By Cynthia Thanda
Dear Dunya,
I spent countless hours drafting this letter. I didn’t even know whether to pen it as a letter or as a poignant entry within my diary’s sacred pages. You are well aware of my lifelong ardour for the written word and my aspiration to be Amir Nour. Alas, fate took me on a different course.
Yet, I have a stack of writings in my dairy, the green one. When you open it, you will find it filled with my anguish, stained with scarlet-red ink. That ink represents the heartache, turmoil and suffering I felt. The dairy is inside my black suitcase, the one my father gifted me before he died. You see how I am specific with the colours; green, red, white and black. They hold a lot of memories, agony and tribulations imprinted upon my soul. They tell the story of who I am.
You are free to use my writings because by the time you get this letter I will be six feet under. You are probably reading this at my funeral. Ah, the irony! For is “fun” not encompassed within the word “funeral”? And you have always loved to make my pain a joke, deriving some sort of pleasure from it. I am not trying to make you feel bad. Or maybe I am? I don’t know. I harboured this pain and anger for so long, but now that I know that I am dying, I feel empty. I feel like this disease is winning. I feel tired. I feel lost. I feel free at last.
Do you remember the day of my wedding? How beautiful I looked in my gown. The lovely hijab you gifted me with words of maternal affection because I was going to be your daughter-in-law. You smiled at me and said, “Fila, I am happy to have you as a daughter-in-law. You and my son are going to have a blissful marriage.” I smiled back because I thought you loved me. I really thought you saw me as your daughter. I cooked for you. I called you mother. I genuinely cared for your well-being. But what did you do? You turned your back on me when I needed you the most. You cast me as the villain of my own tragedy. You made me question my entire existence. Tell me, did you and him laugh at me? Did you sit on your throne and talk about how you took someone’s daughter and mistreated her?
I can envision your feigned astonishment. I bet your jaw is on the floor, your brown eyes darkened with denial and victim-blaming. “How dare this wretch speak this way to me?” I can but laugh at that image. You, mother-in-law, are funny. Yes, I am speaking to you like that. I am dead, remember? You killed me with your silence. Your blind love for your son eclipsed your moral compass. But it’s fine. Don’t beat yourself up about it. I still love you the same.
Mother-in-law, remember the bruises marring my flesh, the tears I shed, and the solace you denied me? Remember your counsel, urging me to suffer in silence, shielding the world from the truth of my torment? Remember how you advised me not to let my neighbours see how I was slowly dying at the hands of your son?
Your son, who came into my life and made a home. He saw me walking in the street one day and approached me. He was the one who asked for my number. He was the one who said we should build a life together. I trusted him. He spoke with a soft voice. The sweet words his mouth vomited fed my virgin ears. And he smelled nice, too. I was in love. He swept me off my feet.
I am sad, mother-in-law, because I didn’t have parents to warn me about signing a deal with the devil. Why did you keep quiet when he shouted at me? Why did you keep quiet when his fist marked my face? Why did you keep quiet when he spent our money on other women? My hand is shaking as I write this. My soul is broken because you watched it happen! You watched as the bottle fuelled his anger! You watched as the bottle replaced me. You watched when I cried for help! Maybe you are now regretting reading this at my funeral. Ha, ha! I bet the neighbours hate both of you now.
How is Uncle Erik? Does he still tell his nephew that a man should rule his household with an iron hand? Does he still say, “Rafael, you married her so she has to be submissive” as if I was not? As if I didn’t bend my knees and wash his hands before feeding him? Is he still giving him money to go to the liquor store, get drunk and come home to cause havoc? Does he still encourage him to speak ill of me, then smile in my face, claiming that he didn’t know his nephew could be so cruel? Your bloodline has always been cruel. Tell Uncle Erik that his time is coming. I know about all his vile ways towards daughters-in-law. He did the same to my sister Irene. He needs to repent for all that he has done.
Anyway, I am happy where I am and as for Rafael, you bastard, betrayer of vows, I welcomed you into my sanctum. I fed you. I slaved for you and it wasn’t enough. You used your feet to kick me like I was a football. Remember the night you hit me and I lost our baby? You watched as I bled on the floor, wallowing in pain. You watched as the precious life we created painted the ground red. It was one miscarriage after another, caused by the abuse I endured at your hands. I just have one question: Are you happy now?
It was till death do us apart and you have finally gotten your wish. The same “I love you” that made me glow became gloom. It’s funny, because I would still devour your lies. The lies that tasted delicious in my heart. Maybe I should let you give me one last slap so that others can see that the love which appears gentle in their eyes is tyrannous in mine. Give me a hard slap so that the next woman knows when to walk away, when she has no more excuses to come back.
I know I am rambling and you don’t like it when women talk a lot. I just want you to know that I hate how you treated me. I hate that I loved you. I hate myself for saying yes to your proposal. I hate not doing my research as to why you were divorced. Shocked? You didn’t think I knew you were married before. To a woman named Gemma, right? I heard she was a hard woman to please. I heard she mistreated you. I did not know at first that men can be abused, too. Is that why you abused me? She hurt you and you decided to take your revenge on me? Was I paying for the mistakes of another woman? But why? I tried so hard to make you happy.
Back to you, mother-in-law…. Wait, I don’t know if I should continue calling you mother-in-law or use your real name. Dunya… I think I like mother-in-law better because you hate it when I call you that. Anyway, what did I want to say? I keep forgetting.
I lived my life in fear and now that my peace has come I don’t know how to feel. Alright, please tell my friends, those who stood by me at the hospital as I battled this cancer, not to cry. They did what they could and they should just take care of my son, Gaza. Yes, the son you thought I would never have.
I was delighted when I held his tiny hands, even though his birth almost killed me. The doctors said I bled a lot during his birth and they were sure either I would die or he would. But my baby boy pushed through. Although born out of blood, he still carries love in his heart. Tell my supporters to teach Gaza to be strong in love and kindness. He will probably try to retaliate. He will probably try to avenge his mother’s death and as much as I appreciate that, he has to remember that from the river to the sea he should stay free. I don’t need to explain more. He knows what I mean.
As for his father, I pray he forgives him for killing his unborn siblings. I hope he forgives him for hating his birth. I have read books on how parents can hate their children; it pains me that Gaza’s story is the same.
I am tired now. I have written whatever has been bothering me. It is not everything, but it is enough. I am tired. The chemotherapy is not helping me at all. I want to sleep but I am afraid to. What if I don’t wake up tomorrow? What if this is the last time? What if my end is, in a way, yours as well?
Anyway, mother-in-law, I forgive you. Rafael, I forgive you, too and I pray that you change for yourself and our son, though I doubt you can. To the attendees, if mother-in-law reads this to you till the end, please forgive her. By the way, I don’t like flowers so don’t throw them in my casket. And Gaza, my son, remember our mantra: from the river to the sea.
Your Daughter-in-law, Filastin
Cynthia Thanda is a dedicated reader and writer. She has written three published novels: Dirty Laundry, Dirty Closet and Smooth Criminal, with more still on the way. She has several published short stories, some of which were published in Petlwana Journal of Creative Writing, with the others published in German. She is the former editor of the UB Horizon as well as a journalist for the Pan Afrikanist Online. During what she calls lazy times, she enjoys watching documentaries, listening to Eminem and rock music and drinking black coffee.
Petlwana Journal of Creative Literature and the Arts 