The privilege of being lonely as a woman

Being a loner in this generation is a privilege, not a curse

Every summer, I trade my bus card for my passport and take a 3 hour flight across Europe, into North Africa. Whilst my classmates were summering in Europe or some tropical country in Asia, I was sitting in my grandma’s kitchen eating traditional Algerian cuisine and watching the sunset from the rooftop. Despite being raised in London, Algeria always felt like home to me. Summer was never vacation to me but rather, a return to home. It’s not just the country itself; my father was the first in my family to leave to the UK so returning home means being reunited with my cousins, aunties, uncles and grandparents. Returning home means bringing out the chairs and sitting in the back garden, sipping latay (Algerian mint tea) and chewing on sunflower seeds, listening intently to the old folks tales ardently told by our elders. Returning home meant swapping out pyjamas for jebbas (traditional algerian dresses) and pasta for couscous. Sometimes, when I catch a whiff of petrol, I’m temporarily transported back to my home town. Algeria has always been home to me.

Unfortunately, as a kid, we see life through rose coloured glasses. For most of us, our parents did an excellent job at shielding us from the world and so we only focus on the positive things in life. I’ve always looked forward to returning to Algeria as it was my break from reality. For 6 weeks, I could ignore my life in the UK and was free to curate my own life in my little small coastal town, Jijel. However, as I started going through puberty and becoming inundated by the changes happening in my body, I also became cognizant of the changes in my experiences in Algeria. The summer I turned 12, I couldn’t understand why I was shouted at for going to the corner shop alone, a corner shop I frequent for my 50 Dinar ice cream and 2 Dinar chewing gum. I didn’t understand why my suitcase was filled with jebbas and no trousers (my mother always packed my suitcase for me) nor could I understand why I wasn’t allowed to sit in a room with my male cousins alone. It was all so confusing to me.

Going into womanhood was supposed to be an exciting experience. I was ecstatic to get my first period, I was no longer a child but finally growing into a lady. An experience usually dreaded by women around the world, I was sanguine about it. What I didn’t realise was that being a woman was more than just monthly cycles and changes in mood; the world around me started treating me differently.

Women in ethnic cultures are heavily protected and sheltered from the world. We are taught from a young age to cover up in order to be protected from wandering eyes. We are told to stay at home in order to be protected from evil intentions and we are encumbered with home making responsibilities, in order to be protected from the horrible fate of spinsterhood. Summer no longer felt like a break but rather a prison. I could no longer enjoy sitting at home comfortably as there was constant shame pervading my body and anxiety subsuming me. The longer I stayed in Algeria, the more I started developing a visceral hatred towards my country. Algeria no longer felt like home.

However, the feeling of entrapment didn’t hit me until last year: the summer of my gap year. Having spent majority of my year in solitude and pensive thought, I became accustomed to my loneliness. In fact, I revelled in it. No one was around to tell me what to do nor did I have to consider anyone else’s feelings. All that mattered to me was myself. My entire gap year was spent strolling about museums and exhibitions in London alone, sipping tea in cosy cafes and dining in 5 star restaurants solo. Initially I was trepidatious about spending time by myself. All that went through my head the first time I sat in a café alone was What if people thought I was lonely? What if everyone is looking at me thinking I’m a loser? The second time however, these thoughts were supplanted with No one cares. I realised I could go out alone at any time and go anywhere and no one would care.

Of course, this only applied in London. When I went back to Algeria last year, I was forced to spend the entire 6 weeks, at home with little to no freedom to go out as I please. Firstly, in order to leave the house, you need a car. As a girl accustomed to public transport, I had yet to receive my licence so I needed someone to drive me somewhere. Secondly, as a woman, I’m unable to go anywhere alone due to my safety. We always have to travel in groups or take a man with us. Though this is not right in any way, it was the unfortunate reality of things.

For generations, women have never had the privilege of being alone. We have never truly been allowed to discover who we are, away from prying eyes. Wherever we went, we constantly needed a chaperone, whether it was to another country or down the road to the corner shop. Living alone as a woman was unheard of and the only acceptable universities available for girls was one within sniffing distance of home. Our mothers and grandmothers before us were denied the right to explore their identity on their own. For most of our ancestors, they went straight from the home of her father to the home of her husband. Women before us have been tied to people their entire lives that they don’t have an identity outside being a daughter, a mother or someone’s belonging.

As I sit, typing away in my own place that I am paying rent for, paying for my own groceries and doing my own laundry, I am acknowledging the fight I had to go through to convince my parents to allow me to be on my own. Years of preparation, perennial arguments and silent treatments went into earning my parent’s respect yet still going out and making my own way. Especially as a Muslim, Hijabi woman, the world is unforgiving to us. I’m also incredibly grateful to my father for the effort he put into creating a life for us outside of Algeria, acknowledging the fact that both he and my mother grew up in the middle of a civil war. They never HAD the privilege of being alone because it wasn’t a matter of comfort but rather, a matter of safety. I am so lucky to be sitting in my own room, feeling comfort, safety and gratitude.

Being lonely isn’t uncomfortable. Being lonely is a privilege. In a world where being a woman is not safe, I urge you to look for safety and comfort within yourself. Your company is the best company.

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