Hi all, it’s Farzana, your host of Thursday Connectors. Welcome to my November page, a fantastic Showcase linked to what’s important to you and those around you.

Continuing with our theme of ‘Difference,’ I’m connecting with three writers who  offer different perspectives around their  life experiences; all of which are thought-provoking and sentimental. I’m sure you’ll agree with me and perhaps you may even be able to relate to some of the stories, as I did.

 

Firstly, we connect with Tavinder. Her poem touched me and I’m sure it will touch you too.

Hi, Tavinder. Let’s connect:

I’m Not Part Of Society

I’m not part of society because I didn’t have a baby, not a mother.
viewed as having no empathy, and no responsibility.
I am the other, different from what women are meant to be,
It doesn’t matter how I feel or the pain I carry in my heart,
It doesn’t matter how I feel, the pain I carry every day of that child,
I am not part of society.
You walk away from me as soon as I say I don’t have children,
snubbed, snorted, shunted that is easy for me,
viewed as carefree having so much time for myself,
I am the other, different from what women are meant to do.
It doesn’t matter, I tried several times; it doesn’t matter the loss,
It doesn’t matter the miscarriages, hysterectomy, or IVF loss that was out of my control,
I am not part of society.
I didn’t get time off from my tests, from my scans, from the many tries, or from the failings,
I didn’t get empathy or any understanding like a pregnant woman would have from the world,
I’m not part of society, as I do not have any rights.
Because I did not have a baby and am not a mother,
I am disenfranchised by society, told platitudes of some miracle story,
that I should adopt, foster, or try surrogacy.
Who cares about that child that I have lost and so many losses?
I would swap any day for my life to be different not to feel this anguish unlike these women face; therefore, I am not seen as part of them.
I would swap any day not to be different from other women to be able to share the joy that I too became a mother just to be able to fit into society. But I can’t do that.
I am not part of this society because I didn’t have a baby or become a mother,
viewed as being robotic or not a woman, but like you, I feel, I cry, I grieve.
I am not another, just going in life a different way, another journey that I didn’t choose to have,
I am trying to find a way forward navigating the loneliness of other women who walk away,
I want to be a part of this society; don’t other me.

© Tavinder New, 2024

*****

We now connect with Azmina, who tells us  about ‘Life Writing’ and how much she enjoys it. Being an oral historian and an advocate for telling real and authentic stories, I can relate.

Hi, Azmina. Let’s connect:

For The Love Of Life Writing

After years of reading fiction, there’s one thing I can conclude: there’s nothing quite like non-fiction. Life writing, in particular. Life writing is a term sometimes synonymous with creative non-fiction; texts that fall into the categories of autobiographies, biographies, memoirs, personal essays, historical narratives and so on.

Fiction is beautiful and a great reflector of society at any point in time but there’s something about life writing that’s incomparable. I’ve spent some time reading autobiographies and memoirs because I found I was particularly invested in work that centred on the ‘I’. The first-person. While this interest started with fiction through diary and epistolary (letter) style novels, as time progressed, I found an overpowering need to read about people who had really lived.

The move away from fiction was surprising but one I welcomed, as it offered something completely different. Reading a memoir or autobiography is entering into an unspoken agreement with the author. Picking up the book is the author shaking hands with you as if to say: “Yes, I have given you permission to read about certain aspects of my life, no matter how personal they are.” What you read then becomes a private conversation between you both and you hear them for who they are; their memories, opinions, secrets and wishes for however long they wish to tell you. If the eyes are the window to the soul, this text is the unlatched, wide-open gate.

There is a sense of trust that comes with this style of narration. The author trusts you to read with complete objectification and be willing to listen to the message they are trying to convey. You also have to trust that what they are saying is, in fact, true. Whilst some do admit to fictionalising names or slight exaggerations to augment emotions, the crux of their life experience is to be taken as truth.

This is a boundary fiction will never be able to cross. Yes, protagonists can be narrators, they can use the first-person or close third person, but we’ll never truly be able to know the full inner workings of this character. Why? Because the author also has to depict the inner workings of the numerous other characters they have created, thereby limiting our full and complete access to the protagonist. With an autobiography or memoir, we have complete access to the protagonist and only them.

My shift in focus from fiction to non-fiction was unexpected. It was a form of change signifying a shift in literary interest, which I’ve welcomed. While I will always dip back into fiction, I’m looking forward to discovering a world of factual narratives and real-life protagonists and heroes the world has produced and will continue to produce.

© Azmina Sohail, 2024

*****

Finally, we connect with Rahima, who sent in a short story about how differences in dreams and aspirations can alter one’s life completely. Here’s an extract from her story and, while reading this, I was transported back to my childhood, when my grandad used to tell me similar stories of how he emigrated to the UK from Pakistan in 1957.

