The essence of our unheard voices isn’t merely in the silence of our spoken words. The deeper hurt stems from being cut off before we can fully express ourselves, from conversations where the so-called listeners are just biding their time, eager to insert their own story into any pause. This isn’t just about being unheard; it’s about the deep disappointment of realizing that our words are merely background noise to someone else’s monologue.
Look at Mumtaz in this scene from the film Joyland. Mumtaz struggles as she’s made to abandon her career at the makeup parlor, a place where her art and passion thrive and her identity flourishes. She’s told to quit her art so that she can help out at the house now that her husband, Haider, finally has a job of his own. Her feelings are evident, and her words reflect them. She clearly says that she does not want to leave her job, but the deep-seated gender norms within her lower-income family dictate otherwise. She has no choice but to be obedient and quietly conform. Haider’s inability to support her in this fight, bowing instead to his father’s expectations, amplifies Mumtaz’s isolation. She feels unheard, speaking into a void where no one truly listens to her.
WAIT. I’ll illustrate my point through another example. Consider a crucial, yet seemingly minor scene preceding the confrontation.
Here, Mumtaz, brimming with the excitement of Haider’s newfound employment rushes to share the news with the family. She fails to fully grasp the full context of his role at a dance theatre. SHE WASN’T LISTENING. This sense of hurry in extracting information from incomplete expression and communication underscores a recurring theme in the film. Haider was hesitating when telling his wife about his job. Mumtaz should’ve gotten the hint or at least waited long enough to listen to his explanation. Haider was not a manager at the dance theatre but a background dancer to a transgender erotic dancer. Telling a traditional family like Rana family about the super unconventional job, especially during the presence of his father, would be close to suicide for Haider.
If Mumtaz had listened to him long enough, maybe they would have decided not to announce Haider having a job at all. The failure to listen and understand fully leads to unintended consequences: Mumtaz has to now quit a job she so deeply loves. The family, like most other human groups in the world, is stuck in a cycle of failing to truly listen to each other, a cycle that leads to nothing but a false sense of honor at present, and a lot of suffering down the road.
DISCLAIMER TIME! It is important to note here that there’s a difference between listening and mere obedience. In no way am I trying to say that everyone’s lives would be better if they complied with the rigid, patriarchal dictates of Mr. Rana Amanullah. Nor am I suggesting that Auntie Fayyaz’s life would have been any better if she kept walking on eggshells to protect her son’s hypocritical honor.
True listening involves understanding and empathy, not submission and conformity to oppressive norms. I don’t think the characters’ struggles and conflicts in Joyland stem from a lack of obedience. It stems from disconnects in genuine communication and understanding within their relationships.
Joyland does a pretty realistic job of portraying the dynamics of patriarchy within a lower-income Pakistani household. The film also expertly presents varied forms of masculinity and societal expectations. Saleem, Haider’s older brother, represents the archetype of a strong, dependable man, yet his inability to produce a male heir weighs heavily on him. Our protagonist Haider, in contrast, embodies sensitivity and compassion, traits that continually subject him to emasculation and exploitation, throughout the movie. Biba, for the lack of a better way to put it, is someone who wants to break away from this gender and wants to choose to be, feel, and be treated as a woman. In a later part of the film, Biba tells Haider that when she saves enough money, she will undergo surgery to be more like a woman.
When Biba shares this intimate aim with Haider, he tells her that he likes her the way she is, to which Biba gets pissed. …WHAT? While building my narrative about hearing and not hearing, this point in the movie confused me. Did Biba not like that the person she is involved with likes her for who she is and does not want her to change herself? Or did Haider not properly listen to Biba’s feelings about who she is on the inside and how she wants to look on the outside? The answer is probably both. After the trend of dual nationalities has risen and now fallen, I give you DUAL MISUNDERSTANDING. (What do you mean they’re the same thing?) This moment between Haider and Biba encapsulates a dual misunderstanding: Haider’s well-intentioned but misaligned comfort, and Biba’s longing for acknowledgment of her identity, refusing to receive love for the way she is now. None of them is truly listening to each other.
Being a part of a community suffocated by traditions, I was inadvertently ignorant of the ordeals of the transgender community in Pakistan. I caved into peer pressure and found myself averting my gaze every time I saw a member of the community approach me for alms. When I got older and was able to reason with my preconceived beliefs, I wondered why I almost feared them. Looking away like avoiding a painful memory, a haunting image, or strangeness that evokes anxiety. I came to eventually realize that this is a case of unfamiliarity begetting fear. It’s a sentiment that resonates over cultures and time. When faced with the unknown, our minds conjure up irrational apprehensions and doubts.