Readings
By a Woman Writ
Lauren Lovelace at the discussion.
Incense scented breeze, platters of cheese and thou (the muse going into overdrive) - this may not be vintage Khayyam but for some of us this is the stuff that dreams are made of. On the 8th of March, a warm spring day, a number of literature aficionados congregated at the entrance of the English Department of Independent University, Bangladesh, to celebrate International Women's Day. Readers had signed up the previous week to take turns at a day-long non-stop reading of their favorite pieces; texts written by women, for women or about women. The readers/audience comprised of a mixed bag. Gender, language, class or education nothing was a barrier. The audience was fluid. Teachers left to teach, students went off to their classes and administrative staff to their stacks of files. Others slipped in and took their place. The audience swelled and thinned like an accordion, at times spilling into the attached garden, to other times when only a few chairs were occupied. In between, bowls of grapes and platters of cheese changed hands. The theme of the celebration was, "Breaking the Silence." The ball was set rolling with a quote from Audre Lorde, the black, American poet who died of cancer in 1992: Your silence will not protect you. But for every real word spoken, for every attempt I had ever made to speak those truths for which I am still seeking, I had made contact with other women while we examined the words to fit a world in which we all believed, bridging our differences. … What are the words you do not yet have? What do you need to say? What are the tyrannies you swallow day by day and attempt to make your own, until you will sicken and die of them, still in silence? From: "The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action"; read by Razia Sultana Khan The range of topics was multicultural as well as multilingual. Poems and excerpts from all over the world found a place, in Bangla, English, French and Urdu. Many readers chose texts empowering women. Some praised women's physical attributes: Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size But when I start to tell them, They think I'm telling lies. I say, It's in the reach of my arms The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. From: "Phenomenal Woman" by Maya Angelou; read by Andaleeb Chowdhury Some their strength: bvix‡i cÖ_g w`qvwQ gyw³ bi mg AwaKvi| gvby‡li Mov cªvPxi fvw½qv KwiqvwQ GKvKvi| Drm: KvRx bRi"j Bmjvg, cvV: bvwk` Kvgvj and, If the first woman God ever made Was strong enough to turn the world Upside down, all alone Together women ought to be able to turn it rightside up again. Sojourner Truth (Adapted to poetry by Erlene Stetson) and read by Tanvir Khan Motherhood was a popular topic, from praise for the strength in her seemingly frail body: My mother is like a shell, so easily broken. Yet the fact that I was born bearing my mother's shadow cannot be changed. "Mother" by Kiyoko Nagase; read by Iftatun Nahar through the trials, and depression of pregnancy, I'm a means, a state, a cow in calf. I've eaten a bag of green apples Boarded the train there's no getting off. From: Metaphors by Sylvia Plath; read by Asma Shams. to a mother's writing to her unborn child: ÒZzwg Kx n‡e -- †Q‡j bv †g‡q? hw` †g‡q nI Zvn‡jB †ewk fv‡jv jvM‡e Avgvi| Avwg PvB Avwg †hme wKQyi ga¨ w`‡q AMÖmi nw"Q †mme ZzwgI AwZµg K‡iv| Avgvi gv- whwb †g‡q wn‡m‡e Rb¥v‡bv‡K `yf©vM¨ g‡b Ki‡Zb, Zvi m‡½ Avwg †gv‡UB GKgZ bB|Ó Drm- Ò nvZ evwo‡q `vIÓ: Iwiqvbv dvjvwP, cvV: wmdvZ B Avhg A woman's role during war is often seen in passive terms, often through the suffering of a mother: Oh world wake up his mother screams Another atrocity with holocaust fears Peace has been written in Rainbow colors And doves are praying for all the mothers From: Poems about Palestine by Laila Yaghi, Palestine-born American poet; read by Sayyeda Tun Noor Sameera. It was wonderful to get a glimpse of women's contribution during war. So often this is excluded and undocumented: cÖxwZjZv‡K PU&ªMÖvg †fv‡jwb| †kvbv hvq, gwy³hy‡×i mgq 1971 mv‡j wgwQj