Altaf,
You must have heard that it is better to die once than to die everyday. The problem with vitriolage is that it may not kill you that instant; but it provides you a slow, agonizing death which is even worse. As the mind and body never really heal from such a vicious attack that you start to die inside. Finally when you lose the battle within, you think of ending the suffering for once and all .
There is a high survival rate amongst the victims. But you see survival is not the most vital question always. The medical, social, psychological and economic impacts of lifelong disfigurement is too much to bear, therefore many people who has been a victim like me, ends up taking their own life.I don’t blame them nor do I call them cowards. My empathy sides with them, cause you can well imagine that living with such ugliness provides you being more ostracized than pitied. Before the incident took place, I too like others lived with the preconceived notions of physical beauty. I made heads turn on the streets and it gave me a sense of secret pride that I was considered attractive. Gone are those days! Now I have only one half of a face, the other part is deformed for a lifetime and now remains hidden behind the scarf. I have one eye blinded permanently and the eyelid burned off, most of my teeth exposed by partly destroyed lips, a shrunken nose with almost nothing for a left nostril, the doctor said I was lucky that the cartridge was not destroyed. I don’t have an eyebrow on my left side. But it is not just the face defiled but also deeply scarred are my chin and neck. I also incurred respiratory problems since I had inhaled a little of the acid vapor but the damage was not fatal. Neither my food pipe nor my Wind pipe was damaged. So I have been a victim as well as a survivor like several others.
For many months following the incident, I used to question my survival- the life I live is it worth living? Is it desirable to me? Is it what I deserve? Even if I could seek justice and had taken a legal step against my wrongdoers, it would not have done me any good. It could neither offer relief nor restitution. The Law can not improve my condition. It can never stop them, It has never stopped anyone from being wronged atleast in this part of the world. It is the Powerful that is destined to win and rebels are destined to be cursed, doomed and crushed under the former’s feet. When my Ammijan Abbu said that I was punished for my fault, I lost faith in the concept of justice. According to everyone, my wrongdoers’ actions were justified for I had gone too far from their limit of tolerance. Thus I was forced to accept this victimization. Dark gloomy thoughts clouded my mind until one day when I finally realized that I cannot go on suffering for something that was not my fault and I decided to emerge as the winner. If I am to live, I must do it lovingly not grudgingly. After six years I still fight tears as I recall the trauma I faced early in my life.
I was told as a child that the greatest duty on earth for a girl was to serve- my father and then my husband. For I belong first to my family, and after marriage to my husband and his family. I had never had any issues with that until I grew jealous of my two brothers. They were never taught to serve anyone. While my elder brother never seemed to care much for me, my younger brother always bore a loving concern. When a teacher from the neighborhood was employed to teach my brothers at home, beside their formal school education so that they grow up to be fine gentlemen, I often noticed them from a distance taking lessons. Growing fascinated with their boasting about the new things they learned everyday, I decided to ask for a formal education for myself. That night, I first realized what it is to be born a girl child in our community, what really made the difference between my brothers and me when I overheard my father scoffing at my mom when she had disclosed to him about my wish. I was too young to realize the solemnity of the affairs and therefore as a child promised my mother that I will leave school as and when she would ask me to. Therefore at the request of my younger brother and my persistent demands, Ammu persuaded my father that as soon as I reach a certain age I would drop school. My parents could afford my schooling though they were not particularly rich. I walked down to my school with my brothers who usually accompanied me till my school gate and then left for their own school. The school had very few pupil and they mostly belonged to the more privileged section of the society with rare exceptional cases like me. I took the idea of learning and educating myself quite seriously, my younger brother helped me a lot. As destiny would have its way, I forgot my promise and considered myself eligible for higher education and dreamed of becoming a teacher. I had started to question the gender discriminated attitudes of the people around me that they did so in the name of religion and culture but it remained inside my head. I knew my questions were safe there since nobody ever bothered to know the inside of my head while they bothered about the outside. All they really seemed to care was my looks and my ability to carry out the biddings. I was the only girl in my locality that had the privilege of going to school since we lived in a small town which was still not developed like my parent’s mindsets. Other girls mostly lived behind their veils.
Oneday one of my classmates told us about an internet blog being written by a girl who belonged to the Peshtun community in Swat district. She had been detailing her life in that region where the “Talibans” had occupied and banned television, music and female education. She had been writing using a pseudonym. Her identity had been revealed in some articles and since then her family was under constant threats by the “Talibans”. I had heard about the “Talibans” quite a number of times. What captured my attention was the fact that the people around me reacted differently to the name. Elders never really discussed matters of the state and politics before children, especially girls. My younger brother read out to me the news articles that often spoke about the “Talibans”. The news were usually fearful. For instance oneday he read out that the Talibans were trying to extend their reach over all of the nation and even beyond. As he often read out about how they were closing down schools and a ban was put in some areas of the north western region of the country on female education, I grew more and more afraid if such things things ever got associated with our lives.
