At Midnight the Spell Breaks by Laiyba Mubashir

Don’t go outside your house after the sun starts setting, the spell starts to weaken. When the clock  strikes 12, It breaks fully and you become visible to predators. Going outside after that is an invitation to be attacked. The predators are intruders too, so make sure you put your dignity and  self-respect inside a safe and lock it before you go to sleep. After night falls, you are not safe.  Learn this. These are rules are sacred, and you must follow them. You abide by them and you must  be vigilant. 

When I turned 9 years old, all my friends and I had to go through the change from wearing dresses to ‘Shalwar Kameez’ as our school uniform. The soft two-piece cotton fabric of a lanky loose  shalwar and a and a flowy long rectangular top had to be worn with a broad, think strip of fabric  sideways; our sash, but sometimes also known as our self-respect. Two days after we started wearing our new uniform, some of us uncomfortable, some excited, a friend of mine forgot her  sash at home. In our first class, when our teacher entered, we got up and greeted her.  

“Good Morning Miss” 

“Where is your sash, beta” 

“I forgot it at home, Miss” 

“You are bare without your sash beta. You are now a woman. This sash is like your dupatta, it is  your respect; when you grow up, you cannot leave your house without it. Without it, you are  susceptible to attack and assault. Being stripped off of this thin piece of delicate fabric is like being  stripped of your honor, remember that.” 

This conversation still echoes in my ears, because just like that, we all learnt the art of victim  blaming. More so, I learned that no one in this country would ever protect me. Rather, after this  moment I could feel the eyes and ears of people crawling on my skin like hands; I was being  closely observed, and if I made a mistake I was to be attacked. I was weak, vulnerable, and fragile  in front of these eyes and ears. I needed protection, and my clothes would give me it. I learned this  at the age of 9.  

When I was 12, one day I went outside to ask my neighborhood friends to play with me. That day,  one of my friends, told me she wasn’t allowed to go out and play anymore. I was dumbfounded 

and didn’t understand why, but then onwards Istarted noticing that all the girls in my neighborhood started staying indoors. 

One day, my parents asked me to take my brother, who was four years younger than me everywhere with me when I went outside. Disheartened, I stopped going outside to play. I finally  understood. 

Two months ago, a woman was travelling on the highway with her two children. It was past  midnight. A group of vicious, vile, predators brutally unwrapped her honor, respect, and dignity right in front of her children. They left her numb, bleeding and displaced. The next day, I turned  on the news and on national television, the capital city police officer told the entire country, it’s daughters, mothers, sisters, predators, eyes, and ears that this attack was the woman’s own fault.  At midnight the spell breaks. No one will protect you, even your clothes. You are not to move.  

Yesterday, as a 16-year-old I looked outside from the window of my bathroom that peers over to  the basketball court. It was 10 pm, and a group of boys were playing like there was no worry in  the world. For a moment I imagined myself in their shoes, because I can only imagine. 

I am a daughter of Pakistan. In each of these instances and as I grew, I was put into a cage that  seems to get larger and I seem to get smaller. I can’t figure out how to unlock it and move freely. Our biggest challenge is protecting ourselves, and in this process our hands got tied behind our backs, and our feet together with a thin piece of fabric. In this process, we lost all trust. We must  keep alert. Our protection is our own responsibility. If you don’t flinch, you fail. 

The women of Pakistan can’t move on whim. We are paralyzed in our chairs; half fear, half  restriction. We are immobile, but that keeps us safe, right?