My Identity

“Social Work starts from home.” That’s what I’ve been hearing since the day I said I want to become a Social Worker. But did these people ever analyze what I went through? So now I have decided to write my first blog on myself.

I was born in a very conservative muslim family and have two younger sisters. I don’t remember my infant days so I don’t have an option but to believe in what my mother and grandmother say. They said, “Your father loved and pampered you a lot.” because now he doesn’t do that anymore. Even if he does, he doesn’t express. Now it’s etched in my mind that my father hates me.

My mother, she was married at a very young age so she always thought that whatever her husband said was always right. She was this ‘typical Indian house-wife’. Till the time she realized this, the damage was done.

I have two lovely younger sisters who have always been the reason of my happiness during the dark and hard days. Because now when I look back at my happy memories, I get the flashes of their smiling face.

I was always taught that I shouldn’t talk to boys or befriend them. Never trust boys or even believe them. So for me boys were equal to evil and unearthly being. I have no brothers and to top it all, I studied in a girl’s school. So I was never exposed to boys.

From a very young age there wasn’t a single day when I wouldn’t be beaten-up by my father. There were many reasons for it, but I didn’t deserve to be beaten. Or did I? Being a girl we weren’t allowed to step out of the house nor did we have any kind of entertainment. There was a television but no cable connected because my father thought it was a bad influence. If by any chance we were caught watching movies then I would be beaten up brutally as I was the eldest of all. All the other kids would run to their father happily when they called them. With me it was the other way round. If ever someone came to me saying, “Anisa, your father is calling you.” I would start sweating profusely and my hands would shiver as I wondered, “What’s wrong? Did I commit any mistake again? Again I am going to be beaten up.”

Somewhere all this affected me. Hence my academic performance took a dip and I failed in my fifth grade. My father stripped me off my clothes and made me stand in the middle of the street. He thought he was punishing me for not performing well in my studies but in return it mentally affected me and my grades deteriorated further. Later that year my teacher had written a complain in my daily diary and asked me to get it signed by my parents. At the age of eleven I didn’t know that forging someones signature is a crime and neither did anyone tell me about it. I forged my mother’s signature as I was scared that I would be beaten-up again and showed it in school the next day. When my father found the truth he had beaten me with a rubber pipe and I suffered from immense pain for a week.

All this went on for four long years, when each day I would be beaten-up and the scars that were left behind were left forever, be it physical or mental. Then came a point in my life when I decided that I will have to stand-up for myself. I realized that no one can help me other than myself. I had overcome the fear of getting beaten. I knew that at the most I would be inhumanely bruised for a lifetime and that’s what happened. I started back answering my father and in turn got brutally beaten. I turned out to be the most rebellious and arrogant girl. Gradually all the brutality reduced and there came a point when we stopped talking to each other.

I can’t hangout with boys or even talk to them. I wasn’t allowed to wear jeans or even a short kurti for that matter. Today when I hang out with boys my father has an objection but he knows that he can’t do anything about it. He will come and scold my mother and that would result in my mother restricting me saying, “What would others think if they see you with so many boys.” I just have one thing to tell them, “I know what my friends mean to me and I don’t need to prove it to the world.”

Today, it’s been seven years since I last spoke to my father even though we live in the same house. Now I am very happy and living a peaceful life. Even though each time I look at him all the memories of those dark days come rushing back making me shed pointless tears. I call them pointless because it’s not going to change my past.

Then came the struggle to do my Masters in Social Work. Both my parents were against my decision because they were worried that Social workers had a bad image in the society. I was sent to each of my relatives house to get brainwashed and change my decision but I stood firm in it. No one can shove their decision down my throat. I turned out to be very stubborn. When none of this worked, I gathered all my documents, a few clothes and packed my bag to leave the house. As soon as I left the house and started walking towards the main road I saw my uncle and aunt coming to me. They took me along to their home and I stayed there for a week. Then my mother came and said, “You can study social work if you want, but don’t expect a single penny from us.” They thought I would give up without money to pay my college fee. But then I started working and saved money for my education and finally completed my post-graduation in Social Work.

I believe there should be no excuse for not achieving your dreams. If you couldn’t achieve your dreams, then it has only one reason that you haven’t worked hard enough to live it.

Today I don’t expect anybody’s sympathy or protection. I am capable enough to take care of myself. Even though I cry when all those memories haunt me, I’ve never regretted them and nor will I do it any time in future. Because they are the ones that have made me strong and given me the strength to stand firm through the worst storm that could possibly hit me. My darkest days have molded my identity of today.

So now I want to ask all the criticizers, “How much more social work do you expect me to do in my own house?”