I was very excited last night when I noticed the documentary Saving Face was on a dubious website where I could watch it now for free (another ethical discussion for another time). It is a documentary about one Pakistani plastic surgeon living in London who returns to Pakistan to help repair the faces of women who have had acid thrown upon them by husbands and spurned suitors. I can't begin to discuss the emotions I feel when I watch this film - not like the brief adrenaline rushes I have felt occasionally in the past after watching 90 minutes of something that felt inspirational and generated some very vacant life-changing resolutions, what I feel now is very different. Perhaps because this issue gets at some core concepts for me as a human - abuse, disfigurement, degradation, and the fundamental silence that afflicts apparently decent human beings as they watch these horrors happen to other people.
I muse often about my scars, those on my head and face, my arms, both hips, both knees, my back, and my ankle ( I am sure I have forgotten some as I have long since abandoned my full-length mirror), the stories behind them (even the true ones), and how I have come to live with them. Don't get me wrong, I am not trying to compare my scars to the terrible carnage done to these women, nor am I trying to compare my experience to theirs, I am only asserting that I can extrapolate enough to make a human connection to their misery that just won't let me forget their suffering. My scars are minor, and as a male, have even become part of a rugged persona of sorts, but I wasn't always comfortable with them, far from it.
My first significant scar came when I was very young when I pulled a skillet of grease down upon myself from the stove. It left a permanent bald spot on the top of my head, and two half-dollars sized scars on my left arm. I learned to grow my bangs long to cover the scar, but when the wind blew it was always noticeable. Although I never took to wearing hats as a result, I was constantly aware of the scar, and was always pulling at my hair to make sure it was covered. I didn't like playing basketball or the running events in track as I couldn't control my hair, and I really didn't care for headbands. It took a very long time before I overcame this self-consciousness. I was not teased too much growing up about it, but it affected my self-esteem to a great extent I think.
The rest of my scars have been fairly won in combat of some sort - sports or battles with my step-father. Consequently they come with a weird sense of pride or begrudging nod to my manhood. But there are other scars here too, the invisible ones. I carry a hidden scar for each time I did not intervene when my step-father terrorized my mother and my sister, every time I did not help someone in need, every time I overlooked an injustice at work or school, every time I failed to act on my conscience. These have disfigured me the most I think.
So now, I watch the courage of these women who have existed in terribly abuse relationships, only to be sprayed with acid or gasoline by family members (incredibly, sometimes by a sister in-law or mother in-law), with complete incredulity not knowing how they persevere. Some are even forced to return to the homes to reconcile as they have nowhere to go or need to remain with their children. What pains me most is the Muslim community that by-in-large ignores this phenomenon, particularly the male segment of that population. Men whose vanity pollutes and degrades the name of my faith, men who should stop this vile practice with their own hands, men who instead turn their heads and head to the mosque to lecture others on their behaviors. No, not men, not Muslims.
There is nothing in my faith that suggests I treat women as inferior beings, subjugated property, or anything less than full partners in my human walk with God. I cry as I watch these women deal with their scars, and I lament a good part of that nation of men weaker than they, scared by their own cowardice.
I muse often about my scars, those on my head and face, my arms, both hips, both knees, my back, and my ankle ( I am sure I have forgotten some as I have long since abandoned my full-length mirror), the stories behind them (even the true ones), and how I have come to live with them. Don't get me wrong, I am not trying to compare my scars to the terrible carnage done to these women, nor am I trying to compare my experience to theirs, I am only asserting that I can extrapolate enough to make a human connection to their misery that just won't let me forget their suffering. My scars are minor, and as a male, have even become part of a rugged persona of sorts, but I wasn't always comfortable with them, far from it.
My first significant scar came when I was very young when I pulled a skillet of grease down upon myself from the stove. It left a permanent bald spot on the top of my head, and two half-dollars sized scars on my left arm. I learned to grow my bangs long to cover the scar, but when the wind blew it was always noticeable. Although I never took to wearing hats as a result, I was constantly aware of the scar, and was always pulling at my hair to make sure it was covered. I didn't like playing basketball or the running events in track as I couldn't control my hair, and I really didn't care for headbands. It took a very long time before I overcame this self-consciousness. I was not teased too much growing up about it, but it affected my self-esteem to a great extent I think.
The rest of my scars have been fairly won in combat of some sort - sports or battles with my step-father. Consequently they come with a weird sense of pride or begrudging nod to my manhood. But there are other scars here too, the invisible ones. I carry a hidden scar for each time I did not intervene when my step-father terrorized my mother and my sister, every time I did not help someone in need, every time I overlooked an injustice at work or school, every time I failed to act on my conscience. These have disfigured me the most I think.
So now, I watch the courage of these women who have existed in terribly abuse relationships, only to be sprayed with acid or gasoline by family members (incredibly, sometimes by a sister in-law or mother in-law), with complete incredulity not knowing how they persevere. Some are even forced to return to the homes to reconcile as they have nowhere to go or need to remain with their children. What pains me most is the Muslim community that by-in-large ignores this phenomenon, particularly the male segment of that population. Men whose vanity pollutes and degrades the name of my faith, men who should stop this vile practice with their own hands, men who instead turn their heads and head to the mosque to lecture others on their behaviors. No, not men, not Muslims.
There is nothing in my faith that suggests I treat women as inferior beings, subjugated property, or anything less than full partners in my human walk with God. I cry as I watch these women deal with their scars, and I lament a good part of that nation of men weaker than they, scared by their own cowardice.
the scars that are hidden underneath clothes and garments are not as bad as the ones you see and recall their pain everytime you look at yourself in the mirror. Avoiding mirrors becomes a habbit.
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