The last time I went to one of those ticketed magic shows, I saw a hall full of blinding glimmer. I smelled the warm butter popcorn, swallowed a cough courtesy of the smoke machines, and tip-toed to my seat. But, the blaring music couldn't silence a little firefly of a "why?" that had crept into my ears. "Why do they need all those lights and smoke screens to pull off tricks that we inherit like the knots in our hair?"
A booming, distant voice announced, "Act 1: The Vanishing Woman!"
Hah! You see, there's a lady somewhere who races the Sun to the horizon at dawn, packs her bags with all the assurance that she can fit into its pockets, and peers over maps of ancient ruins over coffee. She lugs shovels and drives machines bigger than the trembling heart of the Earth. Then she digs, sieves, and preserves her finds- even the dirt in her nail beds and the sting of stray wounds - probably in search of familiarity. She does this again and again and again only to admit one day that it's hard to find women and children in a history written by men. She knows this isn't a new trick.
A hollow, thundering voice says, "Act 2: Watch as I swallow this sharp sword whole!” This time, I am no longer a little girl refusing to blink for the fear of missing that one secret which will tell me how it's done. I have seen how voices fold back into throats seamlessly. This is an origami class that many women are enrolled into before they can speak.
Their words fold back into their throats like a swan folding its wings to make way for peace. Their ideologies fold back into the jagged waves on their sweaty palms like crumpled paper boats on which they hope to sail through bad days. Slowly, their identity learns to contort itself endlessly into mute shapes pressed between the stiff pages of hand-me-down patriarchy.
"Act 3: ……"
But by then, the blinded audience was looking at the woman at long last; it was becoming the woman at long last. It didn’t want to see a woman sawed into half, or a sword emerging from the other side of a neck, or endless strings of colourful distraction pulled out of a hat anymore. It was no longer a nameless mob; it was a group of people with furrowed eyebrows, blooming discourses, and a voice. Each person there had questions, and they wanted answers. Maybe that little firefly of a "why?" had visited more ears than just one and urged every borrowed word to rise in rage.
I'll never find out how that night ended. But here's what I did learn that day: an army of protesting voices is sharpening its questions in there somewhere, in the throats of these women who refuse to vanish.