Reality vs the Book of the Handmaid’s Tale

Reading chapter 33 of the Handmaid’s Tale left me with a complicated mix of sadness, in a way fascination and anger. Margaret Atwood’s portrayal of a society that celebrates female subjugation under the guise of holiness hit me deeply. What resonated most wasn’t just the obvious cruelty of Gilead’s rituals, but how normal and even “beautiful” they appear to those within the system. That distortion of morality, when oppression is dressed up as virtue, reminded me of many moments in my own life where conformity was rewarded more than compassion. In chapter 33, Aunt Lydia urges the Handmaids to view the ceremony as a “victory”. She tells them that “We must all be joyful for the good that is being done”, referring to the arranged marriages of very young girls to older men. Offred’s narration, however, strips away the holiness Aunt Lydia tries to impose, her tone is weary, observant and quietly resistant. She sees through the ceremony facade. “There is something indecent about the way they are so happy” she notes about the Wives, watching them smile and clap. This tension between what the regime demands people say and what they actually feel. Looking at their lives and how they lived, in comparison to mine, it was a difference but similar but more so towards my appearance and the way you looked and appeared to other adults, in which my grandparents cared most about. You had to appear, dress, act a certain way, you couldn’t wear certain things because it would be deemed as “improper” or “uncanny” in a way of unacceptable or strange. Appearance and the way you carried yourself mattered and a lot of it is shown in the Handmaids tale, based off of the roles you had to play in society, what you had to do, instead of what you wanted to do, in both, there wasn’t an option, but it was a demand. Reading about the young brides in chapter 33, dressed in white, and paraded as symbols of virtue, I thought about those moments in my past when I felt defined more by what I shouldn’t do than what I could do. Atwood’s description, “They are being given to men who have served the state” perfectly captures that transfer of ownership. It made me realize how easily language can normalize control. Another moment that “resonated” with me was Janine’s behavior. Once celebrated for her successful childbirth, she now appears detached and unstable. Offred describes her as “smiling vacantly” and speaking nonsense, her mind clearly fractured by the trauma she endured. Another moment shown, Offred and Ofglen’s whispered exchange during the ceremony also struck a personal chord. Their small act of connection felt quietly revolutionary. In a world where even speech is dangerous, that moment of shared recognition, the simple acknowledgment that they both see the truth felt profound. It reminded me of times I’ve found solidarity in silence: glancing at a friend across a room during an uncomfortable moment, or sharing a private joke in a setting where we had to act “proper.” Those tiny acts of rebellion remind me that resistance doesn’t always look like protest, sometimes it’s just the courage to whisper when everyone else stays quiet. The chapter also made me think about how rituals, whether religious or social, can both comfort and constrain. The Prayvaganza is meant to unify, but it erases individuality. In contrast, I’ve experienced rituals like weddings, graduations, or even shared meals that bring people together in joy and equality. Atwood’s ceremony feels hollow because it’s built on fear, not faith. That distinction helped me reflect on the kind of community I want to be part of: one that values questioning and compassion over blind conformity. Ultimately, my reaction to Chapter 33 comes from recognizing how fragile freedom can be. Gilead’s world doesn’t feel entirely fictional, it’s an exaggerated version of patterns I’ve seen in real life, how societies justify inequality, how trauma hides behind ceremony, and how women are taught to celebrate their own limitations. Offred’s quiet awareness, her ability to observe without completely surrendering, feels like an act of hope. I connect to that deeply. Like her, I’ve learned that survival sometimes means holding on to the smallest sparks of truth, even when you can’t say them out loud and this goes for anything and everything. Atwood doesn’t just critique patriarchy in this chapter, she exposes how easily people adapt to it, even celebrate it. That realization unsettled me, but it also strengthened my resolve to question the systems I live in. When Aunt Lydia praises the ceremony as sacred, and Offred internally recoils, I felt that recoil too not just as a reader, but as someone who has learned that questioning authority is often the first step toward freedom.