a big scarlet 'A' screwed to my chest
why you should believe women. don't be the idiot who falls for a smear campaign!
If I said I hadn’t stressed thinking of how exactly to write this piece, I would most definitely be lying. In fact, lying is more of an understatement. It’s almost four pm, I’m sweating in this dreadful UK heat and I want nothing but to lie in my broken bed — daydream. Gosh, do I love daydreaming.
But daydreaming can also be a pain in the arse, especially when today’s the anniversary of something you try to erase every morning. When brushing your teeth. Scrubbing what your mind says is the lingering touch in the blistering shower. Switch it warmer to distract. Maybe if it burns you won’t, well, think. Daydreaming makes those thoughts loud — at least for me, it’s a constant psychological tug of war. As a matter of fact, it’s happening right now. Fuck.
I would now like to highlight. Emphasise in bold letters. This is not some motivational personal essay like the ones you are acquainted to. Neither is this a pity party, especially given that’s the one thing I dread happening (please don’t leave “sorry that happened to you” comments because I’ll actually scream). I don’t think this is anything really, except a way to make peace with it happening this day a year ago. Then move on. In all honesty, I’ve already moved on. Skin cells regenerate, I guess?
In case you haven’t caught on to what I’m pointing at beyond layers and layers of ramble, on the 30th of June 2024 I was assaulted. There is much more ‘nuanced’ layer to the story but it happened. There are plenty of people, ex-friends if you will, who say it didn’t. And to make things hilarious (I actually burst out laughing at the absurdity of this rumour spreading at university when I heard it), they say I cheated. Cheated on something that wasn’t even a boyfriend because — I don’t date. It’s haram (forbidden in Islam). I’ve made different mistakes yes, but islamically your past is not your past and I will leave it there. There was no cheating, getting touched in places you feel like fucking throwing up at when you think of it is not cheating.
The gist of this post is not a trauma recount, I’m not delving into what happened so if you’re here for that — sorry to break it to you! you can leave now! The truth is I eventually moved on from that one day. Day by day, week by week and month by month. My parents respected that I didn’t want to tell the police because I felt that the court procedure and fees would stretch the trauma far too long. I’d never be able to forget it. What I failed to grasp was that there is not only the court of law in these situations, but the court of public opinion.
It’s quite laughable really. I could have kept it private but I was so confused, so in shock, I called up some of my friends crying. I didn’t know what to do. Kind of fucking hilarious that a few were not real friends. They pitied me (which I did not and never will want). They consoled me (as friends should). They told me that they believed me, that yes — I was totally valid and that I would eventually get justice. Like a sobbing fool, I believed them. They didn’t actually believe me. They said they did, but when we fell out, they went around and spewed a cheating rumour. That I was a liar. I like keeping a low profile now, I’m not the same chatty attention-seeker I was when I was fifteen (even if I was, it wouldn’t be a problem). But when I meet a new person on campus, it goes something like this:
Me: [with a grin] Hi, I’m Aleeha. Can I just say that I absolutely love your outfit!
Them: Oh my gosh, thank you! Wait did you say Aleeha?
Me: [wary] Yeah…
Them: I’ve heard your name somewhere…
Me: [Inaudible] Well, shit.
Around age fifteen, I watched Easy A. I absolutely effing loved it. Emma stone shines…or whatever lamely conjured up one liner I type on my letterboxd. I then fell into a whirlwind of smear campaigns and read The Scarlet Letter. The first thing I thought of once I heard of the rumours circulating was how the protagonist was shamed into wearing a scarlet ‘A’ on her clothes. ‘A’ for adulterer. It was something similar for me — my reputation tarnished — except it wasn’t a literal misogynistic pin, it was more of an invisible brand on the forehead. A number of people I spoke to knew of me. Believed I was a liar. It messed with my head a bit, I wouldn’t come onto campus. One of the old group showed up at my doorstep and harassed an elderly relative. In hindsight, I think that was something that showed how obsessive the other side, the one spewing absurd lies, was towards me.
Reeling from the aftermath of what had happened even months later, I grew disorientated. Once I got over it (and I did, I’m actually currently snickering at how utterly idiotic the real ‘liars’ were), I decided I’d do everything in my power to advocate on social media for other women. Other women who had been branded by society as liars. Manipulative. Or evil. Women like Amber Heard. Blake Lively. Meghan Markle. Hailey Bieber. Huda, on this season of Love Island USA. Having experienced that feeling, a scarlet ‘A’ screwed to your forehead and a group of people who think you’re a vile person, I know how much it fucking sucks.
