“We all have our own White South..” Ernest Shackelton
Alone in her room, she stands facing a large mirror, her reflection imprisoned in its heavy frame. She disciplines her long black hair with methodical brush strokes. Every strand is smoothed, braided, kept under control in a twisted bun, while her thoughts flow unrestrained. What difference does style make? What if she could wear her hair loose or cut it short, pageboy fashion? No punk styles for her. She's sure of that. Still, it would be nice to have it layered, streaked, or curled, she reflects.
She does not dream of scaling Mt. Everest or traveling the globe. She does not ask to conquer Antarctica or outer space. She does not long for a chance to rule her country or even cast a vote. All she asks for is her life and the right to live it, to see and be seen face to face.
Nevertheless, her thoughts cannot be seen; they are beyond surveillance, and for that she is grateful. So she dreams of walking to the market alone, bright sun shining on her bare arms.
She dreams of stopping to talk to the neighbor's son and him recognizing more than her voice, the face he has not seen in fifteen years. She dreams, however hopelessly, of them walking on alone to the market, laughing and talking like children, the way they used to years ago. At the market, she picks rainbow colored fruits and vegetables the way other girls pick summer dresses and less modest ones pick boys.
The shopping done, they sit side by side on a crowded bus heading out of the city to the beach where they will build sandcastles together until the tide rises and washes them all away. They are grateful for the crowds that push them together but do not hold hands, do not dare. At the beach, she throws off a loosely fitted sundress, runs ahead, kicks off her shoes and delights in the warm sand tickling and caressing her toes.
The mirror, though large is still too small to contain her full image. Her legs are cut off, or her head. What is wrong with her body? She studies it carefully, relishing the way she looks in a conservative navy blue, white-skirted swimsuit. She's a child running down to the sea, the waves crashing against her bare legs and thighs. The thrill of a shiver runs up her spine; there is a voiceless cry as the cold water, dreaded and desired, slowly rises to her waist. She does not torture herself anymore and dives in. Standing up again, she watches her long hair spread out in the water, rising and falling with each ebb and flow.
She shivers. It is too cold. In the heavily framed mirror she sees a camel, unduly burdened, imprisoned in an Arctic zoo. She must be ill, delirious…sunstroke? She's sweating, needs to undress. The camel turns into a host of penguins in heavy black coattails, suffocating to death in The Sahara. What are they doing there? They will die. She sweats and shivers alternately. Her mother is waiting for her to go to the market. Dinner will be late. She must feed the camel. She must carry ice and water for the penguins. They must not die.
She rides the waves, conquering them one by one; she will get to them in time. They will not die. In the cool of the evening she and her friend will sit together hand in hand and face to face. Their castles will not be washed away.
It is too much to ask, she muses, as she readjusts her burqa and veils.
Alone in her room, she stands facing a large mirror, her reflection imprisoned in its heavy frame. She disciplines her long black hair with methodical brush strokes. Every strand is smoothed, braided, kept under control in a twisted bun, while her thoughts flow unrestrained. What difference does style make? What if she could wear her hair loose or cut it short, pageboy fashion? No punk styles for her. She's sure of that. Still, it would be nice to have it layered, streaked, or curled, she reflects.
She does not dream of scaling Mt. Everest or traveling the globe. She does not ask to conquer Antarctica or outer space. She does not long for a chance to rule her country or even cast a vote. All she asks for is her life and the right to live it, to see and be seen face to face.
Nevertheless, her thoughts cannot be seen; they are beyond surveillance, and for that she is grateful. So she dreams of walking to the market alone, bright sun shining on her bare arms.
She dreams of stopping to talk to the neighbor's son and him recognizing more than her voice, the face he has not seen in fifteen years. She dreams, however hopelessly, of them walking on alone to the market, laughing and talking like children, the way they used to years ago. At the market, she picks rainbow colored fruits and vegetables the way other girls pick summer dresses and less modest ones pick boys.
The shopping done, they sit side by side on a crowded bus heading out of the city to the beach where they will build sandcastles together until the tide rises and washes them all away. They are grateful for the crowds that push them together but do not hold hands, do not dare. At the beach, she throws off a loosely fitted sundress, runs ahead, kicks off her shoes and delights in the warm sand tickling and caressing her toes.
The mirror, though large is still too small to contain her full image. Her legs are cut off, or her head. What is wrong with her body? She studies it carefully, relishing the way she looks in a conservative navy blue, white-skirted swimsuit. She's a child running down to the sea, the waves crashing against her bare legs and thighs. The thrill of a shiver runs up her spine; there is a voiceless cry as the cold water, dreaded and desired, slowly rises to her waist. She does not torture herself anymore and dives in. Standing up again, she watches her long hair spread out in the water, rising and falling with each ebb and flow.
She shivers. It is too cold. In the heavily framed mirror she sees a camel, unduly burdened, imprisoned in an Arctic zoo. She must be ill, delirious…sunstroke? She's sweating, needs to undress. The camel turns into a host of penguins in heavy black coattails, suffocating to death in The Sahara. What are they doing there? They will die. She sweats and shivers alternately. Her mother is waiting for her to go to the market. Dinner will be late. She must feed the camel. She must carry ice and water for the penguins. They must not die.
She rides the waves, conquering them one by one; she will get to them in time. They will not die. In the cool of the evening she and her friend will sit together hand in hand and face to face. Their castles will not be washed away.
It is too much to ask, she muses, as she readjusts her burqa and veils.