keep myself sane.

That day, I had been walking around aimlessly, crossing bridges and pathways I had never been to before. My mind was a chaos that day, questioning me about all the reasons for which I had put myself through this torture. I was homesick to the bone and every bit of me pained to be engulfed in the warmth and solace of my loved ones, of my home country.

I walked on, my vision blurred. All the memories of my life, of my happy past flashed before my eyes. It began raining soon and I let myself be drowned in the heavy pour. People laughed around me, enjoying as I ran ahead to find a quiet, isolated place. I wanted to be alone with my grief.

I jogged around a corner of a building and tripped. My face slammed on the gravel. I turned around to see what had been the cause and I froze. The face of my best friend, from back home laid there, her body curled up in pain. Unable to believe my eyes, I slowly moved towards her and scrutinised her face. It was Emilia; I had seen her face all through my childhood! I could recognise her. I tried to wake her up softly but she didn’t budge.

“Emilia?” I whispered, awestruck. “Emilia, is that you?”

Emilia was fast asleep and all her clothes were drenched in water. A white powder stuck to her lips and she had deep dark circles beneath her eyes. It was like looking into a person’s face that had borne the harshness of life. She looked so fragile that I was afraid to touch her, afraid that she would crumble in my palm. I searched the duffel bag that hung around her shoulder and to my utmost horror, I found drugs inside. Her wallet had no address, was devoid of money or any contact number that could be of my use.

Pain filled my chest as I grudgingly shoved the drugs inside her bag and called an ambulance.

“These kinds of drug addicts are not tolerated on the streets. Keep her inside if you can” The ambulance driver told me sternly after he dropped us at my place.

I carried Emilia to my room and laid her on the bed. I did not know what to do. I had no idea when she would wake up or how strong the effect of the drug was. I flung her bag on the floor and left the room as tears welled up in my eyes. Running to the lounge, I lay on the sofa and cried for hours. What had she done to herself? Why was she here? I could not understand. I only felt immense pain at seeing her in this deplorable condition.

She had been a healthy, hyperactive girl back in school and a constant companion to me. We had had an amazing friendship. I wished I hadn’t seen her like this. I wished she was her own self back again.

As midnight approached, I began to worry about her even more. Desperate to know whether she was fine or not, I tried to wake her up again. She opened her eyes after several tries and was ready to murder me as soon as she saw me.

“Who are you?’ She screamed at me drowsily.

“Emilia it’s me, do you….”

“Go away! Who do you think you are? Bringing me to your house! Why did you touch me! Who do you men think you are! Carrying around girls to your houses as if you own them!” She kept screaming.

Emilia was still under the effect of the drug so I kept quiet and waited patiently for her to come back to her senses.

“Why am I still alive?” She wailed as tears streamed from her eyes. “Why didn’t you just leave me there to die?”

She rolled around to the other side, clutching her stomach.

“Emilia, your clothes are wet” I told her.

“How do you know my name” Out came her muffled question.

“Emilia, it’s me Jared” I replied.

She laid still, her hair covering the expression on her face.

“Who asked you to bring me here? Why can’t you just let me live my life?” She said.

I stared at her with disbelief. What was wrong with her? She wasn’t happy that we had crossed paths? Wasn’t she glad I saved her?

“I am going outside. Change your clothes and come to the lounge for dinner” I announced sternly as I left the room.

Her attitude troubled me. What had she done to herself? This was unlike the girl she was. A few hours later, I carried a bowl of soup into her room. She had changed and was sitting on the bed, checking her drugs.

“Want to smoke one? She looked up at me and asked.

“No, drink your soup” I told her and left.

Days passed like this, with me carrying food into her room watching her drink cigarette after cigarette, puffing her life away. I kept quiet and controlled my anger. She did not disturb me. She slept in the room mostly and hardly ever cared to talk. I became more worried about her each minute. The smell of cigarettes filled me up with rage and disgust.

One fortunate day, Emilia dragged herself to the lounge and sat opposite to me on the sofa. She watched the television without really watching it. It was a pity to see that she was forcing herself to live like this. Alive, without really wanting to. The searing pain in my chest rose again as I watched her frail form and her weak, aging face. How a human being could subject themselves to such atrocity, was beyond my understanding.

I stared at her until she looked up at me. She stood up and started walking away from me. Enraged at her, I stood up and in one blithe movement, pushed her up against the wall.

