deepundergroundpoetry.com
Marwa, the unmarried journalist
Švessa07DUP2016
All Rights Reserved
Almost 28 years old today, November 9, 2008, she stares at her plump beautiful face in the mirror, long jet black voluminous curly hair delicately framing her face. Even though she would be considered an exotic beauty in the West here in Cairo she is quite common and homely. Her eyes were a deep dark brown, so dark in fact that her iris was barely visible, but even she could see beneath the color that they were empty. No one had ever made her eyes twinkle, never had she observed any man who could make her dream of romance, the colorless eyes watched movie after movie showing young women enamored with new love and each eye filled with envy. Would she ever know such a feeling, would she ever frolic under the sun holding hands with a man she loved, would she be as the noble Khadijah and find her Mohammed?
She opened the Sira, biography of the Prophet Mohamed, and as she had done on every birthday, every Ramadan, and each Eid holiday she read the ultimate love story of Mohammed and Khadijah. Each moment, day dreaming of finding a man who would be as loving, as kind, and as humorous, who would be as good of a father, and as devoted a husband. The only thing she dreamed about more than such a man was a little child. Teaching that child how to perform ablutions before prayer, listening to their melodious voice chanting the Surah's of the Qur'an, and holding the babies hand with her finger. Tears stream down her face, a deep rooted realization comes over her like a wave of fear making her entire body cold and clammy. 'She may never have this, she may never find this man, honestly what man could possibly live up to this standard in the 21st century, what Egyptian man cared for anyone other than himself, what man would be deserving of her chastity, what man would want her?'
Even as a well-educated journalist, who made a respectable living-even more in salary than most men her age-and even as beautiful as she was, she was not being courted by anyone; no one had even expressed an interest. At first she was in love with her studies, then her career, now she was plagued by the thought that this might never happen for her. She was constantly surrounded by girls that she grew up with, most of whom have had the first child by now. She felt as if even her closest female friends snickered behind her back calling her "A'anisa" the derogatory word for spinster which literally translates to dull tree branch. She saw pitying looks in each of their eyes, even if in reality it wasn't there, because she even pitied herself.
Her closest friend Salwa, married with two kids, decided just last night to say to her "Marwa, you must stop refusing men and having such high standards. If you settle for just an average guy he won't be perfect but at least you'll have the kids." Medically she knew better because not all men are fertile, and spiritually she believed that God would provide her with the man she deserved she just needed to remain patient-although the second belief was becoming harder and harder to maintain. Another of her friends, Reem, didn't even invite her to her wedding because her unmarried status made Reem think that she would envy her on her big day.
Even though Marwa views herself as successful, confident, and an impeccable judge of character each passing year of being unwed tears off a layer of this confidence, and with each layer that comes down she begins to view herself through the judgmental eyes of those on the other side of that wall. Somewhere in her education, whether through books, experience, or culture she has internalized the belief that a woman's worth is measured by her ability to bear children and be a wife and despite her monetary and academic success she feels incomplete without the title of mother and wife.
"Should she settle? Should she lower her standards and accept the first man who comes along? No! This can't be it, this can't be the end all and be all of my existence!" She puts on her veil and dresses herself perfectly coordinating the colors of her outfit with her purse, belt and shoes. She holds her head up and leaves for her party. The doubts loom over her on her taxi ride to the KhulKhal boat in Zamalek, and even though she has committed herself to not give in to the negativity the thoughts become a weight on her shoulders, her head, even her eyelids. She steps out of the cab slightly hunched over, her clothes feel heavier. She enters the boat greeted by all of her friends all clutching the arm of their significant others, she sinks into her seat as if it were the river Nile itself, wishing she could disappear under the table.
Night after night she lies awake, filling the emptiness inside her with snacks and soda. She goes through the day as a shadow of herself conscious only because of the 8 cups of coffee. Each time she showered or went to the bathroom to wash for prayer she'd stare in the mirror and try to convince herself that all is not lost. Losing the battle every time, praying that she had the strength to forget that she needed this, trying to ignore the happy children whose parents she began to resent.
As the winter began her soul has become as dark as her eyes, consumed with hopelessness despair, and sorrow. Exhausted by her insomnia, beaten by her own thoughts, she struggled through each day as if she had lost a limb, as if she was bleeding from a battle wound, as if she was carrying weights on chains on her shoulders. Tears stream down her face into her coffee, the saltiness giving it a flavor of hopelessness. She drank it up and it pulsated within her, flowing through her veins making her existence entirely futile.
----------------------2 years later
"Marwa, I need the story sent to my email by 2pm today and no later, no excuses!"
She leans in her chair over her large stomach, uncomfortably reaching into the lower drawer for a bag of chipsies (something, anything to fill the hole inside her) each day making her more rotund and defeating any chance of finding a husband. Not only did she feel unattractive and homely but now even the slightest glimmer of hope was erased from her face-permanently leaving a scowl and the greying shadowy tint of depression colored her once tan skin!
Each day walking home rather then taking a cab telling herself that the exercise justifies the plate of rice and liter of Pepsi that she has for dinner! Writing stories for the paper about corruption and torture! The whole country was depressed, there was no good left in this world!
