It's a story about Osama, about a teenage girl who turns into a boy and eventually falls back to a woman.
"Oh God, I hope you didn't create women!"
Polka: Imprisoning women, dividing the world
This may be the scene that makes every foreigner who is new here, curious and surprised:
Polka, groups of polkas, some polkas Still holding the child, floating and parading in the narrow streets.
In the polka, there are one by one God's wrong creation, one by one woman. No face, no body, only the thick lines of polka outline their physical existence.
They exist, exist as polkas, and embellish blue or yellow in this world given to men.
Their bodies were curled up in that sack of polka. It's a wrapped property, the property of their husbands; it's an imprisoned demon, for all men, a demon.
Osama and her mother are also in this group of polkas. Osama is still just a teenage girl, she has not yet been covered in polka.
These polkas, they're marching, with signs floating among them:
"It's not for politics, we're hungry, we're going to work!"
Oh God, these women are talking? !
How dare they make their own voices, how dare they make demands on this world that has been given men, how dare they challenge the divine order determined by the Almighty God? what are they? A bunch of polkas.
"Not for politics, we're hungry, we're going to work!"
Oh, these women, these women who were driven from their jobs under the Taliban, these women without men to protect, these hungry and desperate women. They are begging, begging for a little bit of the right to live. Many of them are widows, victims of this long-term war, and the only hope for the mouths of the old and young in the family. They are begging, begging for a little bit of the right to live.
Oh, you damned women, go back to the polka, go back to the house, go back to the stove, or go to the prison car, go to the jail. The world is given to men, and what women have is just a cage!
The Taliban are here, and the guardians of the holy order are here, driving chariots and armed with guns.
Water guns, tear gas, sticks...
screams and riots.
In the mud, the polka was washed away.
The prison cart was full and left with satisfaction.
calm down.
Give in, Polka, imprisoned woman, divided world.
Rainbow:
Obliterating the Gates Under the Taliban rule, the Osama family has fallen into despair.
Three women, grandma, mother, daughter, three desperate women.
"If my husband were alive, he would at least be able to bring back food."
"If my brother were alive, he would take care of us, at least his mother."
"If only I had a son, Lord, Not a daughter."
If, if... men bring hope, women, lead to despair.
Osama lay on her grandmother's lap, and she braided her hair, women's braids.
If, if... men bring hope, women, lead to despair.
Osama is hopeless hope.
The old grandmother began to tell the story:
"There was once a handsome boy whose father died. She went to work, but had concerns. So he hoped to become a girl so that he would not have to work. One day, the wise man told him , if he crosses the rainbow, he can become a girl. Likewise, if a girl crosses it, he can become a boy..."
Oh, the rainbow, there's a man here, a woman there. Go through it and obliterate boundaries.
"Men and women are exactly the same, work the same, and have the same misfortune. A man with a shaved face, in a robe, looks the same as a woman; a woman with short hair, in a pair of trousers, looks the same Like a man..."
Hair, clothes, man and woman, that's it.
The mother picked up the scissors: "Wear your father's clothes and cut your hair, it's a boy."
"If you don't go to work, we will all die."
Across the rainbow, click, click.
Girl's hair, girl's clothes, girl's game, skipping rope, once, twice...
across the rainbow, click, click.
Water pistols, tear gas, sticks...
click, click.
Good luck and bad luck...
The mother unfolds the mirror and shows a boy, Osama.
Mottled wooden door, behind, the world of men, the world of Osama.
A small flower pot with tresses, Osama's tresses.
The infusion tube is watered, one drop, two drops...
Men bring hope, women lead to despair.
What fruit will the braids planted in this flowerpot bear?
man, man, man's world
Osama, no, Osama was entrusted to work in a small porridge shop run by his father's former comrades in arms.
Steaming from the hot porridge, it misted the windows.
Using his fingers, Osama drew a little girl with long hair and a dress on the glass.
He looked out at the world, through the lines of this little girl, the world of men.
People, men, with wraps or hats, in robes and trousers, were busy.
world of work.
People, men, sitting in chariots, drove by with guns.
fighting world.
People, men, go to the mosque, pray, pray, and praise Allah.
holy world.
Work, battle and holiness are given to men's world.
Osama, who had cut his hair short and put on his father's clothes, tiptoed into this man's world.
You're still wearing embroidered shoes, change them!
Your voice is too thin, don't speak!
You can't pray, learn from me!
His boss taught him.
Osama was in the inner room, barefoot, playing girls' games, skipping rope, one, two... The
boss broke in all at once.
Are you a boy or a girl!
