Attempt At Independence
I wrung my scarf in my hands as I sat on an armchair in my bedroom, the colourful plush cushion wedged behind my sweaty back. I had finally managed the courage to announce to my husband, Fawad, that I would start working as a biomedical lab technician again. I had gotten an interview offer. Twelve years of marriage and two children later, I was tired of the same routine. I wanted my career back.
Fortunately for me, Pakistani society dictates whether a woman is successful in life based on her marital status and whether or not she has kids. In that field, my ball was in the park, but I was getting restless. I wanted to move around and contribute to my future, I wanted to know that the years of difficult exams and greying hairs wasn’t for nothing. So I found the courage and discussed my plan with Fawad.
“No.” He said, legs stretching out on the bed.
“Why? I studied years and went to university, don’t you think I should put that knowledge to-“
“No need. I provide for this family, you have no need to go out and mingle with strangers to earn.”
“Fawad, you make me sound like a prostitute.” He was being unreasonable. Mingling with strangers?
He sat up looked me dead in the eye, “Safiyah, ghar mein baitho” (just sit in the house)
I shut up then because I knew, his tone told me so. I wouldn’t get anywhere in convincing him to let me go. I had tried many a time to argue a fair point, the result ended up being the same though, I had to give up. Better clean up the kitchen for the bed, I walked down the stairs.
After our marriage, I wanted to keep my last name, Safiyah Qasim, but in the end my name did change to Safiyah Fawad. I didn’t resent him for that though. I romanticized the situation in my head so much that I forgot it was a sin to change ones last name after marriage in Islam, the reason I wished to keep my former surname in the first place.
My children, a girl aged 5 and a boy of 11, the apples of my eyes, my babies. Khadijah and Yahya were such good kids, they were responsible and took care of themselves and each other. I thought they’d be able to handle themselves if I was away at work, Fawad worked from home anyways.
A commotion was in progress as I reached the last step. “Mama! Yahya keeps pulling my hair!” I was pulled out of my thoughts by my daughter Khadijah, teary eyed and dressed in her ‘Dora The Explorer’ pyjamas with one pigtail wilting from its usual upright position. I peaked into the living room after repositioning the pigtail to glare at a lazily lounging Yahya as he ducked behind his PSP holding in his grin. That boy acted even younger than his sister sometimes. Maybe I had convinced myself that my kids were more mature than they actually were.
I moved to wash the dishes in my kitchen, I looked at my hands. They had turned rough and prickly, unlike the softness they maintained before marriage. The amount of dishes you wash significantly increases when you have 2 kids and a man to look after. Maybe I was fooling myself into thinking I needed more from life. Why couldn’t I be happy how I was? I have my kids, a good husband, and honestly waking up for 5 am hospital shifts doesn’t sound as appealing as it did when I was 22 and a fresh graduate.
Maybe I was meant to grow my potential in other fields. I was still learning as a mother and housewife of 12 years. I had studied, hard. Staying at home didn’t mean I had wasted my potential to become a world famous biomedical tech. or that my husband oppressed me. Since I probably would have gone to the job interview regardless of what he said.
For others, I had wasted my years of studies, my efforts were going down the drain. If it meant working on myself and loving my family as effectively as I think myself possible, then believe what you want, I guess it was all in vain.