By Agonthina N. Marak
I mourned alone through the heavy night,
With no stars lit in the mourning sky.
My mother gave me her surname —
But no voice, forbidden to utter even a word.
The clanfathers rule over my mother’s blood.
Every word I swallow is older than my grandmother’s silence.
Even when I had reason, they told me to hush.
I raised my voice — and got warned with exile from my own land.
They raised their hands — and the women nodded too.
This is the price of being born into legacy.
Yet in my silence, I carry a weeping light.
And the earth shall change — through its daughter.
Author’s Note
This poem speaks from a place of quiet grief — the kind felt by those expected to inherit land but not the freedom to speak.
Garo society is proudly matrilineal — we inherit lineage and property through the mother’s line. I hold deep respect for our customs. But while we are matrilineal by inheritance, our tradition often functions in patriarchal ways. Authority over decisions, family matters and community rules is usually held by male elders, particularly maternal uncles.
In many traditional settings, women — even daughters of the clan — are not allowed to speak. To raise a voice, to express disagreement is often seen as defiance or disrespect.
I once spoke up in a gathering where I believed truth mattered. Instead, I was scolded and warned:
“What if we exile your whole family from this place?”
That moment stayed with me — not just as a threat but as a reminder that even truth has a price when it challenges tradition.
It was not a gentle reminder — it still hurts.
The line “I carry my weeping light” reflects that burden — the silence I carry, the weight of obedience and the quiet strength of holding on to truth with dignity.
This poem is not a rejection of our elders or traditions but a mourning song for those unheard within them and a hope that voice and dignity will one day rise together, not in conflict with our identity but in harmony with it.