Hi, Rahima. Let’s connect:

I Lived My Dream (Extract)

England was the land of hope, the land of opportunities and the land of my dreams and, when my application was accepted, I knew God had good plans for me.

It wasn’t long until I joined my uncle in England. We shared a small three-bedroom house in Yardley, Birmingham, with 20 other gentlemen who’d come with the same dreams and hopes as I had. I was quickly offered a job at the Ford factory, hand spraying each and every car that rolled across the conveyor belt. It was tedious, but it was a job and provided me with an income.

At the end of the week, I would split the £13.50 I received from the Ford company: £7.00 towards the rent, bills and food, £6.00 I would send to Father in Bangladesh and 50p I would keep for Friday nights at the local cinema watching Bollywood movies with the lads. That was the highlight of the week.

We would queue up at the public baths to have our weekly washes, use the housekeeping money to buy the groceries and take turns to cook the meals. We lived the lives of  bachelors; still better than living back home.

Soon enough, I found my feet, learnt to communicate in English and landed myself a job at a local garment factory. The pay was better, but the job was laborious: pleating and underlying skirts. I was happy here, I made some good friends and I was able to send more money to Father and even save some for myself.

Father didn’t spend all the money I sent him; he saved some to buy land and build a decent house. I now had five more siblings and they relied on my income to be fed and educated.

My brother was married at this point and was now ready to go abroad and help me provide for the family. He landed himself a visa for the United Arab Emirates, where he spent years as a gardener in the scorching heat to help provide for the family.

I’d now reached a point in my life where I was ready to marry and start my own family and I’d saved enough for that. I went back home for the first time as a British citizen. My reception as an expat was most honourable and I welcomed it! Father had selected a bride for me from the very best family he knew, and I married her and welcomed her into my, now decent, home.

I prepared to leave her with my family, as I’d planned to return to my life in England. However, I waited for the arrival of my first child. A beautiful girl, an angel, and a piece of me, but she returned to our Creator 18 days later. She was too perfect for this world.

Promising to return very soon, I left my grieving wife. Earning money became a priority; the more I could earn, the more I could send back to my family. When I’d saved enough to return home, I decided to visit my family in succession and was blessed with three sons.

The worry of giving them a good future, a good education and more opportunities entered my mind. I planned to take them with me the next time I went back to England, but had to first set up a home for them here.

By now, many of the men had brought their families to England, so it was feasible. I worked overtime to earn that extra cash so I could provide my family with a place to live. My sister Bubu had joined her husband in England with her children, but she was admitted into hospital soon after, as she discovered she was expecting triplets.

Her desperation to have me by her side changed my plans and I, too, decided to settle in London.

When my family joined me, I rented a room in the basement of a house on Settle Street. London was much more expensive, but there were more opportunities and a better network of people from my community.

My children joined school and my family expanded. When my daughter was born, I decided it was time to buy my own home and we moved to Walthamstow.

I named my daughter after Mother and as I watched her grow, I imagined her characteristics to be the same as hers.

My family settled in well and I worked tirelessly to provide for them and, at the same time, providing for my family at home. One by one, I paid for the marriages of my siblings, helped them when they were in need, building houses for them and buying more land for Father.

My wife helped me earn money too. During the time my youngest daughter was born, she sewed garments at home and, together, we saved enough to build a house in Bangladesh. We continued to pay the mortgage on the house we lived in, maintaining our home. There were many sacrifices we both made but, after all, it was for our future.

I dreamed of retiring in Bangladesh in the house I’d built but, by the time I’d educated my children, seen them married and watched them settle down, my ill-health kicked in and I relied on the National Health Service to keep me well.

My five children had now grown up, Father had passed away and all my siblings were  happily settled. My children, all educated, were soon landing themselves well-paid jobs, they were buying their own properties, all marrying, having children and living with surplus wealth.

It was something I’d dreamed of: to see my family established in England and living alongside the privileged.

© Rahima Islam, 2024

Connect with Rahima on X: @AuthorRahimaIslam and via their website rahima.co.uk

*****

Next month, I’m after your quirky stories around celebrations and festivities. It’s holiday season and I’m planning to conclude the year with joy and jolly laughter. So, get submitting now!

See you again soon. X

*****

Issue 22 of Write On! is out now and you can read it online here. Find it in libraries and other outlets. You can find previous editions of our magazines here.

You can hear great new ideas, creative work and writing tips on Write On! Audio. Find us on all major podcast platforms, including Apple and Google Podcasts and Spotify. Type Pen to Print into your browser and look for our logo, or find us on Podcasters.Spotify.com.

*****

If you or someone you know has been affected by issues covered in our pages, please see the relevant link below for ​information, advice and support​: pentoprint.org/about/advice-support