When The Air Strikes

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Feminism loud in the head


’The gun law to America is what feminism is metamorphosing into for the entire globe: it’s becoming debatable.

Initially both the concepts were brought into existence for giving the living the upper hand, but since then they have wavered and now spark around the dead. The gun law is a sensitive issue for one of the greatest countries in the world to deal with. But, contrary to popular belief feminism is not. We own it and it is not fragile.

A ridiculous satire is the very basic idea that the layman has about feminism- it is tender. God damn it, it is not. It is rough, beautiful, wild, free, equal and everything else that women are beneath the coffin of suppression and the dust of society’s expectations. “I don’t believe in feminism. I am definitely not a feminist,” are the unadulterated words pulled straight out of men not educated enough, and women refusing to own up to the nature’s laws- the law of equitability.

Female feminists have to often face the contradictory smugness of antis who claim that their belief is only so firm because of their gender. Hell yeah. It is very probable that the mental picture of womanhood being balanced against the forces of the opposite gender was formed in the chaotic brain of a female, because all around her she saw men lifting boulders, men creating fire, men ruling, men loving, men dominating, men hating, men inventing, men learning, men talking, men being worshipped, men not letting. She saw it all, fighting the urge to stab her gut which rolled with the oh-so-godforsaken realization that maybe the huge ball of quashed energy in her is capable of evening and equalizing. Of course when she said it out aloud it sounded way more stupid than the voice of her head, and to some, it still does.

It definitely is high time when we stop using feminism as a screw to tighten the blood leaks of womankind and like pepper spray to send evil into fits of coughing or like high heels and ladders to get higher. We are high- all we need is for you to stop clipping our flight. We can be soft, we can be bold, we can be draped in seven billion layers of clothes or none at all, we can smile at you, we can frown. But we cannot laugh nervously or walk quicker or talk softer or open up a little bit more. We can what you can what we want and more but we cannot whatever it is that you want or expect or need.

Feminism is not optional, it is like gravity. You may not believe in it, good for you, but it’ll always wave in the face of you, exerting its presence.′

This is the first thing I read on the cloudy Saturday morning, inaudibly but loud. The vocal cords of my brain explode by the time I reach the end of the article. I love its power. But something doesn’t feel right.

Article....Newspaper....Journalists.....Mom and dad!

Both my parents have an off on Saturdays. Where the hell are they?

I jumped over the low centre table, kicked some magazines and stumbled over my phone. Mum over dad, any day. Mrs. Battle has serious OCD when it comes to phone calls. She’ll answer them no matter what situation she is in, and I didn’t want her to panic because the beat of my heart now pumping blood theatrically to crista ampullaris below the lobes of my ears told me that this was a minor crisis. The computerized message beeped from the other side of the line. The mobile was switched off. I thought of calling Hanna, but her dad, the General, took them out on Saturdays. And even picnics are a religious practice in the Hood household. Not to paint him in wrong colours, because General Hood is one of the most compassionate people I know. And I speak from multiple experiences. For instance, he was the man who offered us to be taken in a chopper from his base, as redemption for having sent us to a boring survival camp.

I sat down, for some time, hoping something would tell me of what happened last night. But all I could remember was waking up my mom and asking for an extra comforter to shield myself against the cold. They’d been perfectly asleep then, which meant that they’d left some time after midnight. Left at midnight but to where? I put on my coat, grabbed some money for the taxi from the little box of change, above the shoe cabinet, and darted for the staircase. As I got down, the little of my palm that was exposed brushed against the damp wall, which meant that it had been raining very heavily the last night. Everything implied that mom and dad had left in emergency. But there was no sign of haste at the house. It almost seemed like all this had been previously thought about. And in the Battle house, you speak aloud; even the most negligible plans and ideas do not go unseen. The roads were a bit slippery and glistened but the weather was nice, so I decided to walk. Being my parent’s daughter always was an unfair advantage. I recalled, when I was eleven, my mom arranged a birthday party for my dad. Everybody from the office was there. Everybody talked intelligent. Due to the lack of mental abilities and being underage I was forced to sit in the corner and sip my juice while heads bobbled and laughed. I almost spilled my drink when a woman (and I’m only calling her a woman because of her elegant way of sitting, besides that, she looked pretty young) sat beside me and whispered, “Hell-lo.” She was a beautiful Indian and introduced herself as the head of the weather forecast team. She talked to me about geography and that’s how I began loving world maps. Her name was Nikitha, but I don’t think many people knew that, because almost everyone called her Nikki. “I don’t know why people complain so much about the weather. The way it changes with nobody’s consent is its beauty, isn’t it?” Nikki asked me. I never said it but I really liked her. Thinking about her put me off, now I was sad about how my parents’ refused to tell me what happened to her and why she stopped coming to our parties and laughing and doing her little energetic moves. They once did feed me their bogus story about her relocating to India. But Nikki was here in London to what she liked to call, “remove filters.” Before the time that she stopped coming to our place she would talk to me about it, and the way her ears turned crimson as she began talking of it was enough to tell me that she wasn’t leaving before she got what she needed. And she hadn’t gotten it yet, because once I saw mum and Nikki at a café. And they talked and laughed so effortlessly that the idea of them been meeting this way for ages, planted itself very firmly in the little of my brain. I must say, it was dumb on their part to come together in a place so easily discoverable, if they really wanted to keep it a secret. I scooped out of my chair, did not even get my latte and never talked to mum about having witnessed the rendezvous. There wasn’t much that my parents hid for me. Nikki was a mystery. No. Nikitha was a mystery. “When you report a missing person, you never use nicknames,” my dad once told me. Kevin Battle and Brooke Battle are a mystery.

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