All around me little girls are playing. They wear their hair loose or in long plaits, their dresses are short. Up the steps they climb; they play at hide-and-seek with their brothers and their brothers’ friends. They laugh, they romp, their eyes are full of joy, and their complexions are fresh—surely this is the life children should lead?
I close my eyes, and I see the children of my own country who at their age are veiled. Their childhood has passed before they know it. They do not experience the delight of playing in the sun, and when they go out they wear thick black veils which separate them from all the joys of youth.
I was scarcely ten years old when I saw one of my little friends taking the veil, and from that day she could no longer play with us. That incident created such an impression on us that for days we could hardly speak. Poor little Suate! No longer could she dance with us at the Christians’ balls nor go to the circus. Her life had nothing more in common with ours, and we cried for her as if she had died.
But we were happy not to be in her place, and I remember saying to my sister, “Well, at least I have two years before me; perhaps in a short time our customs will have changed. What is the use of worrying so long beforehand?”
“I am still more certain to escape, for I have four years before me,” she answered.
Little Suate was veiled at a time when those delightful volumes of the Bibliothèque Rose were almost part of our lives. From them we learnt to believe that some good fairy must come, and with the touch of her magic wand all our destinies would be changed.
But to-day, when I am no longer a child, I ask myself whether my great-great-grandchildren can ever free themselves from this hideous bondage.
Melek is writing for you her impressions of taking the veil. They are more recent than mine.—Your affectionate
Zeyneb.