My Daughters Will Not Live Under The Tyranny of a "Father"

The story of the little girls in my building.

There are these little girls in my building who aren’t just living under the tyranny of the "religion of peace," but also under their father’s control. Their dad is the typical Bangladeshi father: he seems harmless and gentle at first glance, not the sex-pest variety but you can tell there’s more going on. Their mom hardly ever leaves the apartment—not even to relax in the building's central garden and common area. Her whole life is contained within the walls of the 150-meter square apartment, with any outings completely dependent on her husband's plans. She recently made the girls cut their hair short, which I think might be some weird female intrasexual competition. Maybe she just needed an excuse to leave the house, get a facial, and spend some of the money her husband gave her. Or maybe she’s making her daughters less attractive as a twisted way to reclaim some control in her powerless life. They’re the only ones she can control—including herself.

The younger girl, the one I’m close to, let’s call her Sindu, told me how her dad has all the money while her mom has none. And honestly, I don’t even think he’s that great of a patriarch. Sindu also mentioned that our landlady calls him all day asking for rent money. What kills me is that these girls seem freer around random men in our building than they do around their dad.

Sindu is around 10 years old and is smitten with me. It’s wild that all I had to do to win this kid over was listen to her. She’s the middle child, the one who’s easily forgotten but still essential. She’s always carrying around her baby brother, who’s already about three-fourths her height. She’s got a skinny frame like her dad, while her brother is bigger like their mom. It amazes me that this little girl, who is barely larger than her baby brother, is the one responsible for carrying him around. It’s like watching a child care for another child. Sometimes, their father doesn’t let them come down to hang out with me, but when they do, I automatically become a big sister. We discuss the rich inner lives of these girls and give serious attention to things that people would disregard as trivial girl problems.

I’m a hardcore Apple user—I’ve got the MacBook, iPad, iPhone, and Apple Watch. When we run out of things to talk about, I become their personal Apple Store. Sindu’s older sister, let’s call her Mariam, colonizes the iPad to watch brain-rotting Tiktoks, while Sindu battles Pokémon on my phone. I even have to hand over my watch for their little brother to play with. But the second they hear their father coming down the stairs, they drop everything. This “triggered” me. This was how my siblings and I lived.

My dad had (and still has, even with lung cancer) serious anger issues. He wasn’t the over-the-top abusive type, but he could make home miserable with his yelling over the smallest things. He was the typical African dad who used a belt to "correct" his kids. I’m not asking for pity—he was rough, but still better than most dads in our community. Seeing those girls drop everything when their dad got close reminded me of how my siblings and I would pretend not to be watching TV when our dad came home. We knew, and he knew, that we were glued to the screen, but we still had to pretend that we weren’t.

Now, these girls—just 11 and 13—don’t have access to the TV, iPad, or phones. This isn’t about protecting them from "iPad Kid Brain Rot"—it’s just their father’s way of imposing his will under the guise of “discipline.” He’s the kind of guy who makes home miserable without even realizing it. The kind who thinks that because he pays the bills, he can make all the rules. Watching how these girls instinctively react when they sense their dad is near is heartbreaking. It’s the way some fathers drain the joy out of their homes, justifying it by claiming they’re the only ones responsible for the family’s financial well-being—a situation they created for themselves. This man has been spiritually cocked by society, and the people who he can screw over are the women in his family.

Some days, I wonder what kind of impact I’ll have on these girls. I made sure to tell Sindu that when she’s older and gets a European passport, she should take off that hijab and run. The kids have all found their ways of coping. Mariam, who’s forced to wear the hijab, has a rich inner life. She dances on TikTok, likes boys, doesn’t bother with her baby brother, and is the more rebellious one. Sindu, my little friend, doesn’t want to grow up. She can already see the burden of womanhood that’s been dumped on the women around her, and she’s trying to hold on to childhood for as long as she can. She’s the kinder one, always spending time with her younger brother. In some cruel foreshadowing, the little boy has learned everyone’s name but hers. And, of course, the name he loves the most is "Baba."Unfortunately, all the love his sister showers on him won’t make him grow up to respect women more. That unearned affection will probably just make him resent them. That’s boy math for you.

I don’t know what impact I’ll have on these girls. In some ways, we’re so alike: black and brown girls from the developing world, now living in the West. But in other ways, we’re worlds apart: I live independently now, have always been a rebel, and was lucky enough to be born into Christianity. I think a lot of people can’t wrap their heads around how a young woman like me lives alone in a Europoor country where even 45-year-olds still have roommates. I am organizing a party for all the little girls in my building. Little girls deserve to not only live away from the constant threat of male violence but also experience unbridled feminine joy. I hope that my existence plants the seeds of rebellion in these girls’ lives. I hope that I inspire them to engineer their lives for their benefit because no one is going to do that. I hope that these girls can see through the bullshit of their broken mother, unreasonable father, and retarded religion. I hope for these girls’ freedom and will remain in their lives to help secure it when the time is right.

Best,

Coffy.

---