In the 20 years of bearing the name that means ‘our happiness’ in Arabic, I often wonder if I had done the name justice. To me, to be happy is to not worry and I would often wonder if my parents are happy with what I chose to do with my life. Are they happy that I have somewhat managed to navigate the rough waters of life from childhood to adolescence and finally young adulthood without much of the angst and drama that is expected when raising a daughter? Have I succeeded in not making myself another burden my mother must carry, especially after my father’s untimely death years ago and she is left alone as the sole breadwinner of our family? For as long as I remember, I always try to never ask my parents for the things that I know I can do for myself or I believe are a waste of time and money. Mom told me that I was the least fussy of her children. Even now as a scholarship student, I can’t help but wince whenever she asks me whether I have enough money for the week. As weird as it sounds, I find it extremely hard to ask my parents for help, especially my mother. I cannot help but hate the feeling of needing or wanting help. I would rather take what they are willing to give me and nothing else.
As sons and daughters, we are told to look at our parents, specifically our mothers for guidance. We should not hesitate in asking for their help in anything we do. As children, we would ask our mothers for help in answering the simplest maths equation, forcing them to come running from their busy kitchens. We would cry and call for her when we bruise a knee or cut our lip over silly fights. Mothers would give the longest lecture while tending to our bruises. As teenagers, we confide in them our deepest secrets and troubles while they furrows their brows in worry – further deepening the already visible creases on ageing foreheads. As young adults, we come running to them whenever we are served the harsh reality of growing older, yet not one of us seem to realize that their own shoulders are sagging with age. It is a scary thing, this dependence on our mothers. We shove our hands towards them, handing all our wants and needs without ever stopping to look at the creases on their foreheads and the slump of their weary shoulders. I was always afraid that one day, everything would be just a little too much.
When I was seven, I had made a pretty simple request. I needed wrapping papers for my textbooks. I asked for it a few days earlier but she had forgotten to buy it until the last possible minute, the day we had a textbook inspection. Out of childish anger I put on a show of trying to wrap my textbooks with old newspaper I found lying around the house. My mother screamed at me, forcing me to stop. When I think back about that incident, I wanted to laugh at my stupidity and weep at my utter cruelty. My mother actually stopped by a mini market on the way to school and bought me my wrappers. She threw them onto my lap and let out a long desperate sigh. I had never heard her sigh before. She was always all smiles and happy nods in front of us, especially my father. It was a frightening thing, the long draw of breath that felt like forever and the heavy sound of air rushing out of her chest as if it had been there for quite a long time, slowly breaking her bones and now wiping off her smile. I remember this frighteningly real moment, but not the exact words she said – words that she would never say to me under normal circumstances. I was now a priest in a confessional box, listening to her fears, her insecurities, all of her parts and pieces she hid from the world. Then she cried silently as I sat beside her at the passenger’s seat. As a child, I was scared and confused. What did I do wrong? She was the one who didn’t keep her promise. She was the one who had forgotten no matter how many times I reminded her about it. She was the one who’d rather run around the town picking up things for my father, or work on her ‘teacher things’ for school, or spend at least an hour everyday trying to prepare the perfect dinner for the family. She was my mother. She was supposed to make me happy. Why? It was such a simple task. And then it dawned on me. It was supposed to be a simple task. Any capable mother could do it. How could she not be able to do it? I had done the worst thing possible. I had made my mother feel guilty and helpless by forgetting that simple thing of a roll of wrapping paper. In that sudden moment of realization, my eyes pooled with tears of guilt and regret. What have I done? We sat there crying in that small car that smelled of fake flowers and overdue test papers – mother and daughter. When she stopped crying and finally looked me in the eyes, I was scared. It felt like she was asking me these impossible questions. It’s my fault isn’t it? Am I a failure as a mother? I am haunted by those eyes whenever the thought of asking my mother for help crosses my mind. I think, that was the day I began choosing what to say and what to keep silent about when talking to my parents.
As children we are made to believe that parents are the epitome of perfection. They can do no wrong and their words are absolute. They are capable of even the most impossible of tasks and failure is never an option for them. Even now, some of my friends still rely on their parents’ judgement, failing to notice that they are very much human in making their choices – capable of errors. I am somewhat envious of their blissful naiveté and ignorance. On that day I saw my mother as another human being. She makes mistakes. She doubts her capabilities as much as the next person. She too can be overwhelmed by the endless requests from both her husband and four children. I do not think she meant to show me that side of her. After all, parents pride themselves in being seen as the heroes of their children’s stories. Years later, I found out from my uncle – her older brother – that she believed I had forgotten about the whole episode. “She was still so young,” my mother told him. “She won’t think much about it.” This is another mistake my mother and many other adults have made: underestimating a child’s perception and understanding of the world. In the twelve years after that incident, I began stringing together the bits and pieces of my mother’s life and now, I can finally see her as she saw herself that day. She is so very delicate. She was a fairly young woman in her late twenties trying to make sense of everything that’s happening around her. The husband she truly loved dearly who expected nothing short of perfection from her, the children who saw her trembling shoulders yet believed that those small shoulder could bear the burden of the world, and the seven year old daughter whose impression of her as a mother was probably worsening by the second they spent in front of a mini market crying over a roll of wrapping paper.
When we finally pulled out of that parking space and made our way to school where I took an earful from my teacher for my unwrapped textbooks, I held on to this small piece of mind shattering secret – my mother is not perfect. She never was and she never will be. Is she a lesser person for that? No. After all, she is only human.
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