Sheroes: A History of Resilience

by rita cerva (Italy)

Making a local connection India

I did not fully understand what it meant to be born in a rural area of an island forgotten by the Lord until I was old enough to understand that “being a woman” was conceptualized more like a disease, rather than just as a gender definition. As a girl, you are unlikely to have as many opportunities as a boy, and, while you will turn into a woman, you will be reminded each day of your existence that you are the weaker sex. The guidance of a man is essential because you are naturally prone to mistakes. As a woman, I have been ashamed of myself my whole life, until the moment I travelled 4011 miles in search of answers. The heat was unbearable that day of May and I could hardly breathe in the heroic attempt to keep my sister’s pace, but my short tiny legs could only trot like a pony rushing behind her elegant figure. Those Indian streets were as bustling as I predicted and funnier than I expected. While I was trying to enjoy the stroll, I mastered the art of dodging the rickshaw on the street with an applaudable swing of my hips. Eventually and surprisingly, we made it to the cafè. I looked at the sign above the entrance door but the sunlight hit my eyes till the point it burnt and some tears rolled down my cheeks. With one eye open and the other one shut, I finally saw the sign: “Sheroes”. As we walked past the premises, one of the girls greeted us with open arms and a heartwarming smile: "Welcome!", she said. We smiled back and took some time to look around. While I let my hands sliding on the rough surfaces of the wall, my eyes fell on the photos placed on it: the women pictured were all victims of acid attacks. We sat down with one of the girls while a local aided deliberately as an interpreter. Few awkward minutes of silence followed but she didn't wait for us to ask, she knew we feared it more than her: “It happened when I was asleep", she said, while tapping her fingers on the table. "Acid burns like fire. While he threw acid on my face he kept saying: look what you make me do, this is your fault! I don't remember clearly what happened afterward.” I shivered and bit my lip to prevent the tears. I didn't want to get emotional and the inflection of her voice wasn't meant to generate pity by all means. "Some people asked me, why did you make him angry? I just did not want to marry him, and if he couldn't then no one else will. If a woman is not married here she is unlikely to have enough money to survive.” She brought the cup of coffee to her mouth and so did we. The drink was cold by then, and terribly dark: dark like the anger that man vent on her, and cold like the loneliness she could have felt after the acid attack. We took a moment to navigate those words and I gazed at her figure while a thought crossed my mind: her thin neck reminded me of the gem of a daisy, one of those you tear the petals off for the only sake of your own amusement. When she raised her eyes from her cup, I asked: “Do you hate him?”. She smiled: “I do not have time for that. Hate made me this”, she pointed to her disfigured face. Then she continued: “And I do not feel ugly. My beauty is my integrity and you can't burn integrity. We have new goals to achieve and we don’t need a man for that. Love is something else.” My sister and I kept on sipping the coffee aware that we had just experienced the catharsis we had been waiting for our whole life. We were all sisters there and our boundaries did not reside in our bloodstream but in our shared natural ability to endure and to forgive. Pride, love, and gratitude for our human nature had just replaced the shame that inhabited our shrunken heart for years.