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104
A Star To Keep
Rachelle
Papantuono
‘Twinkle twinkle little star. How I wonder what you are. Up above
the world so high…’ Mother chimed. Every morning I hear this same
tune with its insistent, unrelenting rhythm and a silent plea to be
remembered. Perhaps mother wants to imprint the song on me, so
that I can teach my children as she has done for me. But I dismiss
such thoughts; work must be done. I remove the blanket from above
me and put on sandals. I scamper to the kitchen to make breakfast
for my father, one of the few household duties I still complete. I no
longer spend hours upon hours of wringing piles of clothes and
scrubbing floors clean. He does not know. And I pray to Allah he
will never find out.
The eggs, tomatoes and bell-peppers shriek at each other in the
frying pan whilst father enters wearing his knee-length shirt and
loose trousers. Mother is out the back soaking garments with her
withered yet skilful hands. It is given knowledge that the women
should do the housework and the men earn the money. I do not
object, because why would anyone listen to an uneducated girl? I
hand over father’s breakfast and prepare to leave. It is only after
father leaves that I am able to go. I head to my room to change and
fold dry clothes to lessen the workload for mother. The door opens
and then swiftly closes. I am free to go.
The burqa shields my body. However, it is not only to cover
myself from men, it hides what I may be carrying underneath. I
tread along the coarse road whilst my neighbour strides alongside
me. The heat is blistering and stifling, the sun burns as if it is trying
to hinder my travels. I am banned to walk the streets without a
male accompanying me, all women are restricted. A traditional
mud-brick house appears into sight, with its non-existent roof and
cream colouring. My heart races, I feel a mix of excitement or fear;
I am not sure. It was mother’s idea. The whisperings only between
women had reached her, and she had grasped the opportunity. It’s
prohibited to venture to school in my area. Mother says even if
there were schools the extremists would burn them down. I reach
the front step, knock twice and enter. The interior is as bare as the
façade but I do not care. More than ten other girls are scattered on
the floor, with books sprawled around them. Pens and papers litter
the ground. As I watch, eager, feverous eyes look back at me. I grab
my supplies from underneath my burqa and add them to the
enticing collection below. Our teacher Fazela was once a proper
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