Our Women
With Mud...........on Head
They were of different ages and heights, plump women heavily laden with jewelry dressed in black with a sequined headgear. They met regularly from early afternoons till sunset to exchange the latest gossip. They drank samovar tea, ate cakes, sunflower seeds, pumpkin seeds and melon seeds roasted in a pan until they popped. Then they threw the shells around when they ate the seeds. They sat on floor mattresses with pillows of different sizes and colors around them to support their backs. Every Thursday, the usual women’s day, they went together to the public bathroom or even to the lavatory. Boys older than four were not allowed. One of my aunts took me one day with her. But when the other women saw me, they started hurling abuses at her: How can you bring him here. He is at least five or six years old.

Once a year they arranged to meet to weep over one of their dead family members. They sat round their samovar as usual, drank strong black tea with much sugar. Then one of them would take out a photo, recall the memories and start their mourning songs as if on command. As I was walking in the only street of the town one day I heard the familiar mourning song. I came to the heavy wooden door with the big key. I opened it and went inside. I could feel their mourning was not in memorial this time. Somebody must have died a few hours ago for they were singing at the top of their voices. I saw how some of them tear their clothes and scratch their faces till blood began to flow. Two young ladies then took the dead body of a woman and started washing her in the inner courtyard. An old petite figure of a woman as stiff as bone was being washed clean and wrapped in white cloth. When the body of the dead woman was taken out for burial all the women hurried out to the street. They continued their mourning songs while covering their heads with street mud. Mud on head meant proverbially to feel the worst.

I loved those gossips with their heavy hips and bottoms. I loved the way they laughed, washed, dressed and mourned. I loved their breath, voice and songs. I loved the way they prepared food and did the house chores. Their weeping tore my heart. Their lazy gossips lulled me to sleep. Milk of human kindness was flowing from their big soft breasts. I wondered how could any man be nasty to them. Whenever we travelled by bus somewhere they used to call on the saints to protect us from any evil. The bus was carried on the wings of angels till we arrived. Whenever I travelled with them I knew God was not far away.

Jamshid
Bremen, 13 September 2007

 

Comments

This final rite of passage, the burying ritual of a woman, makes me think of the ancient ritual of burying a crone - an old woman known as the healer, mediator, the wise of the community. Old age was highly celebrated in times past - now, we are bitterly fighting the aging process as well as ignore old people; they are almost non-existent, worthless, pushed aside and forgotten.

 

The burial ritual or the washing of the dead body in the inner courtyard or as Flower said in the bathroom, Bianca shows the difference between now and then. Everything is either commercialised or done away with with help of an old people's home or a funeral parlour. You can even hire some people to do the weeping.

 

Marriage as a reason for procreation is passe. We're talking 20th century now - but traditions are lingering on unimpeded in some parts of the world. I'm not against traditions, only those imposed onto people disregarding the human value and people's spiritual needs. Paradoxically, these very traditions are most often imposed or at least endorsed by the Holly Church.
In the Western model, people expect marriage to satisfy more of their psychological and social needs than needs for procreation. Marriage is nowadays supposed to be free of the coercion, violence, and gender inequalities that were tolerated in the past. Individuals want marriage to meet most of their needs for intimacy and affection and all their needs for sex. Whether this expectation is realistic or not, that's another point.

In a modern society it is against the moral grain living with more than one spouse, however imperative the need for procreation may be. I would like to be the center of my husband's universe, not a means of procreation.

 

Well, then I'd rather be alone all my life. I really have no problem with that! If I need sex, the problem is easily solved. Have you heard Abba's song "Give me a man for the midnight?"
What a woman needs (since this thread is ultimately about women) is to be loved, wholly, unreservedly, honestly. The energy they get from being loved helps them uphold the balance and harmony needed in marriage as a plain business contract. Reality is tough indeed, but how many successful marriages or relationships are really loveless? Everyone - men and women alike- needs to be loved, and those who think love is something that just comes and goes are not cut out for a long-term relationship. Lasting love must be cultivated, on both sides, not taken for granted. Women just give up too easily and too often and accept being treated as sex objects for the sake of keeping the family united. Men count on their committement and hedge their bets. They do it to satisfy their hormonal needs, and they are excused. There are exceptions, I know. But I have seen old couples who are still in love with each other, after many years. They are still the center of each other's universe.

 

The novel is entitled 'la femme de 30 ans' The main character a 30 years old woman becomes aware that she still can be loved and be a human being. The scene takes place after the 1830's revolution in a new liberal context which favoured emancipation.
Some critic wrote that Balzac discovered 'la femme de 30 ans' just like Marx met the working class issue.

 



Miriam Khan with her nieces (her brother's daughter's) in traditional Kurdish dress from left to right:

Parwin, Zhiyan and Runak 

In Hawler with Miriam Khan walking on a stick and helped by her two daughters-in-law

Abdullah Afandi's half-sister Haysh with her daughter in Mosul

In Rawanduz with a friend of Miriam Khan

Miriam Khan on the roof of her kitchen in Rawanduz with her two sons: Pishtiwan and the baby Kamaran