Be A Woman

By Khadija Rupa

If I am ever asked to teach women,

the prerequisite of the class would be

that each student ensures — she is indeed a woman.

And if she tries to get in without fulfilling this prerequisite,

then she’d better make sure to bring some chocolate.

 

Because even before starting my class, I must be certain

the student is a woman and not simply a mirror through which people see themselves;

if the reflection is ugly,

they would break the entire mirror but if they see themselves

looking cool, rich and happy,

they would forget about the mirror and admire their own reflection.

My student can’t be someone who stays alive

through someone else’s existence.

She can’t be a surname,

or a half human,

or a wrapper covered candy

or a pearl hidden inside her shell.

 

I would also hold her hands;

prick her with a needle and observe carefully

if there is human blood or electricity flowing;

my teachings can’t be for a woman

who is a system,

a process,

a machine.

 

I would smell her silence, her confidence, her glance,

and make sure she isn’t someone’s breakfast, lunch or dinner.

 

I would look into her dark eye-echoes to read

if she is struggling hard to hide a man

whom she created very carefully

with lots of effort, tears and sweat,

using all the slaps of her father,

the rude words of her brothers,

the ignorance of her husband

and the hatred of the world.

Because a woman

creates such a man

just to kill the woman within her

and I, I don’t want a dead person to be my student.

 

I would make sure

she isn’t a poem

or a leading actress of a movie

or a protagonist of a book.

My lessons won’t be for those women

who are a rhyme, a device of entertainment, a written line.

Or if she thinks she is a number

represented by waist, shoulders and legs,

or a shape,

like a perfect curve,

an hourglass,

or a mixture of blue, orange, and red colour,

or words,

like sorry, please and okay, know that I teach only women,

only women… not men’s desires.

 

And I would give her answers,

even before I hear her questions.

I would answer her that God doesn’t like breaking things once He finishes building.

But if He breaks it then it is only when He is confident enough

that she will give it a better shape.

And I would again answer,

that if it wasn’t for dark, she would never believe

in the beauty

and the glow

and the twinkle

that only it can offer and light can’t.

And I would again answer,

just because there is gravity

doesn’t mean the whole earth was only meant to pull her down;

otherwise all the spectacular birds

would now be swimming in my beautiful lake.

But if my answers put a question mark

at the end of her life’s sentence,

I would definitely understand she is not a woman.

She is a whole

who doesn’t love pieces that give new incredible forms.

She is a light

who doesn’t want to give darkness a chance

and she is a bird,

it’s just she doesn’t like to use her wings.

 

And so when I would catch her

as not-a-woman,

I would definitely need some chocolate.

Because this woman,

whom the world tried so hard

to change into man’s version of woman rather than Allah’s version,

or whom the world compelled

to be a man,

a meal,

a means,

a machine,

a magnet,

a mini-park,

but not a woman whom is honoured by Allah

and His Messengers

and His Divine Book,

would never fail to bring back

the true woman buried within

when chocolate is right here.

 

Even if it is just for a few minutes,

I hope I can do at least this for her.

 

When it comes to courage, manhood, and strength,

they tell men,

“Be a man.”

Today for the same courage,

for the same manhood

and the same strength I tell you,

“Be a woman.”

 

Khadija Rupa is a contemporary Muslim author, artist, poet, story-teller, reader, and a daughter of a strong mother who dreams to heal a part of the world through her pen. Currently she is writing her first book “Fall In Love With The Truth”.