Softly

Softly

By Alexis Jeter

I have tread quietly all my life. Conformed, listened and submitted to a dictator’s will, fearful for the loss of the little rights I have obtained as a woman, and knowledgeable of the punishment for rebellion. My oppressor, through the years, has not been a military man, it has been society, the crazed and ugly child of men’s imaginative minds. I am now beyond the reaches of society’s clutches, cast aside at a young age. And society cares not for what it cannot reach. But now Libya must listen, willingly or not, to a woman’s voice, in fear and anticipation of the future.

Marriage for men is simply an extension of his already prominent self, but for women it is a punishment concealed in the illusion of happiness. A woman becomes no better than a slave in some ways, whose only purpose is to tend fields and bear as many male children as possible. And the husband is not chosen by her, but instead by her parents, their wisdom creating the best match. Wisdom is apparently not a family trait. For myself, marriage became a haunting prospect, a nightmare, even. My suitor was not a man, he was a beast, a monster concealed in the form of a human. And from me he took what was not yet his, and in horror I made the mistake of telling my mother. Raped, that was my fate, but those around me did not see. And I was wed to it, pregnant with a daughter, my one prize that I will forever hold.

For eight years I was segregated from the world. But tradition has always frowned upon the woman who travels too far and often from her home, with or without a man. I was by far not an ideal wife. My one and only child was a girl, whom my husband did not love as dearly as I, and farm work was backbreaking and difficult, soon becoming an impossible task. Cruelty was commonplace, and soon independence and freedom became not just a need but an obsession. I feared I would die. Without a second glance in my direction, the world would move away and leave in my place my daughter. Above all things I wanted her to live in happiness, without the struggles of my life. He is now dead, the monster, laid to waste by my hand. Shame I do not have, guilt has left me, and in its place is a void, echoing with the sound of muffled shouts and screams and blows that become softer by the second, smuggled.

I live now in a rural village, far from questioning or prying eyes. But with this luxury comes consequence. Education is male dominated, even in ideal places, and location has caused my daughter the pain of walking miles for school each day. Villagers say it is useless to force this upon her, that she will come to nothing, that even the boy children do not walk, but she is young and her feet more agile than others’. She will not become the image, and she will finish school, a feat that is beyond the power of most girls who are pulled from their education early to marry or work. I fear, as I watch her walk away from me each morning, that soon she too will see the Libyan woman’s burden, the image. The illusion of perfection and happiness. Something that has passed into the minds of future children, male and female. Egged on by both religion and word of mouth. The teachings stated, almost directly, that women are the weaker, those to be protected. Forcing the covering and the shame. I fear for a woman’s future and our role in society. We deserve equality and respect, but I know that as with all changes, patience is required.