Najwa's Unread Letters

My beautiful notebook, you’re the dream I worked so hard to pursue. Welcome to your new home, I’m Najwa, your owner, and today, the 1^st of November 1997, is my birthday. You’re the gift I bought myself to celebrate my ability to write.

Writing is such a blessing; imagine having your complex thoughts made visible in front of your eyes on clear paper. A few years ago, all forms of paper in my life were used in cleaning or making simple origami to entertain the kids. Now, I am able to hold my pencil and pour all the words I have inside into you, my notebook. Here I am, experiencing my baby steps towards writing, hope you wouldn’t mind if I have any mistakes.

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Dear mom,

Hello! My teacher asked me to write an informal letter to a friend or a relative, and so I thought of you. I know you can’t and won’t be able to read this letter ever, but I need you to see it, just look at it with all its weird drawings that are called “letters” and be proud of me, your scandalous daughter Najwa. How are you? -as If you'd reply- I hope I can really know how you're doing. (draft: improve this later, this isn’t a real letter)

As for me, my writing is improving now; I barely have any spelling mistakes and my use of grammar is good, yet my vocabulary in English is still poor, I need to study more words. I love words, especially English words, I think they sound (better) more elegant than our spoken Arabic words. I can read and write in 2 languages now, mom, isn’t that amazing?

(next paragraph: why am I writing? What do I have to say?)

I’m writing to tell you that I compassion you. I'm trying to say it in a polite way trust me but all your beliefs were ridiculous and all your thoughts were dull. You were contaminated to me, however, I forgive you. I know it’s not your fault, you were raised the same way you raised me.

Did you ever want to go to school, mom? Did you ever feel jealous of smart people who could read stuff and do math and discuss topics more important than cooking recipes? Well, mom, I fought my way towards a better world, but you were kept imprisoned, that’s why I pity you. And how could you escape? You got married when you were 14, and for the hundredth time, mom, this was not a suitable age for marriage. meh. I won’t debate it; I can still hear you screaming with unrealistic arguments. Why were you so loud at home? You taught me that girls should always be quiet.

Anyway, that’s all for now…….agh, I can’t write that.

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New Page: November 1998: my writing has improved a bit

Dear Lisa,

How are you? Do you remember me? It’s Najwa, one of your elder sisters. I wonder if anyone in the family mentions my name to you now. I was there when you were born, we played together and although I’m 9 years older than you are, I felt that you could understand me. I hope you did; you were the very first one to know about my dream and share it with me.

I am writing to apologize for what I’ve done, or for what I haven’t done actually. I should’ve protected you back then the day that you got…mm… (find a word that means khitan).

You had just turned 6. Mom had asked me to fetch you and try to distract you from the fact that you’re about to feel excruciating pain. You were left alone with me while she and all our sisters and cousins went to aunt Fatima’s to prepare a celebration. The last scene of you playing with the hen in the yard and pretending they were your friends didn't stop messing with my mind since then, as if I'm cursed with this moment; remorsefully covered up. You were there giggling and chattering while spinning in circles so that your white flare dress would glide and show the pair of shorts you were wearing underneath. Guiltily, you were so innocent, and so easily distracted; all the way you kept telling me tales about the hens, you used to call one of them Foufi. Foufi believed she could fly off the fence, as you believed, but every time she tried, the fence gets higher, or her wings get broken.

(what am I writing? Tales about hens?)

What I wanted to say, my dear Lisa, is that unlike any of our sisters whom I saw getting circumcised (that’s the word, right?) you were different. All of them started screaming out of pain when the procedure started, yet, you didn't. Once aunt Fatima opened the door for us, it took you 2 seconds with the hush filling the place, perhaps for you to comprehend what was happening, and suddenly, in a blink of an eye, you eluded so fast that your feet barely touched the ground. They sent some boys after you, and wistfully, they returned with you tying up your arms. And I know me being shrouded in shame won't make you forgive me for standing there watching you. you yelled my name 6 times asking for my help and I remained crippled. Perhaps, I didn’t cheer like all the ladies there, but I didn’t rescue you either. I could never forgive myself; I just yearn for you to can. "Could I have done anything to save you?" I've been engrossed in that thought for ages but I was on the verge of losing hope back then, yet you never did, you were fighting them with all the power you got, and you were so powerful, as powerful and strong as any woman ought to be. (search for other synonyms of powerful)

I hope you’re still running away from anything that might have control over your brain or your body.

