Evil Eye

by Etaf Rum

With every post Yara uploaded, she felt an unease wash over her, a desperate need to prove herself, prove that she was happy and thriving despite what had happened. Despite what they thought her life would look like.

Every few minutes, she stopped to check and see how many people had seen the photo, if they’d liked it, if any of them had written a comment. She looked at the photo within the grid of her other posts, to see if the colors complemented one another, and pulled it up again to inspect it.

“I don’t understand why kids are automatically considered a woman’s responsibility,”

No, she would rather pretend things were fine than be an object of ridicule or pity or, worse, validate their stereotypes.

It seemed to her that women were endlessly objectified, consumerism ruled their desires, and addictions were encouraged then stigmatized.

Why didn’t the world recognize that identity and privilege were accidents of birth? How much more empathy would people have if they understood that their position in life was decided not by goodness or merit or fault or need but by luck and chance, a toss of a coin?

Not wanting the trauma of the past to define their future.

It was because all her life she’d learned to feel safer in obedience than to be free.

In the midst of a conversation, she’d find herself wondering: What should I say next? How should I arrange my face? Am I supposed to smile? She couldn’t understand how everyone else did this freely, like the cord attaching their thoughts to their mouths ran smooth and uninterrupted.

“You think you can do something to change your fate, you think you’re in control. But you’re not. Especially if you’re a woman.”

Why had she allowed herself to be in this position, waiting for a man to give her permission to go after the things she wanted? Shouldn’t she have known by now to depend on no one? Not a parent, not a brother, not a husband. That no one would soothe the pain in your heart. No one will rescue you.

How could she possibly explain to this woman the utter confusion and helplessness she was experiencing as a young married woman and mother, still feeling like a child herself?

She had stopped posting. Stopped pretending, online at least. But that hadn’t changed anything, had it?

Had she ever felt truly loved? Even as a child, she’d yearned to be loved and had believed that if she only tried hard enough, she’d someday feel it. But she’d gone without it, the coldness in the house so severe it made her bones ache.

Her mind was unable to stop now. No marriage was perfect. Everyone had problems, and hers weren’t so bad. Fadi’s withdrawals weren’t his fault, really. He was probably loving her the best way he knew how. It’s not like he’d seen what a healthy marriage looked like, either. Maybe that was why he couldn’t love her the way she wanted, for the same reason she found it hard to believe in his love. It wasn’t that he wanted to hurt her, or didn’t care. He just didn’t know how. And that was understandable. She could forgive him for this. If anyone could feel his pain, it was her.

It’s terribly difficult to feel like there’s something wrong with you, that everyone knows it, without you knowing exactly what that is.

“But closing off the past will only keep you feeling imprisoned. Wouldn’t you rather be free?”

Scrolling through her social media accounts, she saw now that she was two separate people. Online, she looked and sounded strong and self-assured, with a perfect family, a well-respected job, and a life that seemed bright and full. Looking at her, people would say she had done well for herself. But the other version of herself, the one she was tapping into now, couldn’t regulate her emotions and kept secrets even from herself. The falsity of it, and how easy it had been to pretend, made her nauseous.

All these years she’d convinced herself that she was in control of her own life. Yet was she? She’d thought she’d find freedom once she left her parents’ home, but she’d been following the prescribed path of all the women before her. Steered by the same fears, confined by the same shame. Except she’d deluded herself into thinking that her life was somehow better than theirs. But it wasn’t, and why would it be? She didn’t deserve to be happy.

“You can’t rely on other people for your own happiness,”

“The only person you can trust is yourself, and sometimes even that’s not easy.”

Who was she writing this for, then? Why did she feel the need to share her feelings on a public platform? Would declaring her love publicly somehow make it more real? It wouldn’t. And yet it seemed like she had come to depend on this performance, as if it was necessary for her to believe it herself.

“I don’t know much about love,” she finally said. “But I’m starting to feel like this isn’t it. It’s as if we’re going through the motions, as if we’re only together because I’m some woman you sat with a few times and decided to marry, and you had some kids, and now you’re trying to make it work so you don’t look bad.” She paused. “Maybe that kind of love was enough for me back then. I probably deluded myself into believing our marriage wasn’t some sort of transaction, so I felt like I had some control over my own life. But now I want something better. I deserve better.”

“It’s true. You’re just not paying attention. Most days it feels like you’re not really here. Even when we’re together, I feel alone.”

“There is no hierarchy of pain when it comes to traumatic experiences,”

She wondered how he’d learned to block out people so well, perhaps as a coping mechanism for his father’s criticism. Or maybe it was part of being human—you eventually learned how to protect yourself, even at the expense of connecting with someone else.

Did any of them feel the way she did, disgusted by the lives they were living? Were any of them like her, ruining everything and everyone they touched?

“It would mean maybe I’m not so terrible after all, and maybe there isn’t something wrong with me, and I don’t deserve bad things to happen to me. It would mean that I was justified in feeling sad and alone growing up, that I deserved to be loved and cared for, that I’m not a cold, unlovable person.

“I wish I could go back and do things differently.” You pause for a moment, then look at me. “But I know you will. I can see it in your eyes, ya binti. In those deep, dark eyes of yours, there is so much goodness ahead. I feel it.”