1. First Encounter
How did Parwana Fayyaz and Forough Farrokhzad first enter your life?

I first came across Forough Farrokhzad at an exhibition at the Barbican in London by Soheila Sokhanvari, Rebel Rebel. The first painting in the series was that of Farrokhzad, and I was moved by her story, which prompted me to look her up. I read Sholeh Wolpe’s translation of some of Farrokhzad’s poems in The Markaz Review and they resonated strongly. Since then, I often go back to her life story, and her work, which includes her poems and her films. Her courage, self-belief and conviction, when the state did everything to silence her, is inspirational. I wrote an essay which explores the evolution of her understanding of voice, which she believed was the only thing that endured.

I found Parwana Fayyaz quite by chance. I was searching for Afghani female poets, because I wanted to read something from Afghanistan, and I was struck by her simple, bold language. Like Farrokhzad, in her own way, she is a ‘rebel,’ resisting and speaking back to a society that wants to women to cower and submit.

2. The Spark
What compelled you to write about these poems in particular?

I had been thinking about my childhood growing up in Kenya, and reflecting on the strong women in my life, including my mother and my aunts- and how inter-generational bonds and ideas influenced me. When I read Fayyaz’s poem, I was reminded of my own sisters, and the dolls we used to play with. That time seemed so protected and innocent compared to what Fayyaz experienced, and her use of dolls, as a metaphor made me think of Farrokhzad’s ‘wind up doll’ which had a different connotation.

3. The Conversation
What conversation about gender, language, or place does this piece open?

I think the poems are striking in that they are written by poets in two very different contexts and time but rely on the same symbol of the doll, which I explore further in the essay.

4. The Line That Stayed
Was there a moment, image, or idea in the poems that lingered with you?

I liked the idea that for the poets a doll is not simply an artefact but allows for deeper reflection on the politics of the feminine, cultural conditioning, and solidarity. A friend pointed out that the essay reminded her of the Barbie doll, and how that too, for some, is connected with fun and play, while for others it is more sinister. For my sister and I, growing up in Kenya in the 1970s, a Barbie doll drew a line between the haves and have-nots: those who had relatives who travelled abroad and brought one back, and those who had no clue what it was, or desire for it, or secretly harboured a longing for it. The Barbie doll brings up ambivalent feelings about what one ‘thinks’ one should have, but has no real connection with. I love that the poems capture how dolls as symbols are personal, layered, and complicated.

A completely different story comes to mind in relation to this unease. A Real Doll by A. M. Homes uses a single element of magical realism, the dolls’ ability to come alive, to explore the disturbing interiority of its teenage narrator. From the outset, he frames his relationship with Barbie as rehearsal: ‘I’m dating Barbie… I’m practicing for the future.’ What follows is not innocence but a gradual normalization of control and violation, where the doll becomes a passive recipient of his desires and experiments. Even moments that might suggest awareness instead deepen his detachment, as he admits, ‘I liked the fact she understood… I started imagining things I might be able to get away with.’ The story presents a chilling coming-of-age shaped by entitlement, projection, and the absence of consequence.

I’m also reminded of a magical realism short story And Now His Lordship Is Laughing by Shiv Ramdas, where the craft of doll-making is transformed into a powerful act of resistance. Apa is a master doll-maker in colonial Bengal. Initially, her jute dolls are rooted in community and love for the craft, and she says: ‘My putuls are not for sale. I give them to those whom I choose.’ She refuses to comply with the coloniser’s demand for a doll for his daughter: ‘No… There is nothing to reconsider.’ When the British devastate the land with famine-inducing policies, her doll making undergoes a radical shift. The jute, once a symbol of shared labour and memory, becomes infused with grief, rage, and defiance: ‘she no longer shakes the blood aside, but lets it drip… into the jute.’ Her final doll, a ‘Hashi’r Putul’ or laughing doll, reverses the power dynamic between coloniser and colonised. No longer an object of innocent child entertainment, the doll takes on magical qualities, becomes an agent of destruction, and forces the British officials into uncontrollable laughter that leads to their deaths. In this moment, Apa reclaims both artistic and political agency, turning the doll into a weapon that punishes colonial violence.

This transformation resonates with Farrokhzad’s The Wind-Up Doll and Fayyaz’s Three Dolls, though each text mobilizes the figure of the doll differently. Farrokhzad’s wind-up doll embodies mechanical existence and imposed repetition; Ramdas’ doll disrupts this paradigm by refusing control and enacting rupture. In contrast, Fayyaz’s Three Dolls frames artistic practice itself as an act of endurance under oppression, where doll making is about memory and presence and Ramdas’ work aligns closely with this vision. Apa continues to make dolls even under extreme violence but transforms into a deliberate political act. Across these texts, the doll shifts from a symbol of passivity to one of confrontation, resistance, and reconfiguration of power.

In the works by Farrokhzad, Fayyaz, and Ramdas, doll-making and the doll are expressive, political, and even dangerous, while in Homes’ story the doll remains an object acted upon.  In Homes, ‘practice’ on the doll signals the reproduction of power, whereas in the other works ‘making’ is positioned as a counterforce. The contrast is stark: A Real Doll exposes how domination is internalised and practiced, while the other texts imagine how it can be challenged and reshaped.