From Nur Salman's 'Aqawil': She Is Ugly! / I Like It... I Like It Not!

She Is Ugly!

Doors close in my face... fortunes flee, as though life had not been written for me... looks of interest and admiration turn away from me; I remain half alone!

The sweet words, the pampering, the ease are for others! And my mother never once said to me, 'My daughter, you are beautiful...' but I knew it from... she gives me to hear a word that thrills me... a gentle glow enters my soul which I do not know how to describe...

I was ugly before I ever realized it... but I do not hate myself, nor despise myself... Do people hate me and despise me because I am ugly?

No... I have no need of cautious solicitude... of hidden pity... of a consoling smile! I am not a poor thing... how can everyone see me as a poor thing? Why is beauty... important, to this great degree?...

How many times has my soul pushed me hard... to seize the hand of some beautiful one... shake it fiercely and say to her: 'You are no better than I... you may be trivial... silly... wicked! So cut down your rounds... take some account of us... take from life only what you deserve... only what you deserve, O beautiful one!'

This outburst of mine is not the spite of a weakling begging for good luck, demanding fortune's smile... For I... I am not weak... my soul is strong as a fortress... protective as a weapon... I am not one of the wretched... I see and feel the stir of all the beauty around me... I smile at every eye that looks at me... I help every hand that calls... I know how to gladden a heart and dry away tears... I stretch the range of my horizon with polishing goodness... I fill my lack with beauty... with beauty of my own hands' making... I am beautiful!!

I Like It... I Like It Not!

I stood perplexed before my clothes... reviewing them and turning them over, to choose the loveliest... for the party, as I had heard, is a great gathering.

I came out of my room an hour later, and everything was as it should be: my hair with its locks in order... my face gleaming with a rosy red... my coat saying to fashion, 'I am still faithful and obedient'... my shoes slender-heeled, and my handbag keeping pace with my gracefulness.

I bade the mirror farewell with my eyes and set out for the street, out to where the mirrors of a second kind are. At those I looked every two steps, with an insistent question in my soul: 'Am I pretty?' And among the passers-by I heard a young man whisper to his companion a whisper that was mine before it was the companion's... He said: 'Look... and see... how lovely... that figure!' My feet trembled, and my walk stumbled in a fog of shame...

How does this fellow dare say what he said? Does he know who I am? And whose daughter I am? Truly, the doings of young men are not to be borne. How could he fling this phrase at me? I — the refined, the sober, the well-bred...?

What is this vulgar behavior?

If only I had shot him a sharp, reproving glance to push him backward... back to the limits he had overstepped. How much we need a social refinement to polish our conduct and give shape to our words!

Suppose my figure is beautiful — must it then lie within reach of the praise of a passing young man whom I do not know, and whose face I cannot recall?

Suppose my figure is beautiful — do I need a young man to tell me so?

It is true that my share of beauty is greater than my companions'. Salma... poor thing, her waist is broad... and Abla wears nothing but long dresses, to look as tall as she can... and Amira, by her own admission, has no proportion in the measurements of her body... Yes, I am prettier than they are, and I did well today in choosing beautiful clothes that draw all eyes and set loose the cry of... admiration!

Ugh, the young men of today! But frankly... 'See... look, how lovely that figure...'

A remark I did not like... did not like...

I like it... I like it not... I do not know!