The day you underwent female genital mutilation, (yes that’s the word) was exhausting. Such a simple act as walking became a burden to you that day with your legs stitched up. You were carried home by one of the boys so I guess you didn’t see me going back to the yard, I had to notify your feathery friends that you won’t be back for a while. I spent extra time with your hens that month, I couldn’t enter the room you rested in, it was torturing me, what was I supposed to say? I had nothing to defend myself with, and I have nothing now still. I should've been your shoulder to cry on during that traumatizing time for you. At the same time, dad had decided to marry me off to Abdulkadir. I wasn’t at all happy, but I respect karma, and I knew this day would come anyway. You were crying in one room while I was knitting my dress in the other one. I’m so sorry sis, I really am.

I remember how you looked during my wedding ceremony; your golden hair was beautifully braided and your sky-blue dress made you look so pretty. It was so depressing to see such a glamorous girl missing her smile. I haven’t seen you since that day, but you were always on my mind. I wonder how you’ve changed, who you’ve grown up to become. Did you get married? Or did you decide to run away again? I just hope that you have chosen a path for your life without any external interference, I hope that some miracle happened that allowed you to go to school and learn about the world, remember? This was our shared dream.

Finally, I hope you remember me. I know it’s been way too long, but I hope to hear back from you soon. Take care of yourself.

Love,

Najwa

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New Page: November 2009: my writing skills are ameliorating

Dear Abdulkadir,

It’s me, Najwa, the first girl in town to ask for a divorce, as you stated 10 years ago. That’s right, I can write in English now, just like you. I can also read the Arabic newspaper every day, just as you used to do every morning instead of talking to me. How are you now? Did you get remarried? Does your back still hurt in the evenings?

Anyway, I’m penning this letter with great satisfaction that my determination to leave you turned out to be rational. Please don’t get me wrong, I don’t have any negative feelings towards you now, instead, I am at peace with myself, and that’s why I’m gratified.

I'm writing to you because I’m able to express myself now, unlike the old times when I didn’t have the words to do it. You used to think of me as the girl with the thundering voice, perhaps I was loud because subconsciously I constantly felt unheard. Maybe that’s also why my mom was vociferous, perhaps that’s why most of the Arab women learn to be louder so that they could get their points across. My voice is silvery now, I have all the words in the world to communicate with, and people listen to what I have to say.

When we first got married, I tried to accommodate to this new lifestyle. Mom was thrilled that a man of great fortune like you had finally settled to marry me, she was even more proud that you enjoyed having sex with me for the first time. I was a virgin, and she had to ask you to be certain. Nobody ever asked me if I took pleasure in our sexual experiences, not even you. How did your ego allow you to continue having sex with a woman who does not crave you? Of course, you’re not the only one to be blamed. Besides your brutality and violence and lack of cuddles, my sexual desire was killed when I was 6.

I did attempt to be an idyllic wife to you; the house was always tidy and clean, my cooking was exceptional, and my vagina was smooth. You were a good husband too; an honest man with so many connections and so much money, always provided me with my basic needs of food and clothing. Those are the definitions our society normalized for what perfect spouses ought to be, but it’s not enough, not for me at least, I don’t recall you aspiring anything more than that.

My emotional and intellectual needs were not met when I was with you. I wanted to feel understood and loved, I fancied a life outside being a wife and being expected to have kids. An urge to read books and newspapers like you and all the boys kept growing inside me, and you didn’t permit its fulfilling. Again, you’re not the only one to blame, those needs were never met before anyway.

I’m glad we couldn’t have a baby, I learned this year that the problem might have been with you too, or with you solely, I now know that a couple might not be able to conceive although the wife is fertile. Nevertheless, this was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and I’m pleased that it did. I’m glad I couldn’t take your constant criticism about it and decided to ask for a divorce. It has been so hard for me at the beginning, I was a disgrace to my family, I had nowhere to go, no money to spend, but somehow, I survived, and my survival turned out to be a fortunate stroke of serendipity.

Here I am now, an educated woman that knows her rights and is ready to fight for them. A woman that seeks knowledge and wishes to explore the world. When you finally kicked me out of your house, all the ladies in town were staring at me walking down the streets so solitary and so vain, they must’ve thought I was a fool indeed. Here I am, a fool fighting for those women, wishing they would see the world the way I see it now.

I’m not waiting for you to understand, after all, you won’t receive this letter. I just wish someone would realize that on the other side of the planet there is a treasure called knowledge, and that women are allowed to possess it too.

Best wishes,

Najwa