Writings by Rabeea Sangani

  A few days ago, I studied a concept, in my Sociology book, known as Postcolonialism. Postcolonialism is the study of the legacy of colonialism and imperialism and their continuing effects on less developed countries today. Upon reflecting upon it-and I did think about it significantly- I realized that there was more than just marked territories that colonization had bequeathed to us. In fact, territories, and land wasn’t the West's primary motive anyway. Neither were silk and spices, as one may argue in the case of India. West only had one goal and that is best described in their own words: “I have travelled across the length and breadth of India and I have not seen person who is a beggar, who is a thief such wealth I have seen in this country, such high moral values, people of such caliber, that I do not think we would ever conquer this country, unless we break the very backbone of this nation, which is her spiritual and cultural heritage and therefore I propose that we re...

  Zainab was staring straight at her desk since the last thirty-five minutes. Laying down on her water-like mattress with a glittery cushion-the ones that are in trend these days- pressed behind her cramping back, she was unable to opt between the comfort of bed and the joy of writing. At this moment, both promised horizons. A few hours of rest could regain all the strength that she has lost during; cleaning, washing, doing dishes and reading, while a good piece of writing can confer all the psychological healing required. The desk, although, was in a disarray. Was her mind any different? It was a small computer trolley with a 4-column shelf attached to it. In the middle of the table, was placed a purple notebook, filled with all her writings, the last pages of which contained ideas about her future plots. Here, the world was reflected upon, written, erased, highlighted, underlined, italicized, rethought, despised, adored and, most frequently, torn. Under the corner, stood a pape...