“What are you doing?” She screamed in my face.

“Listen to me” I commanded her.

“Get away from me” She shouted.

“Please, listen to me” I pleaded.

“Well, I can listen to you, if you move back!” She threatened.

“No, just listen!” I held her strongly as she tried to squirm free. She was confused and fearful.

“What have you done to yourself?” I spat out.

“What? The cigarette? Oh please….”

“Yes and everything else too” I cut her off.

“What’s it to you” She demanded.

“What do you mean? You’re in my house, doing mad things and you think I wouldn’t be worried?”

“Well, I’ll leave then. You brought me here yourself”

“I did so because you were so messed up! You were lying in a street. My best friend, who I love more than anything, lying in a street! Do you know what I went through when I saw you?” I tried to make her realize what it had felt like.

“That’s none of your business. You could have left me, I would’ve died in a few days, problem solved” She blurted out.

“Are you mad?” I screamed. “Do you know what you’re saying? Do you know why I brought you home? That’s because I care about you. How can I ever leave you to die? I’ve always loved you!”

“No, you don’t. Nobody loves me. You came here and lived your life. I thought you were my best friend but you left me all alone. I needed you.” She began sobbing.

“You never told me you needed me. You destroyed your life for people who never cared about you. Didn’t I stop you? People used you, and you allowed them to do that” I tried to reason with her.

“You could’ve stayed” She accused me. “You could’ve saved me. You were my hope.”

“No…..you could’ve stopped me. You never stopped me…..” I couldn’t find my voice.

“Why would I have stopped you? To ruin your life! No!”

“Well, it got ruined anyway!” I told her matter-of-factly.

“At least I wasn’t the reason” She wiped her tears away.

“I wouldn’t have cared even if you were” I rolled my eyes at her.

“Just let me go! I will go away. I don’t need you to take care of me anymore” Emilia tried to break free.

“I can’t” My voice broke. “I can’t see you like this. You’re so wretched, it’s worrying me” I pleaded again.

It had been years that we had talked like this. Back in the happy times, we were inseparable, the best of friends. I let her cry her heart out and spill her insecurities. She had so much to complain about. I felt as if I was to blame.

She told me her story amidst tears and sobs. How she had been betrayed by friends, oppressed by family and rejected by love. Little by little, everything had added up to her depression. I learnt that she had ran away to London to escape the hardships and living alone had contributed to a severe depression. She had travelled to escape her monotonous life but had ended up finding escape in drugs.

As she spilled out her pain in words, I felt as if I was equally responsible for what had happened to her. I took my loved ones for granted, broke contact with them. I had run away to a foreign land to live a better life and I had not cared about how I had consequently destroyed the loves of the many people who loved me.

I could have stayed back and been a companion to Emilia. I could have stayed in my own country and been a companion to many who suffer. But alas! I had escaped to this foreign place and suffered myself.

I had wiped her tears away that day, promising to fix her life. I had taken her to the hospital, and helped her with rehab. The color of her skin became better, her health improved and her addiction subsided.

Day by day, she came back to life. The friend that I had in school came back to being herself. We read books together, played games and learnt how to cook. We painted the walls with bright colors, planted fragrant flowers in the garden and dealt harshly with depression.

All the love and effort I put into healing her brought great results. We fought the disease together and pushed darkness out of her life. Now, it was flooded with life. The peace that descended upon her engulfed me too. It made me proud, that I had helped my friend recover. It made me feel that I had done the sincere duty of being a friend. I loved her selflessly.

As years passed and Emilia regained her health, she got enrolled in a university. She made friends and had relationships. She had achievements and failures and I was there to support her in every phase of life.

“Jared!” Her melodious voice brought me back to the present. “Where are you lost?”

“Just trying to remember when you became so tall?” I asked her.

“I am not! You eat a lot that’s why you look chubby. Come, my husband wants you to sit with us.” She dragged me to a table.

“You have spoilt her!” her husband accused me as Emilia laughed at the joke.

“Do not hurt her, ever. Spoil her even more, she loves it” I told him, silently praying that he would never break her heart.

A part of their conversation had already been written down by me back in 10th grade (2010). The only difference was that it was from the girl’s point of view; scared and hateful. I changed the point of view to a more loving one when I picked that piece of paper up from a dusty box and began creating the story once again a few months ago.