All Rights Reserved
Almost 28 years old today, November 9, 2008, she stares at her plump beautiful face in the mirror, long jet black voluminous curly hair delicately framing her face. Even though she would be considered an exotic beauty in the West here in Cairo she is quite common and homely. Her eyes were a deep dark brown, so dark in fact that her iris was barely visible, but even she could see beneath the color that they were empty. No one had ever made her eyes twinkle, never had she observed any man who could make her dream of romance, the colorless eyes watched movie after movie showing young women enamored with new love and each eye filled with envy. Would she ever know such a feeling, would she ever frolic under the sun holding hands with a man she loved, would she be as the noble Khadijah and find her Mohammed?
She opened the Sira, biography of the Prophet Mohamed, and as she had done on every birthday, every Ramadan, and each Eid holiday she read the ultimate love story of Mohammed and Khadijah. Each moment, day dreaming of finding a man who would be as loving, as kind, and as humorous, who would be as good of a father, and as devoted a husband. The only thing she dreamed about more than such a man was a little child. Teaching that child how to perform ablutions before prayer, listening to their melodious voice chanting the Surah's of the Qur'an, and holding the babies hand with her finger. Tears stream down her face, a deep rooted realization comes over her like a wave of fear making her entire body cold and clammy. 'She may never have this, she may never find this man, honestly what man could possibly live up to this standard in the 21st century, what Egyptian man cared for anyone other than himself, what man would be deserving of her chastity, what man would want her?'
Even as a well-educated journalist, who made a respectable living-even more in salary than most men her age-and even as beautiful as she was, she was not being courted by anyone; no one had even expressed an interest. At first she was in love with her studies, then her career, now she was plagued by the thought that this might never happen for her. She was constantly surrounded by girls that she grew up with, most of whom have had the first child by now. She felt as if even her closest female friends snickered behind her back calling her "A'anisa" the derogatory word for spinster which literally translates to dull tree branch. She saw pitying looks in each of their eyes, even if in reality it wasn't there, because she even pitied herself.
Her closest friend Salwa, married with two kids, decided just last night to say to her "Marwa, you must stop refusing men and having such high standards. If you settle for just an average guy he won't be perfect but at least you'll have the kids." Medically she knew better because not all men are fertile, and spiritually she believed that God would provide her with the man she deserved she just needed to remain patient-although the second belief was becoming harder and harder to maintain. Another of her friends, Reem, didn't even invite her to her wedding because her unmarried status made Reem think that she would envy her on her big day.
Even though Marwa views herself as successful, confident, and an impeccable judge of character each passing year of being unwed tears off a layer of this confidence, and with each layer that comes down she begins to view herself through the judgmental eyes of those on the other side of that wall. Somewhere in her education, whether through books, experience, or culture she has internalized the belief that a woman's worth is measured by her ability to bear children and be a wife and despite her monetary and academic success she feels incomplete without the title of mother and wife.
"Should she settle? Should she lower her standards and accept the first man who comes along? No! This can't be it, this can't be the end all and be all of my existence!" She puts on her veil and dresses herself perfectly coordinating the colors of her outfit with her purse, belt and shoes. She holds her head up and leaves for her party. The doubts loom over her on her taxi ride to the KhulKhal boat in Zamalek, and even though she has committed herself to not give in to the negativity the thoughts become a weight on her shoulders, her head, even her eyelids. She steps out of the cab slightly hunched over, her clothes feel heavier. She enters the boat greeted by all of her friends all clutching the arm of their significant others, she sinks into her seat as if it were the river Nile itself, wishing she could disappear under the table.
Night after night she lies awake, filling the emptiness inside her with snacks and soda. She goes through the day as a shadow of herself conscious only because of the 8 cups of coffee. Each time she showered or went to the bathroom to wash for prayer she'd stare in the mirror and try to convince herself that all is not lost. Losing the battle every time, praying that she had the strength to forget that she needed this, trying to ignore the happy children whose parents she began to resent.
As the winter began her soul has become as dark as her eyes, consumed with hopelessness despair, and sorrow. Exhausted by her insomnia, beaten by her own thoughts, she struggled through each day as if she had lost a limb, as if she was bleeding from a battle wound, as if she was carrying weights on chains on her shoulders. Tears stream down her face into her coffee, the saltiness giving it a flavor of hopelessness. She drank it up and it pulsated within her, flowing through her veins making her existence entirely futile.
----------------------2 years later
"Marwa, I need the story sent to my email by 2pm today and no later, no excuses!"
She leans in her chair over her large stomach, uncomfortably reaching into the lower drawer for a bag of chipsies (something, anything to fill the hole inside her) each day making her more rotund and defeating any chance of finding a husband. Not only did she feel unattractive and homely but now even the slightest glimmer of hope was erased from her face-permanently leaving a scowl and the greying shadowy tint of depression colored her once tan skin!
Each day walking home rather then taking a cab telling herself that the exercise justifies the plate of rice and liter of Pepsi that she has for dinner! Writing stories for the paper about corruption and torture! The whole country was depressed, there was no good left in this world!
Published 7th Jul 2016
| Edited 12th Jan 2017
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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8th Jul 2016 8:15am
14th Jul 2016 4:30am
And you talk about me. This is truly a hidden treasure. I am a fan. As long as this was and as it should be I still did not want this piece to end. I am anticipating reading the rest of your collection. Thank you for sharing you art with me
