Sixteen days. Sixteen stories about Her from my diary.
Day 5: Soz
Soz is a close friend of mine. A secret friend I may say. If I am so called smart, Soz is one hundred times smarter, if I have a dash of kindness, Soz has an ocean of kindness. If I have any beauty, Soz is a beauty queen.
She is a woman of many talents. She designs, she paints, she can do mathematical equations without a calculator, paper or pen. Physics is her hobby, chemistry is what she breathes and her bedroom is a science laboratory. Soz, I can imagine to be the type of girl who would one day win a Noble Prize for both physics and chemistry. That’s who I know Soz as.
How can a Kurdish girl of such talent exist and be so unknown? Well, in her own words: “I belong to the no family.”
“No you cannot put a display picture of yourself, no your social media cannot be in your name, no you cannot be on a television interview..of course you cannot travel for a conference. No, you cannot attend that seminar. No you cannot meet a friend at a cafe, she can come home. No you can’t go to her house. No you cannot go alone to the book shop. No, you can’t drive alone. No you can’t go for a walk, the mall or the grocery store without your mother.”
I belong to the no family
I often felt guilty, for many times I felt Soz had the brain, the knowledge, the skills, the ideas and the inner drive to excel in everything I was doing and more. Except Soz’s wings were clipped every single day by those who said “no because they cared.”
You see, Soz belongs to a family rooted in tribal traditions.
The one time Soz did organise and be present at a public campaign after the approval of one of her family members it was the first time I had seen her so content, so proud of herself, the first time I had witnessed her excitement and her energy. It was as if she was jumping about during the event, not walking. That day we hugged and kissed, and she even picked me up and swirled me around during our long hug as we said goodbye.
Just past 11 pm that night I received a message, she sent me a photo of a bruised arm, without any message, any description. I did not need to ask.
she sent me a photo of a bruised arm
I do not know whether she cried or not, I do not know how much she cried, but I know that night, for Soz, I cried myself to sleep.
Throughout the years I have had many conversations with Soz about “why?” almost always it is because this is a’yba and that is a’yb, and X will say this and Y will say that.
Soz, would have Kurdistan dancing at her fingertips if only she was in a home that supported her, a home that gave her confidence, and believed in her. A home that said more yes once in a while!