Osama, no, Osama, raised her bewildered eyes, lost in this rigid and ambiguous world of gender.
Nocturnal emission and menstruation: raw glory and raw shame
Osama was taken away by a Taliban.
Boys from all over the city were taken out and taken to Taliban schools.
There, they will study the Quran, learn to fight, and, learn to be men.
The boys were engrossed in reciting the Qur'an.
The boys climbed into the tank to play.
The boys came to the big bathroom, naked.
Their elder, Mora Sahei, will teach them how to take a holy bath after a wet dream.
It will be a glorious thing, Morassahe said to the boys, wet dreams, that you have become real men. Now I will tell you how to deal with it. Look at me, like this, three times on the left, three times on the right, three times in the middle, and then, immersing himself in the water...
Osama, still in his clothes, quietly hides by the side.
What's the matter with you, why don't you study the holy bath?
My feet are bleeding.
You wash your feet before you take a holy bath. Come, take off your clothes.
Osama was helpless, he took off his clothes and immersed in the water.
Mora Sahei looked at him, a little intoxicated, you are really like a bride.
Elder, what is a bride? asked the ignorant boys.
The bride is the goddess of heaven.
Nocturnal emission and menstruation: primordial glory and primordial shame
Boys bury their heads in the Qur'an.
A girl is screaming.
Suspended from the well, she screamed in fear and pain: "Mama! Mama!" The
boys were buried in the Quran.
Mora Sahei finally gestured and pulled her up.
Oshama, was pulled up.
Red, dazzling blood dripped down her legs. Osama looked in horror at the blood coming from somewhere in her body, she didn't know what it meant.
Mora Sahei lifted her robe and glanced at it. Sure enough, she was a woman.
She is menstruating, this is her menarche!
The blood, the red, dazzling blood, dripped down her legs. This dirty blood, this shameful blood.
She is a woman!
This shameful blood proves her shameful identity. She is a woman, lowly, lowly, a demon of desires suppressed by Allah, a tool used by the great continuation of men.
This woman, this sinful woman, actually sneaked into the world of men! Do you think hair and clothes are the dividing line between men and women? No, the superiority of men and women is a divine order set by God, and God has already left an indelible original seal on the bodies of men and women. Semen is glorious, menstrual blood is filthy, and sexual distinctions have long been given irreplaceable meanings. This is predetermined, a man is a man and a woman is a woman. The strict Iron Curtain has long since been dropped, and any overreach is a blasphemy against the holiness!
Countless little men who maintained the sacred order began to chase after the shameful woman who had trespassed into their territory. Osama ran, crying, dragging the blood-red mark of shame behind her. She was finally caught, ah, a polka covered her.
This is Osama's menarche, no one tells her what it is, no one tells her what to do, just tell her, it's a sign of shame, just tell her, put on the polka, you sexy woman , from now on you will live in a cage.
Trial: The Triumph of Justice
Oshama is thrown into a cell. In the prison, all convicted women are locked up.
In the open space in the cell, she watched herself, an Oshama, playing a girl's game, skipping rope, one, two... The
trial began. The judge is the man, the judge, the sinful woman.
An unruly woman was sentenced to death by stoning by an impartial judge.
She was put into a cloth bag, stuffed into a chest-high pit, and buried with soil.
Men and boys flocked to watch.
Oshama was brought up.
What will await her?
The merciful judge forgave her, but married her to Mora Sahe, the aged elder.
"Justice has finally triumphed," someone said.
Yes, the divine order has finally been maintained, and justice has indeed triumphed.
Bow down, bow down to justice, Osama.
Morasahe took Osama, who was weeping, into his home and locked the door.
Wives of Morassah, come and make up the bride, a beautiful offering to their husbands.
They are talking about their misfortune.
Some of them are refugees, some are orphans, and some are punished just for wearing nail polish.
They were both married to Moratha Black.
Their misfortunes and sins must be atonement by submitting to the authority of men.
Bow down, bow down to authority, Osama.
At night, Mora Sahei came back. He searched for his bride and locked the original wives in their respective rooms one by one.
Finally, he pulled Oshama from the stove.
He held up a wrist-thick chain and said to Osama, choose between me and it.
He held up a huge lock that could go around his neck and said to Osama, choose between me and it.
Osama wept.
Morasahe took his bride upstairs.
His old wife peeked out.
Mora Sahei jumped into a tub of boiling water and held a holy bath before intercourse.
Bow down, bow down to the honor of men, Oshama.
Yes, surrendered. In this world given to men, women only have the right to submit.
"Oh God, I hope you didn't create women!"
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