A Still Hand Waiting

Gender differences here remind me of America before the civil rights movement. There are separate lines, separate train cars, and separate social habits. I can count the amount of women I’ve spoken to on one hand. Honestly, it’s sad. Yet, if the women of this country felt the same as I do, wouldn’t there be an uprising? A movement? Is it a bomb waiting to explode—ticking away every night they can’t go out with their friends, or every marriage that is arranged? Or is it just another day in what will inevitably the continuation of a culture so intertwined with religion that it’s suffocating at the thought of free will? It’s hard to come from a family of strong women and feel like so many here have no voice. Literally silenced. 

Just today while moving locations, I see a Muslim beggar on the street. A black vale covering her entire face, and the only skin breaking into the air is a steady hand—impressively still—awaiting a single coin by a passerby. Not a word from her mouth. Not even while begging may she show her face. I stop for a moment and wonder, what brought her to this point? Had she been able to speak up long ago when she very well had a voice, before she could understand it was wrong to have her own opinions, before the childhood wore off and the adult had to step in line, would she have changed her route? Maybe school or work? And if someone does place money in that hand, where does it go? Are there children wrapped into the equation? Mouths to feed other than her own? And yet, I pass. As do thousands of others every day. And she sits—a still hand waiting in silence. 

Andrew