Reputation is indeed the bane of womanhood. You so much as breathe, let alone ‘speak up’, you get cornered. And you know what the most twisted thing is? It’s mostly other women. They throw themselves at the gross and disgusting man who could not care less about them. ‘He can’t have touched her, he’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve to be called a liar!’ one user says. ‘She has that evil look in her eyes, she wants the clout,’ says another forty-something from essex. We already know that men infiltrate the comments, something as lowly as this is expected of them, but women? I could despise a girl, but I’d believe her. God forbid something happened to one of the cruel people who spread the rumour, I’d still defend them. Believe them. It’s not even a ‘girl’s girl’ thing, it’s a being-a-human thing. You’re not a human if you fall for a smear campaign. You’re a gullible pig.
I often see another myth. A narrative that is perpetuated so much, it is incredulous. I call this the ‘innocent victim’ narrative — the idea that a victim must be completely perfect, free from prejudice. They must not make mistakes, they are the kind of woman who is inherently saint-like. They are then, and only then, somewhat believable. And that too, is up for debate.
Blake Lively is a good example of this — she has a heavily concerning past. Racism. Questionable comments. Things I won’t attempt to refute because they’re completely valid. People of colour are 100% allowed to hold her accountable for them. They are allowed to dislike her, to criticise her and not engage in this conversation. She should respond. I am not against that, in fact I wholeheartedly support it. But when they take this as proof that they should support an alleged1 harasser, it becomes a problem.
A woman can be both things — a person who is not good and still a victim. The court of law, so far, stands with her. As a law student who has a special interest in these cases, I read what I could find of the lawsuit and believe her. I will never fall for a smear campaign. And I will most definitely not engage in something that once actively harmed me.
I don’t say I’m a victim anymore, because even if I did experience it I just hate the pity that arrives with the label. I’m not victim-Aleeha, nor am I liar-Aleeha. Absolutely not cheater-Aleeha. I’m just…Aleeha? A twenty-something screw up who absolutely loves reading historical novels and rambles her friends into oblivion. The same girl who giggles relentlessly and does everything in her power to make people around her comfortable. A girl who once lowered her boundaries and made room in her heart for everyone (look how that turned out). I will not stretch my heart for most, it is a privilege to have my friendship, to receive my platonic love. I am Aleeha and I am not a liar. I don’t deserve this ‘A’ pin. In fact, I trashed it several months ago. Set it alight in the most dramatic marvel-film manner as possible.
I am Aleeha and I will spend the rest of my life doing everything — career, pro-bono, general life, empowering those around me — everything I can possibly can to advocate for women like me. Women who were sexually assaulted and then ruthlessly stripped of their dignity and reputation. Until my last effing breath.
To conclude in the words of my favourite novelist, Khalid Hosseini.
“Learn this now and learn it well, my daughter: Like a compass needle that points north, a man's accusing finger always finds a woman. Always.”
— Khalid Hosseini, A Thousand Splendid Suns.
I’m changing my name soon. Not my actual name, but the title of my blog. The Fig Tree is beautiful but it’s someone who I once was. When I started this blog, I was driven by the pain I felt after the events I describe in this post. The fig tree was not only inspired by how much I want to do and achieve (because that ambition remains), but by a gesture they do in the mediterranean (or at least according to google, correct me if I’m being an orientalist twat). The fig sign is a way of insulting someone or denying their request. For me, it meant I was telling everyone who doubted me, who criticised me despite not knowing me at all, to essentially screw off. It made sense then, but I’m over it. This post is a goodbye to that chapter. A farewell.
There’s a hint somewhere in this post of my new title. I will actually scream in joy if someone notices. I love you all so so much. Mwah!
And thank you for the love you’ve shown me on A love letter to my deen. I appreciate it endlessly, alhamdulillah 💌
With love,
Alee xx — the fig tree, signs off?
trying to avoid a lawsuit xx
I liked this read, I found it approached the grey area of advocacy bc ppl forget that u can still advocate for victims and still recognize their bad behavior. Well done!
Beautifully written and incredibly true 🫶