Beautiful plastic doll, how I envy you. Your skin is so clear and always so smooth. Your body has no flab and dark rings never find your eyes. You’re more beautiful than me, than my mother, than my sister, than all the women on my street. I want to trade places with you. Take my flabby body and give me the beauty of your soft plastic.
– Ghada Khalifa
“Be careful. You are a girl.” These demeaning words summarize my life and my relationship with my body. Ever since I was young girl, I was constantly reminded by mother that being a girl is a liability and burden. I need to be extra careful of my actions. I cannot stay out late — what would people say about me? Even after I got divorced, my family continued to remind me: “Be careful. You are a girl.” We live our whole lives guarding our body. You have to get married before you become too old to bear children. You have to preserve your figure to stay desirable. You have to, you have to ... I came to resent the body I am trapped in. I wished to lose it. To live without it.
This project started as a private group on Facebook where we, a group of women, shared our feelings and personal stories. Then we met in person. We discussed what it means to be living under all this pressure, simply because we own these bodies. We spoke about how each of us discovered what it means to be a woman. Faces turned red, tears started rolling down cheeks and in that moment of openness, an extraordinary bond formed between us. Using their words, I took some time to imagine how a visual representation of their stories might look. After I photographed the women, I noticed a change in some of them. Two decided to show their faces in the images, something they were previously uncomfortable with. Now, they do not care about the consequences; they feel liberated.
Storytelling is a way for us to heal and to free ourselves from the weight of experience. The women who found the strength to stand and speak in front of the camera have given me a gift — they have given me the strength to photograph. I hope these images and stories, in turn, will give strength to other women who feel silenced.
Homemade by Heba Khalifa was produced through the Arab Documentary Photography Program by AFAC and in partnership with the Magnum Foundation and Prince Claus Fund.
I am a single mother. My daughter and I are one. She is always with me. Any partner I might have must love my daughter more than they love me, so it is not easy to find a partner. My life is overloaded. I work six days a week and am all over the place, performing acrobatics to be able to provide a shelter for my daughter.
Like a cactus that lives with little water, I live with as little love as needed in my life. I have spent my whole life trying to love myself. I am detached from my soul. My body is heavy. I am in the desert of my own home, emptied of intimacy and feeling.
I wait for my period. Although it is something I dislike, the arrival of my period signals that i am not pregnant and I won’t have to go through another abortion here in Egypt. I don’t even want to imagine it. The thought scares me to death.
I have had horrible headaches ever since I was seven years old. I went to a new school where my classmates rejected the dark-skinned intruder who thought about things differently. I hated being different — inside and out.
In my house, I cannot go out when I want, I cannot call whomever I want, and I am not allowed to learn music. I feel I am just something on the shelf.
They call me “mother of the unborn” in my hometown because I am infertile. I tried over and over again and waited for many years. In my lifetime, the only birth I have witnessed is my own.
We separated when he told me I needed to get plastic surgery if our relationship was to continue. It was my choice to separate. I am not bothered by the scars on my face except when I notice them in pictures, but when he spoke to me about them I was hurt. I told him that I had worked hard on my self confidence and I wasn’t going to allow him to break it. I ended the relationship.
My grandmother made curtains by hand — curtains with fine details and small stitching. Her thoughts and outlook on the world are something that my mother and I can’t break free from.
He used to cry every time he hit me and say, “I didn’t mean to call you a whore.” Every time I felt the same fear, and every time he said the same thing: “I am your father. I am trying to protect you.
My mother wants me to do everything exactly like she does — to do everything her way. This makes me feel like she sees me as nothing more than an extension of her own body.
I am about to get married and I fear being bound by the institution of marriage. I am afraid of reliving my mother’s history, of losing my independence and losing my spark. I am afraid of living a life that revolves around housekeeping.
I choose my own path in my life. The choices I make are different to those of my mother, but I still hear her voice whenever I do anything new: “See, I told you. You will not be able to do it.” That voice gets louder and louder until sometimes I don’t know if it’s her voice or my own.
Denial is the best way to describe how I live every day. I cannot bear to face my true feelings. Like an ostrich that buries its head in the sand, I pretend certain realities don’t exist.
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