THE VOICE OF THE WOMAN

The memories tell that when I was born, a gentle rain fell from the sky, blending the fragrances of linden blossom, roses, jasmine and lavender. Fragrances worthy of the day when the Mother of God was born. The memories also say that I did not cry much at birth, which made those present think that I must have had good memories of my previous life and that was why I did not cry when I came into this world once again. You had already been born, and somewhere ahead in time you were waiting for the moment when we would finally meet.

I was born in the body of a woman, and many said that this was bad luck. Bad luck that meant I would have little say in many things and in many places in the human world. You would decide everything for me. Everyone found my little female body fascinating in its innocence, and this was something they continued to repeat throughout my life. I was expected to be charming and innocent. Otherwise, your punishments were already waiting for me. I could not become your heir. My female body was not considered worthy of inheriting your wealth. Instead, I usually inherited your poverty, until someone bought me for very little money.

No one ever asked me whether I agreed with this injustice.

I grew up. I learned to speak, but no one listened to me. Everyone kept saying how charming I was. Everyone wanted to touch my hair, my face. My body did not belong to me. I could not do with it what I wished. I could not offer it to the man I loved because you already had your own plans for me and for my body.

And you exchanged my young body for money, giving it to men I did not love. But that did not matter to you.

You did not know that I was born to be the Mother of God.

I had no voice in the society I was expected to live in. To you, I was only a beautiful object, an object of temptation that could be bought. You sold my body to strangers, to old men. They promised to treat me well if I remained obedient and caused them no trouble.

They did not know that I was born to be the Mother of God.

You loved the comfort of home. You preferred me to remain there, where I could keep you company. You wanted me to be your companion, hidden from everyone else's eyes. Outside your home I did not exist. I was not in the paintings. I was not in the buildings. Only a few graceful curves in the architecture still remembered your love for me.

But you were still too small, too insecure to allow me to step outside and let my body and spirit triumph. You were afraid that if you let me go, you would lose me because you would no longer be enough for me. I would discover how small you really were. Too small to give me freedom.

So I remained locked inside a cage, patiently waiting for you to grow up. But you loved yourself too much to let me become free. I was left with the role of a wife whose body existed only to contain temptation and sin for you.

You did not know that I was born to be the Mother of God.

I existed inside churches and upon their walls as the Mother of God. Only in that role was I allowed to appear before the world. You expected so much from me. You wanted to see only the divine in me. You wanted me to be holy and pure. You allowed me to become a mother because that role felt safe—for you and for your happiness. You did not want me to be a woman.

As a mother, I had to be perfect. I had to be worthy of bearing the Son of God. No more and no less. You would never have accepted an ordinary woman as the mother of your children. That is why I devoted my whole life to proving myself worthy before you. The birth of the Son of God—our Son—became proof that I was worthy of existing, worthy of stepping into the light. Because the birth of our Son bound me to you forever. My role as a mother removed the temptation of my body forever. It saved me from sin.

You did not know that once I had Him, I no longer needed you. Through Him came my second birth. Through Him came my spiritual rebirth and my strength.

But you had already prepared crucifixion for our Son. And our Son accepted His destiny. He accepted the cross upon which you nailed Him, believing that by doing so you would make me obedient once again. That you would erase my identity. That you would make me suffer. That you would destroy my soul.

You took away my Son. You took away my strength. But you did not take away my voice.

Instead of disappearing together with my Son, instead of drowning in tears and grief, I became stronger, angrier and more independent.

It was an anger that dried my tears and reminded me who I truly was. An anger that destroyed stereotypes and centuries-old beliefs. An anger that led me to the barricades to tear down old structures in which there had never been room for me.

This anger made my love gentler, more passionate, stronger, fairer, more merciful and freer.

I am all suffering.

I am all tears.

I am a voice awakening.

A voice that changes.

I am the Mother of God.

I am the voice of woman.

(Elena S. Lyubenova)