A brave girl thanks her even braver mother
Mother’s Day presents an interesting opportunity for someone like me. I don’t always collect my thoughts about you and place them one after the other in such orderly fashion. And this is by no measure an easy task. This collection of all the reasons why I hold you dear. Where does one even start? From the fact that no one cooks pulao better than you to the fact that you’re one of the nuttiest amazing people I know, dearest mom, thank you.
Ever since I could put two mispronounced words together I know you’ve quietly stood behind me with a smile plastered to your face. As I grew older I got more hyper. Life was bursting out of me every chance it got. The world told you to calm me down, you only shrugged in response. The world told you I was just a girl, you only shook your head and smiled. The world tried to put me in my place, and you taught me that I was meant for higher places. Throughout my life I have been at odds with you, dear mother, never realising how steady your hands were each time you told me to be careful, never realising how sure your eyes were each time you told me I should always consider that I could fail. I never got it, did I? All this time we were batting for the same team.
Ever since I could put two mispronounced words together I know you’ve quietly stood behind me with a smile plastered to your face. As I grew older I got more hyper. Life was bursting out of me every chance it got. The world told you to calm me down, you only shrugged in response.
I continued to grow with time, and so did my journey. I was fierce, I was aggressive, I was out to do all the things people told me I would never be able to. I was a child pretending to be an adult. I was lost while pretending I had it all figured out. And then I was molested. I was also only 14. Throughout my life I had seen you smile and nod in response to people asking you to set me straight. I remember thinking I had to tell you and I remember thinking there wouldn’t be anything you could do about it. And then I saw you turn into fire, the kind that devours people whole. To me you were only a small spark, not a fire that could burn a forest down.
Being turned into a sexual object is nothing new for women in Pakistan. It’s not something we even get mad about when it happens in passing; that’s how used to it we are. But it’s never something you told me to just put up with, did you, mom? I remember when I was seven I was a horrific reincarnation of Denise the Menace. I was always in trouble and you were always angry. I was “abu ka bacha” and wanted to steer clear of you constantly. But anytime I was in trouble you were the one I went to. A friend of dad’s tried to touch me funny, dad wasn’t around but you were. I told you around 30 seconds after it had happened. You marched right up to the man and told him to get out of the house before you start hitting him with the jharoo at home.
As an adult I now frequently deal with the subject of child abuse and rape at my job. I have had to learn how difficult it can be for people to come forward and to report crimes. The victims often become the criminals. Expecting any sort of justice is akin to living in a fool’s paradise. But these are realities that you already knew when you stood up for me, when you set out to protect me and my siblings.
Of course I wasn’t the only one you were protecting. A few years later when a shopkeeper coaxed my little brother into his shop he came home running and told you. You didn’t sit and wait for dad, you waited for no one. It took you a minute to run down the flight of stairs and then bolt to the shop itself. What happened to the shopkeeper was a lesson for the entire neighbourhood – when you were done slapping him silly the neighbours took over for you. And then that monster of a man had to shutter down his shop. I had no idea you had that strength in you, mom. I had never known there was a warrior hiding within your small frame. That there was a jharoo wielding maniac hiding behind those green eyes.
I had no one else I could go to except you seven years later. When I eventually opened my mouth to speak I saw your face change from normal pink to angry red, and then I saw something very dangerous in your eyes – something I had never seen before. So, my meek and subtlety loving mother turned into an Amazonian war goddess. Who were her opponents? Just my entire paternal family! Why is this relevant? She had never ever stood up to them before. I don’t know what clay you’re made of, my dearest mother, but that was amazing.
Being turned into a sexual object is nothing new for women in Pakistan. It’s not something we even get mad about when it happens in passing; that’s how used to it we are. But it’s never something you told me to just put up with, did you, mom?
I remember you calming me down throughout the mess. I remember you telling me nothing was my fault. I remember you making me feel like the world wasn’t really going to fall apart. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget. It wasn’t an easy ride either. You got called all kinds of names, I got called all kinds of names, but the fire in you never died for a second. There were days I wanted to pretend nothing ever happened or I stopped existing – but there was never a day you took a break from giving people hell on my behalf. A lot of girls don’t have this luxury, mom. A lot of girls don’t have mothers who will stand by their side and grab the nearest jharoo – proverbial or otherwise – and then proceed to whack the literal life out of the person going after their children. I don’t know how to thank you, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to.
As an adult I now frequently deal with the subject of child abuse and rape at my job. I have had to learn how difficult it can be for people to come forward and to report crimes. The victims often become the criminals. Expecting any sort of justice is akin to living in a fool’s paradise. But these are realities that you already knew when you stood up for me, when you set out to protect me and my siblings.
And a lot of young girls don’t know that there’s a fire burning inside their mothers too. That they would have someone to protect them if they only spoke. Around 13 years later I have no regrets in life. I have done things that a lot of boys my age couldn’t manage to do. I always thought I was turning into my dad growing up, but I was really turning into you, wasn’t I? I’m the unapologetic and uncensored version of you. I wouldn’t change a thing.
Thank you, mom.
