All the things she didn't deserve

The prisoner had two mothers, neither of whom was particularly interested in her fate or well-being.

The prisoner thought she had escaped from a crib with cage-like bars and the very real possibility of starvation, but she had only slipped into another cage, one where heartily abundant meals and gastric comments were always available.

Clearly, we understood these things only much later. We had our own cages at the time, and we still do. But we hadn't realized yet they were made of paper. All it takes is a little conscious effort, a little tug and twist of the bars, and we could be out, we could be free.

But whenever we met the prisoner at a family lunch we thought ourselves comrades. When tragedy hit, we hugged her. We would tell her: we have the same struggles.

And we didn't.

Here is a list of the things the prisoner did not deserve:

- A weak constitution fueled by the anxieties of her guardians,

- A series of harassing boyfriends and one time molesters,

- The unbearable weight of her main jailer's hatred,

- The belief that she would never be able to get out of the cage.

And she didn't deserve us.

Everything we accomplished, she felt she couldn't accomplish. Our small middle-class achievements looked like marathons in her eyes. Meanwhile if she tried to move an inch, her jailer's talons would start digging into her shoulders. It wasn't her trauma to carry and yet she was made to carry it nonetheless.

And maybe again I was the worst to her.

I would tell her, routinely, we're not better than you.

What we do, you can do.

But she couldn't. And she knew she couldn't. She had been told so, over and over and over, and she believed so, so she couldn't.

I would scoff at the notion while being slightly annoyed at the prisoner's menu of insecurities, getting bored of her small dreams. I was unfair. Yet another card in the shit hand she was dealt.

Years passed, and the prisoner remained trapped in her cage, watching us from afar as we spread our wings and soared. We sent her postcards from our adventures, small gifts, tokens of appreciation. We were oblivious to the pain they caused her. She would hold them in her trembling hands as she imagined a life she could never have.

I wonder if she cried. I wonder what she cries about. The prisoner, unwanted daughter…

And now we're locked, cemented on our positions, and what little space we had for empathy gets smaller by the hour. We asks ourselves why can't she do better, we look at the animal in the cage and we laugh at the learned helplessness.

But deep down, beneath the gossip and the judgment, a flicker of doubt gnaws at our conscience. Even now. The prisoner's eyes, once bright with hope, now reflect a dull resignation that unsettles us. We try to dismiss it, to convince ourselves that her fate is of her own making, but it isn’t, it never was. We subtly tell ourselves she’s lacking, we ascribe guilt when others are to blame.

And every new mistake is fuel to the fire.

If only she knew… if only she knew, she would lower her head, sigh, take it in her stride; because if nothing else, she’s resilient, a thick skin protecting what little she’s been given. But we weren’t, haven’t been, her comrades. Just passersby, well meaning strangers you meet at a bus stop. Not even family. Not even family.

But then, familiar knives cut the deepest.

I still wish I was able to open her cage, but I cannot see the door.