A Transgender Child’s Last Letter to His Mother

Final Farewell: A Transgender Child’s Last Letter to His Mother

Dear Mother,

I was only nine or ten years old when Father dragged me out of our home, leaving me abandoned on the streets. I screamed and cried out for you, but you lay motionless, frozen in fear. The only thing that flowed freely were your tears—tears that dared not stop even in the face of Father’s furious wrath. Every drop was proof of your deep discontent with his actions, yet you were forced to submit to his every demand.

When Father lost control, the barbs of neighbors, the taunts of relatives, and the accusing stares of society became unbearable. With his worn-out, dark leather sandals, he would lash out at my tender skin. I would flee towards the only refuge I knew—a cold storage room that became my sole sanctuary. In those nights of punishment, you would stealthily come, embracing me and soothing my wounds with the modest fabric of your scarf. You would hold me close for hours, gently pacifying me with your quiet, loving gestures. In that lonely room filled with our muted sobs, my tears carried countless questions. Why was I singled out for Father’s hatred? Why, on special occasions when guests arrived, was I locked away with the useless remnants of our home, denied even the smallest freedom until the mercy of God eventually left? Each time, you answered my silent queries with nothing more than a loving gaze, a tender kiss on my forehead, or a soft caress of my hands—proof of your unconditional love for me, your only child who was so desperately in need of affection.

I remember the day Father banished me from our home. My sole misdeed had been borrowing the red color from the decorative items on your dressing table—stealing a fleeting moment of joy by wearing your red dupatta, adorning my wrists with your bangles, and slipping on your click-clacking shoes. I was simply reveling in that brief happiness, only to be met with a storm of abuse as Father unleashed his wrath upon me. I pleaded for forgiveness, but my pleas were drowned out by his curses. Dragged mercilessly across the floor, my fate was sealed when he declared, “Today, you are dead to us.” The moment those words reached my ears, the grip that had been holding Father's feet faltered. My voice stilled, and my tears ceased, for I knew he would never retract his verdict. And you, dear Mother, never had the courage to defy him.

That day, Father left me behind, abandoned at the doorstep of a local “guru’s” home. They renamed me Ali Shāh, stripping me of my identity. I was forced into a life of dancing and singing, constantly monitored. Every chance I got, I attempted to escape, running desperately towards the faint hope of your love, only to be halted by Father’s final decree. I recall the bittersweet sight of you at the door, serving warm bread—a simple act that ignited both my hunger and my longing. As you carefully portioned out morsels to my siblings, my own share remained an ever-present void. I would often find solace in the memory of those moments, moistening dry bread with my tears in an attempt to fill that aching emptiness.

Subsequent celebrations of Eid were spent in solitude. While Father distributed gifts, my hands remained perpetually empty. The moment Father’s affectionate gestures touched everyone else, my head would hang in resignation. I often dreamt that, if only for a moment, Father would set aside his cruelty, stop his cycle-ridden bicycle in the courtyard, and embrace me with tenderness. But that yearning was doomed never to be fulfilled.

The ordeal did not end with the banishment. I was then subjected to further torment—taken to a so-called “guru” by force, stripped of my dignity, and exploited for his own pleasures. In my tender youth, overwhelmed by pain, I lost consciousness. I was handed over to that very same man, and so began a vicious cycle: every day, I would fall further into despair, as if dying inside repeatedly. I tried to escape many times, wandering from door to door in search of any kind of work, but despair was my only companion. Eventually, no matter where I turned, I found myself returned to the cold sanctuary of that “guru’s” door.

Society branded us with insults. When we wished ill upon someone, we would curse them, “May your house produce another soul like me!” Even though our veins flowed with red blood, just like everyone else, our creator was the same for us all. So, what was our crime? Perhaps it was simply that we were born with red blood, while society favored the pale.

Mother, I spent my life yearning to live, yet time and again, my existence was snuffed out—first through societal mockery masked by religion and then through the brutal sting of physical abuse. I too was shot one day. When I came to, the doctor softly whispered words of hope, urging me to find the strength to return to life. With great difficulty, I mustered the courage to ask, “If I return, will you let me live?” Even as death hovered over me, I clung to the hope that you would rush to embrace me, hold my head in your lap, tend to my wounds, and gently release me from this world. But the angel of death showed no mercy, and my chance at life was cut short.

I have heard that on the Day of Judgment, children will be called by the name of their mothers. So, I beg you, on that day, do not turn your face away from me.

Forever yearning for your love,

Your child