How Women Can Be Their Own Worst Enemies

We talk so much about men being the problem—and let’s be real, patriarchy is a man-made hellscape—but what we don’t talk about enough is how often women themselves keep this toxic cycle alive. It’s not just men enforcing these outdated, oppressive rules. Sometimes, it’s mothers, aunts, teachers, older sisters—the very women who should be fighting for the next generation but instead become their biggest roadblock. And it’s not always because they’re evil or malicious. A lot of times, it’s because they never had the chance to break free themselves.

When Women Become the Enforcers of Patriarchy

Ever met a woman who’s so bitter about her own lack of choices that she makes damn sure her daughter has just as few? It’s tragic, but it happens all the time. A mother who was forced into an arranged marriage at 18 won’t let her daughter marry for love because she wasn’t allowed to. A woman who had to give up her education to be a housewife makes sure her daughter stays “in her limits” instead of pursuing a career. It’s the whole “If I suffered, so should you” mentality.

Why? Because freedom can feel like an insult to those who never had it. Instead of seeing their daughters break the cycle and being proud, they see it as a slap in the face. A reminder of what they never got. And so, they pull their own daughters back into the same trap, justifying it as “tradition,” “duty,” or “the right way for a woman to be.”

Audre Lorde said it best: “The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” If women keep enforcing the same patriarchal rules that were forced on them, how does anything ever change?

Women Who Defend Their Own Oppression

Then there’s another category: the “pick me” women. The ones who will do anything to be validated by men, even if it means throwing other women under the bus. These are the ones who say, “I’m not like other girls,” who shame feminists, who defend men like Andrew Tate, and who parrot the same misogynistic nonsense they’ve heard from their fathers, brothers, and boyfriends.

This isn’t new. It’s the same reason so many women campaigned against their own right to vote back in the early 20th century. It’s why you’ll find women justifying domestic abuse, policing other women’s clothing, or preaching that a woman’s biggest achievement is “being a good wife and mother”—even when it’s clear they themselves are miserable in those roles.

It’s internalised misogyny at its finest, and it’s exhausting.

Queer Men and the Femme Stigma

As a queer person, I understand this on another level. The world punishes femininity—whether it’s in women or men. One of the reasons so many gay men get bullied isn’t just because they’re gay; it’s because they’re femme. Because in this cis male-dominated world, nothing is seen as more pathetic than a man who acts like a woman. It tells you everything you need to know about how society sees women.

And let’s not forget, a lot of homophobic bullying by boys? It’s done to impress girls. I’ve seen it firsthand—boys making fun of the “gay kid” just to get a few laughs from the girls around them. And some of these girls? They laugh because deep down, they’ve been taught that men being soft, vulnerable, or feminine is disgusting. They’ve learned that from their mothers, who learned it from their mothers, and the cycle goes on.

Let’s break this pattern!

We can’t just say “men need to do better” and leave it at that. Because the reality is, if women are still raising their daughters to be obedient and their sons to be dominant, nothing really changes.

• Teach kids young. This isn’t just about telling girls they can be strong; it’s about telling boys they can be soft. That crying isn’t weak. That being kind isn’t “gay.” That respect isn’t conditional.

• Call out internalised misogyny when you see it. If a woman is tearing another woman down, question it. Ask why. Make her reflect.

• Stop raising women to suffer. If you’re a mother, an aunt, a sister, an older cousin—don’t clip another girl’s wings just because yours were clipped. Let her fly.

At the end of the day, we’re all hurting in one way or another. The least we can do is stop adding to each other’s pain. Instead of telling people to “rise above” their suffering, maybe we should start pulling through it together.

The Power of Cinema: How The Black Stallion Has Carried Me Through Life

The power of cinema lies in its ability to transport us—to take us back to moments of pure joy, to remind us of who we once were, and sometimes, to lift us from the depths of despair. For me, that film has always been The Black Stallion.

I first saw it when I was five years old, in a cinema called New Talkies in Bandra. My grandmother took me to watch it, and then my mother took me again. I watched it several times over the years, and in the 1980s, without access to OTT platforms, DVDs, or even regular TV broadcasts, we had to rely on someone with a VCR and a VHS cassette to revisit a beloved film. And revisit it I did—again and again, probably thousands of times.

There’s something about The Black Stallion that speaks to me on a level no other film does. It’s a simple story—a boy and a horse, forming a bond that goes beyond words, beyond logic, beyond any relationship I’ve seen depicted in film before or since. They meet in isolation, stranded on a deserted island, both alone in the world. And in that loneliness, something unbreakable is forged. The purity, the energy, the synergy between them—boy, animal, landscape—it all fills me with a deep, complete contentment.

