Proud | A Historical Narrative

Proud

~

A teardrop for each corpse.

A teardrop for each lifeless, blood drained body that had once laid before me.

A few extra sobs for the bodies whose faces were familiar to me, their destruction is now forever plastered in my mind.

I look out the window into the vast, now urbanised lands and give my heartfelt condolences to my mother, father, sisters, cousins, and all the other innocent Muslims who we had lost in the bombings.

Sighing, I get up from my place on the windowsill and make my way to the mirror. With a grimace, I analyse my reflection for the fifth time just today.

I do not look like myself anymore. The beautiful plaits my mother had once put in my hair were no longer in their place. My gorgeous brown locks which I had inherited from my father that once rolled down to my elbows now hung dully above my shoulders. I had bags under my eyes from sleepless nights and my lips that once formed a smile now only ever left their frowning position. I am nothing like what I used to be.

I am the last of my shattered family, and yet, instead of fighting for all the spilled blood of my loved ones, I chose to become a traitor.

The last of the Muslims from the refugee camps had held a mass migration and have now crossed the border. I however, at the time of departure, was taken in by a British family. They had kept me safe from all the racial riots and violence. Unfortunately, the price was that I had to become one of them, and I did. I no longer wore my dupatta and cultural attire my mother always taught me to wear, but a frilly light blue dress that draped across my legs, starting from my neck and ending at my knees. It was a traditional English dress, just like the ones my Madame wore.

Do not get me wrong, Madame is very kind to me and I am ever so grateful for it. As Madame is a merchant's wife, she travels much, but she takes me with her each and every time. Madame treats me as one of her own, unlike the British political leaders, who think of Muslims like me as less than themselves.

A sudden knock comes from towards the door and I jump in surprise. I immediately turn to see who it is.

"I hope you're not busy, Elizabeth. I have news for you!" Madame's voice comes from the hall.

I flinch. Elizabeth is what they named me, after their queen. My new name was dreadful, I much prefer Fatima, as my mother had chosen for me.

"I am not busy," I say in English.

The British do not understand Urdu, so I must speak in English.

"You may come in if you please."

At my approval, Madame barges into the room almost immediately. She has an excited look etched across her face. A smile catches Madame's lips, but I do not return it.

My family is dead, I have nothing to laugh about.

"We are going to give you a choice, Elizabeth." Madame says, seating herself on the edge of the bed.

I listen closely. I do not get to choose my path very often.

"You can either return to London with us," I look up.

Madame was going back to London? I had never been to England before.

"Or, we can have you moved to your new Muslim country. They call it Pakistan, or so I have been told." Madame finishes.

I think. Would the Muslims take me back as their own, or abandon me? There is a chance they would not take me under their wings, but I am willing to try, at least. I have no family left, but Islam is based upon brotherhood and unity, and I was willing to make Muslims my family.

"My name is not Elizabeth," I say after a moment.

"My name is Fatima, and I wish to return to my Muslims."

I stand up and take my dupatta out of my closet to wrap it around my head.

Finally, I was going home, and I was proud.

~