I was fourteen when my father had noticed that my attachment with books seemed to be ever increasing and I had begun to dream with open eyes of getting myself established and get away from the clutches of such a society where I felt stifled. When he asked my mother that it was nearly time I would dream about a husband and get myself groomed to have a fine one, my dreams suffered continuous reality checks from then on. But I still managed to hold on to my books though my going to school was under severe threats for the next year. Finally what seemed to be my worst nightmare coming true and make matters completely bitter, an Al Qaeda leader was shot dead in an operation code named Operation Neptune Spear by a world power in early May, 2011 due to which all militant group including Talibans vowed revenge, even against our country for not being able to prevent the operation. Within a few months , they had occupied few other regions including our small town . I remember having heard my father say that the “Talibans” had gripped our town. He seemed rather scared that day. There were open gunshots and frequent skirmish between the military and the Talibans. The schools were closing down one by one and some were even destroyed. The attendance of the pupils dropped rapidly. There were edicts proclaiming the forbiddance of girl education. Tensions arose at home as I proved to be quite stubborn in my decision to continue going to school. I was smacked whipped blackmailed but I wouldn’t yield to any of it. Soon I learned my lesson oneday, on the way to school, when we came face to face with a group of “Talibans”. My brothers who accompanied me were beaten badly. They couldn’t protect me. They swore at me, struck me and then it happened all of a sudden. The pain was excruciating. I lay there unconscious till I was finally admitted to the hospital. Scars were the last thing on my mind, my prerogative was to survive which ofcourse I did. But for the next few months I did not have the courage to look into the mirror.
That very year, the government passed a landmark Acid Prevention Bill to provide fines and imprisonment for the offenders. But my offenders belonged to a terrorist group; it was not easy to punish them. Strangely enough, no such risk or labor was undertaken neither by my family nor my friends. After all, they said, it was my fault! Why should my family suffer? Several other girls had faced the same treatment from my offenders throughout the country. They all suffered for the same common fault. Among them, Some families had stood by their side and lodged complaints to the police unlike my family who made it clear that bearing the cost of my treatment had already drained them. From now on , I must learn how to be grateful to them for the life I am living. Trust me, I tried to, but failed! Even though I knew that they could have abandoned me after the incident but they somehow didn’t. I acknowledged their efforts to tolerate me, but it wasn’t something I could bring myself to appreciate or feel grateful.
I was in the hospital for several weeks. When I was brought home, I stayed locked in a room for months. Almost a year passed by, the ban was lifted, schools reopened and I decided to go on with what I had started even if it meant worst for me . Amidst all these, another big news struck me. The blogger girl who had stood against the Talibans, giving numerous interviews, was shot along with two of her classmates .She survived the murder attempt and the government bore her expenditures for the treatment. But some people called her “the American spy”. Somehow the incident gathered worldwide attention and topics such as educating the female child rose up to further prominence.
I urged my parents now that all has been said and done, I must go back to my studies. After all, now I had every reason to continue my education . My parents were drained of their money as well as their hope of my marriage. They now wanted me to finish education and then fend for myself. Stepping outside, trying to live a normal life, attending school – things were not easy. At this juncture, I met Feroza Bibi who I suppose entered my life as a messiah. She worked in a NGO and went about meeting victims like me to provide them with new vitality to fight back and smile back at life. I got new vigor to fulfill my dream. I joined the campaigns to spread awareness and promote female education.
By now, I have come to fully accept myself. After schooling, I have been pursuing law. I wish to provide justice to the underprivileged and silenced female faces. I still work in Feroza Bibi’s NGO trying to provide the sinews to the corroded. Still a long way to go!
I am ready to undertand as you have mentioned in your letter that you are attracted to me for the person I am and therefore your feelings are independent of the physicality, and that as you’ve claimed you’re ready to accept me with my dreams. But I have travelled far away from the idea of serving a man or his family. I cannot restrict myself with petty household chores nor can I allow myself to dissolve in amorous sentimentality. I have liberated myself with the ideals to seek a better world for those who have suffered like me. The little things mask the greater realities. I refuse to seek refuge in the little things in life. A greater world awaits for me.
Sincerely,
Aamira Alam.


© RupkathaBhowmick