Kievi mgq PUªMÖv‡gi †g‡qiv N‡i N‡i gv †evb‡`i hy‡×i Rb¨ AvnŸvb Rvwb‡q ej‡Zb- gv †ev‡biv cÖxwZjZvi c_ a‡iv/ evsjv‡`k ¯^vaxb K‡iv|Ó Drm: AÁvZ, cvV: mvbwR`v Avn‡g` There were texts celebrating the softer side of women, their ethereal quality: Softly, O softly we bear her along, She hangs like a star in the dew of our song; She springs like a beam on the brow of the tide, She falls like a tear from the eyes of a bride. Lightly, O lightly we glide and we sing, We bear her along like a pearl on a string. " Palanquin Bearers" by Sarojini Naidu; read by Razia Sultana Khan At times this ethereal quality can totally take over: Like a dandelion seed, that flies through the air, and lands randomly, only to disappear, I also faded away. Sabrina Fatma Ahmed read from her own work Many of the texts dealt with the hard terrain women walk, the trials they face: I was married at ten, had a child at fifteen. Later that year my husband remarried. Nur Jahan (IUB's longest serving and only female cleaner) has her own story. and You're going to leave her too and I know it She'll never know what made you go She'll cry and wonder what went wrong Then she'll begin to sing this song Poor Girl just like me. "Poor Girl" by Maya Angelou; read by Iftatun Nahar Yet time over time women have shown the resilience to overcome all odds: You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. "Still I Rise" by Maya Angelou; read by Andaleeb Chowdhury and But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, say the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep for my own blowing hair, chapped face and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless: I am living. I remember you. "What the Living Do" by Marie Howe; read by Lauren Lovelace Other verses are difficult to pigeon-hole: A‡b‡KB evev‡K ej‡Zv, Ô Avcwb †Zv wg‡mm mywdqv KvgvjÕ, ZLb evev ej‡Zb,Ô‡Zvgvi eD hw` wg‡mm Bmjvg nq, Avwg wg÷vi mywdqv Kvgvj njvg, Zv‡Z Amyweav wK? Avwg †Zv Mwe©Z GUvi Rb¨Õ| Drm: Òbxwjgvi bx‡PÓ : myjZvbv Kvgvj, cvV K‡i‡Qb: wjgv †PŠayix and: Avgv‡`i Z wek¦vm †h, Ae‡iv‡ai mwnZ DbœwZi †ekx we‡iva bvB| DbœwZi Rb¨ Aek¨ D"Pwkv PvB|Ó Drm:Ô †eviKvÕ, †eMg †iv‡Kqv mvLvIqvr †nv‡mb| cvV: Kvwib cvDwjb †ivRvwiI and still: I tire of my beauty, I tire of this Empty splendour and shadowless bliss; With none to envy and none gainsay, No savour or salt hath my dream or day. Queen Gulnaar sighed like a murmuring rose: Give me a rival, O King Feroz. "The Queen's Rival" by Sarojini Naidu; read by Nazrul Islam Quite a few readers chose to read from their own work. She wanted to be shielded in a shroud for the dead, to replace the sari she tightly wrapped around her torso to cover her bare flesh, her waist, her arms, her neck, but leaving her face untouched. Her husband bought her soft silk saris, and demanded she let him watch her as she coiled them around her voluptuous body, hissing as it caressed her as she would not willingly permit him to do. "Locked Inside" by Sheela R Rahman i"gKx †Zvgvi Kv‡Q gv PvB| gv PvB 86/awl©Zv bvixi Kv‡Q- gv PvB Avgvi AgZvi Kv‡QÑ Drm: Ò i"gKxi Rb¨Ó: bvRbxb myjZvbv Lvb; cvV K‡i‡Qb: †jLK wb‡RB| and Nothing is indispensable At least not anymore But my heart will miss a beat thinking of the space that was once yours! "A Missed Beat" by Jackie Kabir Dear Reader, this piece is for you. To give you a whiff of what we experienced on March 8th. All that remains is a prayer, best expressed by Paulo Coelho. It's from a concert arranged for the winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, Shirin Ebadi. To the woman who is here tonight, may she be each and every one of us, may her example spread, may she still have many difficult days ahead, so that she can complete her work, so that, for the generations to come, the meaning of ' injustice' will be found only in dictionary definitions and never in the lives of human beings. "For the Woman who is All Women" by Paulo Coelho; read by Farida Sheikh. . (The title is from "The Introduction" by Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea - a 17th century poet)
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