Neelab Hakim
A friend gifted me a decorative mask. It was the smiling face of a woman painted blue as beautiful and clean as the sky with green lines as pure as nature and cheeks that stood out with an endless smile. Its eyes shined as if it was hiding a secret.
I touched the mask and felt the ups and downs of its face. Its warm lips gave me goosebumps. Standing in front of the mirror, I put the mask on my face. It did not feel unfamiliar. I wear a mask every day.
When you are a woman you have to wear a mask every day, but it must be invisible.
You must be in pain, break and live through brutal violence yet wear a mask of strength.
You must be in sadness and swallow your tears, but your mask must be smiling for the pleasure of a system that denies women real feelings.
You may be in love, but you must grind your feelings into non-existence and bury them. Your mask must prove that the word “love” does not exist in the thesauruses of your life.
You must spend all your life in slavery- a slave to the lie that is virginity, a slave to the silence that denies your desires- but your mask must smile with satisfaction.
You may be alone, but no one will feel your loneliness. Your mask must hide your melancholy so it will not be abused.
You must be sentenced to living the life of a woman in a society where a woman is not considered human. In a world where women are seen as half-brained and weak and are sold in exchange for land, cows and sheep, you must be a woman. Your mask must show liberation while you are stuck in the world of “yes, sir.”
I feel suffocated behind this mask and the denial of my real self to be a “good woman.” I take the mask off and look at the mirror.
“I am well,” I say.
But is this really me speaking?
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Read this piece in Persian here.