Lately, I’ve been particularly low. Depression has a way of creeping in, weighing me down, making even the simplest things feel exhausting. And when that happens, I go back to The Black Stallion. I put it on, and I watch the first half—just the boy and the horse, with no dialogue, no human noise, just the sound of the waves, the wind, the hooves against the sand. The barren landscape, the golden light of the setting sun, the ocean stretching endlessly—it all carries me away. There are so many metaphors at play, but to a child watching in the cinema all those years ago, it was simply magic. A connection to aspire to.

And that’s still what I aspire to. Beautiful connections. Connections where words aren’t necessary—where love, need, and the desire to run free are enough.

Carroll Ballard’s direction is nothing short of breathtaking. There’s one shot, in particular, that I always come back to—the one where Alec, played by Kelly Reno, offers the horse a piece of seaweed as the sun sets behind them. The way the camera lingers on that moment, the hesitation, the trust, the silent understanding—it always makes me smile, no matter how heavy my heart feels. In those moments, I forget everything else.

That’s the true power of cinema. It lets you go back. It takes you to the moment when you first experienced it—before life got complicated, before the losses, before the weight of the world settled on your shoulders. When Alec Ramsey climbs onto the horse in the sea and they gallop together for the first time, the music swells, and I feel it in my bones. I feel that rush of freedom, that joy, that dream of running wild and untamed.

Very few movies can do that. The Black Stallion does. The only other film that comes close, for me, is Anne of Green Gables—another story that exists in a world untainted by cynicism, by corrupt logic, by the exhausting battles between overbearing liberalism and catatonic conservatism. A story where beauty is simply beauty.

And even now, as I write this, I feel lighter. I think about the music, about Alec, about the horse, about the island. I think about the sun, the waves, the wind, the freedom. And I smile.

That is the power of cinema.

A Few Facts About The Black Stallion:

• The film was directed by Carroll Ballard, known for his ability to capture the raw beauty of nature and animals on screen. His work in The Black Stallion is widely praised for its poetic visual storytelling.

• The cinematography was done by Caleb Deschanel, whose stunning compositions turned the film into a visual masterpiece. The way he shot the island sequences made them feel almost dreamlike.

• The film’s score was composed by Carmine Coppola, father of Francis Ford Coppola, who also produced the movie. The music is hauntingly beautiful, especially in the moment when Alec first rides the stallion in the water.

• The titular Black Stallion, Cass Ole, was an Arabian horse known for his beauty and grace.

• Sadly, none of the main cast members are alive today. Teri Garr recently passed away, Mickey Rooney before her, and Kelly Reno, who played Alec, stepped away from acting long ago. Even Cass Ole is gone. But the film remains—a legacy left behind, a piece of art that still touches the heart of someone who first watched it 45 years ago.

And that, more than anything, is proof of cinema’s power.

The Complexity of Lies

Today, I came across a quote that struck a chord: “I was never asking for too much. I was just asking the wrong person.” It made me pause. Lately, I’ve been feeling disillusioned by the people I love, grappling with the simple yet profound expectation of love and honesty. I don’t think I ask for much—just truth, just sincerity. After all, if you truly love someone, wouldn’t honesty be a natural part of that love?

But love and honesty don’t always go hand in hand. We like to believe they do, that love is built on trust and truth, yet relationships often prove otherwise. People lie. And while some lies may stem from fear, self-preservation, or misguided intentions, the fact remains—lies hurt.

I’ve been trying to understand why people lie, particularly to those they claim to love. One could argue that lying is often a reaction to anticipated consequences. The person who lies knows the truth will likely cause disappointment, anger, or pain. But that’s precisely where the contradiction lies—if you know the truth will hurt someone, and you love that person, why lie in the first place? Isn’t deception, in itself, an act of disregard for the person’s feelings?

This brings me to a difficult realisation: lying is not about the character of the person being lied to, but rather about the one doing the lying. A liar weighs the truth, measures the possible reactions, and makes a calculated choice to conceal it. And in making that choice, they assume control over how another person experiences reality. That’s what makes dishonesty so cruel—it robs the other person of the right to respond to life with full knowledge.

Yet, the irony is that truth, no matter how deeply buried, always finds its way out. Lies are never simple; they are layered, tangled, and exhausting to maintain. The truth, on the other hand, is straightforward. It may not always be easy, but it is never as complicated as the web of deceit spun to hide it.

So, if love is real, if it holds any meaning beyond sentiment, then honesty must be part of it. Because love without truth is merely an illusion—fragile, fleeting, and destined to shatter.