A Princess Without A Prince
I can’t recall any fairy tale about a prince who saves a princess. I know whenever a prince arrives to save a princess, he can’t do anything for her. After the revolution, I wrote a children’s story but couldn't publish it. This is because it was forbidden to talk about princesses. The government knew what I meant. In that story, there was a little girl who was unhappy. She thought her life was boring-she wanted to go out and explore the world but didn't have a horse. One night, she dreamed that if she stood by the window, a prince on a white horse would finally come. She would jump on his horse and go with him, have a happy life, and see the world. So, she stood by the window for days and weeks, and months.
Finally, the prince arrived on his white horse. People cheered as she rode away with him, traveling out of the city. Eventually, she saw a beautiful, ancient castle shining under the sun. When they reached the gate, it opened, and suddenly the horse turned into a monster. The prince was divided into seven witches, and each ordered her to stop something. One said no singing, another no dancing. Three of them ordered that she must not imagine anything. The seventh forbade wearing any color- no colorful clothes, and so on. Every night, they abused her so she would forget her past. By keeping her imagination sharp, and with the help of birds, she finally burned the castle down, slew the devil, and ultimately escaped.
This story originated in the situation that we faced after the revolution. For 5,000 years prior to the Islamic invasion of southern Iran and greater Persia, we believed in the goddess Anahita. She was the source of life and fertility, the goddess of victory and purity, rivers and rains, wisdom and happiness. Her sculpture still stands by rivers, so it is not strange that Iranian women are perceived as having some power. In my own family, I never witnessed a man hit a woman or take a second wife. Instead, I saw women kick their husbands out of the home.
In Farsi, the words for man and death are ‘mard’ and ‘marg’. Man and marg have similar pronunciations. When a woman from my family became angry with her husband, I heard her say, “Mard khoneh, marg khoneh”- the man of the house, the death of the house.
I am not anti-male. On the contrary, I love them. If they were not in my life, I couldn't write poetry. At minimum, I need them to inspire me to write about love. There are no other species that could give me such feelings. However, I frequently think that something is wrong with some of them.
At this moment, as I am writing, my handsome husband, 15 years younger than me, is cooking and cleaning in the kitchen. Thank you, goddess Anahita. He does not belong to my culture but got used to it after 28 years of marriage. Today is a busy day and it is very hot outside. Earlier today, I worked with students; we talked about mythologies and the value of women in them.
The smell of tasty food in my home is going to prevent me from writing further. I am starving and the food is ready. I’m going to eat now and leave the rest of this story for next Sunday.
May Anahita bless you.
May Anahita bless all men around the world.
Source: Substack