A Letter To Society: On Inherited Silences

Dear Society,

Where did we inherit our silences?

Not just the ones that hush our voices, but the ones that settle in the bones. The ones that cross generations like ghost stories — the kind we don’t speak of, but somehow still obey. Where did man and woman first learn to retreat into silence, to mistake repression for resilience, and distance for dignity?

Being born as a man or woman is not just biological—it's social, emotional, and deeply scripted. From the moment we arrive, we are wrapped not only in blankets but in expectations.

From ancient times, women’s roles in society were confined largely to domesticity. In Ancient Greece, women were barred from public discourse. Their presence in civic life was considered disruptive, their voices a threat to male authority. In medieval Europe and feudal Asia, women were often viewed as property — traded through marriage, confined by modesty, and controlled by honor. Their access to education and property was limited; their opinions, when expressed, were often dismissed or punished.

Religious institutions across cultures — whether in the form of Christianity, Islam, Hinduism, or others — reinforced the idea of women as inherently subordinate. The ideal woman was silent, obedient, and self-sacrificing. In many religious texts, women’s voices are tied to temptation, danger, or impurity. Silence was not merely expected of them — it was sanctified.

Over generations, this silence became internalized. It was no longer just social; it was psychological. Daughters learned it from their mothers, who had learned it from theirs. Silence became tradition — a form of inheritance.

Men’s silence, though different, was no less enforced. In many warrior cultures — from the Spartans to samurais — stoicism was a virtue. Boys were taught to suppress their fears, their tears, their tenderness. To show emotion was to show weakness, and weakness was fatal. During the Industrial Revolution, men were valued for productivity, not presence. As they became cogs in the wheel of capitalism, their identities narrowed — provider, protector, rational being. Emotional expression had no place in the factory or battlefield. In patriarchal households, fathers were often feared, not approached. Vulnerability was equated with failure. The man who felt too deeply, cried too often, or spoke too honestly risked being emasculated — by his peers, by his family, even by himself. Thus, the man too inherited a silence — one that demanded repression rather than submission, but which isolated him all the same. 

You taught women that silence is virtue. From the cloisters of medieval Europe to the zenanas of Mughal India, a woman who spoke too much was dangerous. You placed Sita in exile for crossing a line of honor, burned widows on pyres in the name of purity, and cast Medusa into myth — her voice too loud, her gaze too powerful. In religion, you sanctified submission. In society, you glorified modesty. Even in literature, you romanticized her pain — Penelope waiting, Draupadi disrobed, Ophelia drowned.

Over time, this silence turned inward. It was no longer just social; it became spiritual. Daughters learned to speak in softened tones, to second-guess their own truths. Silence became a mother tongue — passed down like an heirloom, unspoken but always understood.

You taught men that silence is strength. In Spartan camps and samurai codes, in the sweatshops of the Industrial Revolution and the blood-soaked trenches of war — the ideal man was silent, efficient, invulnerable. Boys were told not to cry. Fathers were distant. Emotional language was erased from the masculine script.

Cultural proverbs and everyday sayings encode silence into gender identity. "Boys don’t cry." "A good woman knows her place." "He’s strong and silent." "She talks too much." Such phrases are not harmless; they are tools of conditioning. In homes, girls are encouraged to be accommodating, polite, and deferential. Boys are pushed to be independent, assertive, and emotionally detached. Thus, even as children, they learn not only how to speak — but when to stay silent, and about what.

The 20th and 21st centuries have seen seismic shifts. Feminist movements have reclaimed women’s voices — from voting rights to body autonomy, from #MeToo to female authorship and leadership. Therapy culture, mental health advocacy, and gender discourse have begun challenging the notion that men must be stoic and unreadable. And yet, these shifts coexist with resistance. Women who speak out are still often labeled as "too emotional," "angry," or "attention-seeking." Men who show vulnerability are seen as weak, unreliable, or "not man enough."

In the digital age, we are more connected than ever — but often emotionally disconnected. Social media encourages expression, but not always truth. We perform our lives but struggle to communicate our pain. This creates a new kind of silence: one that is not imposed by others, but by the noise around us. And so here we are, centuries later — building homes, raising children, making love, breaking bread — yet unable to fully hear each other. Speaking different dialects of silence.

She aches to be understood, but speaks in feelings. He fears being misunderstood, and withdraws into quiet.

We are not at war, and yet we keep missing each other — two hearts divided not by hate, but by habit.

Even now, when we say we are freer — when we protest, when we post, when we speak in hashtags and hot takes — the silences remain. More subtle now, perhaps. Curated, aesthetic, brandable. But still, they ache.

We speak of empowerment, but often still ask women to make themselves palatable.We speak of men’s emotions, but rarely make space for their fear without shaming them for it.We speak of equality, but forget that communication is not just about speaking louder — it’s about listening deeper.

I wonder, Society — have you ever stopped to listen to the silences you created?

Not just the ones between man and woman, but the ones within them?

Have you seen the cost of it?

The woman who no longer knows what she wants because she’s spent a lifetime prioritizing what others expect.The man who can’t say “I’m tired” without feeling like he’s failed.The loneliness in marriages. The emotional labor in friendships. The mental health crises we dismiss as personal weakness instead of collective failure.

You built these roles for us — but they do not fit. They never did.

What would happen, Society, if we stopped performing these silences?What would emerge if a man could say, “I’m scared,” and still be respected?If a woman could say, “I’m angry,” and still be loved?

What new language might grow between us — one not inherited, but chosen?

What might we understand about each other if we stopped filling the air with noise and finally… listened?

Still asking.

Love,

Afrah