Dear L,

Well before  you were born, a part of me feared for you even while you were  in the womb. The minute I was told you were a girl, I thought about all the ways I would keep you safe. How I would move heaven and earth to make sure you were never alone, never unsafe, never violated. But those were my  physical worries. 

Beyond that, I worried that as a South Asian girl, you would be born into a world that was eagerly waiting to hand over a pre-packaged burden to you. A burden that carries centuries of shame, perceived modesty, gendered norms, racial biases and colonial conditioning. To make you the custodian of familial respect and integrity. To paint you as one who needs ‘saving’. But I didn’t want this to be your burden. I would add to mine, so that you could emerge into this world, free and unassuming. Your heritage, your identity, your path,  would be something that is solely defined by you and no one else.  

I sat in silence for months, sorting through the words I had heard my whole life and removing the ones that hinted at even the faintest limitation placed upon you because you were a girl. I began to create my own language. 

The word girl has always been a loaded one in Pakistan. It is synonymous with weakness, with one who is exploited, thought to be less than. While growing up in Karachi, I was told to protect myself, to always stay away from men, close my legs when I sat, show reverence to the elderly; all at the expense of my own well-being or choice. I was told that if I didn’t wear a dupatta, men would leer at me. If I didn’t lower my head, and cover my chest, men would have an excuse to pinch my bum. If I stayed at home after  9 p.m., men wouldn’t be tempted to harass me. But in all these warnings, not once was the perpetrator named. 

The language, and message, was clear. I was the one responsible. The onus was on me, and wholly me, to stay safe. To never ‘put myself’ in a situation where I would be violated. I was responsible for anything bad that could happen to me. And my response? Utter silence. I silently believed that if I just behaved within the restrictions of society, I would be safe. My silence never questioned. My silence never rebelled. But my silence didn’t keep me safe either. 

So, I began rewriting my language for you, my L. A new vocabulary. I raged against the words that had kept me in shackles and I willed them to disappear from your life entirely. I started speaking louder, almost as if I was practicing to be the person I wanted you to look up to, even while you still rested within me. 

And then you were born, and we began conversing in that new language. Where being a girl didn’t mean you were less than others. It meant whatever you wanted it to mean. I stripped away the words that had made a victim out of me and all the women before me.

We started small.

If you didn’t want to sit in a relative’s lap, you didn’t have to. Respect or ‘barron ka lihaaz’ translated to autonomy. The word ‘no’ was not one that was frowned upon; rather it was heard. Honoured. Encouraged. 

We often hear ‘Sharm-o-haya aurat ka zewar hai’. This would not exist in our vernacular. The words would be insignificant to you. If you wanted to be loud, you were loud. My purpose became this: to let you believe, fully and fiercely, that you were capable of anything you wished. And if anyone tries to hurt you, or cross your  boundaries, it is them that should  be chastised. Not you.

You will never hear me say “Oh, I look so fat in that”. And I will never ask you to hide from the sun to stay ‘gora.’ Our bodies are our homes; I never want you to feel unsafe in yours. Or unloved. So, we’ll create a new language of pursuing health but never vanity. We will strive for strength but never self-deprecation. The statement ‘bari healthy lag rahi ho’ will be a compliment, never an insult. And as you grow older and begin to change, I will teach you to be proud of the power you manifest within, not to cover up, or hide it. 

L, as you grow older, I vow to continue to write this language with you. To take the shame that was instilled in me, and convert it into courage so you are never silenced. I want us to throw our shoulders back, never cowering in front of patriarchal authority. I want you to scream and rage if anyone tries to shrink you.  There is grief in my body that I don’t own but that I carry. I will translate it into wisdom for you. For every moment I was left voiceless or small or helpless, I will teach you to speak. To question. To rise.

L, when your brother was born we heard “Oh, he will protect her” and “Now your family is complete”. We will stand together against those damaging notions and show the world that you are equal. As my language continues to evolve, I will teach him that he has the same freedoms as you, and the same capacity for empathy and strength.  

So, as I watch you throw your arms in the air, grinning wildly, unabashedly dancing around our living room, I smile, because our language is taking shape. Words are disappearing and new ones are being created, ones that free you from intergenerational binds. Ones that will become your language as you rewrite generations of stories we’ve heard but never questioned. 

As we write and rewrite, I thank you, L, for the opportunity to heal as you grow. To put down my burden in pieces, as I silence decades of inherited voices and begin to hear my own. Sometimes a whisper but always with a conviction that you, my daughter, will be unburdened. There may be times we stumble, and times when the world will be unkind, but we will continue to write this story the best way we know how; without shame and without remorse. With bravery. 

So, if you’re ever in doubt, remember, we wrote this language together so you could be free. And because of you, I am too.

Love, 
Mama