To My Mother: “A Rose in a Desert”

Posted: May 8, 2011 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

“A bomb blasted in the middle of the village and  invisible hand left my teacher  in blood, he died just there in front of the black board, a piece of chalk in his right hand. The men with guns came in to the class and ordered us to go home while his blood was getting dark just like every thought of our little worlds. We all went home and they burnt the school later, so we heard. We were left with no school or a teacher, but with the deepest and the darkest ignorance.”

This is what my mother told me when she held my hand and took me to school for the first time. She was more excited than me when we opened the school gate .She looked at the big building ,looked at me and she smiled just like a little child. I saw her school, of which ashes didn’t even exist then, in her eyes and her school days that had to end but left endless fire in her heart.  

I felt her deepest longing for knowledge and I knew at that moment that I wasn’t going to go to school only for myself but for both of us. I knew everything I was going to learn was going to knock another brick of her forced ignorance down and heal her painful dark memories .From that moment on her burdens were going to  be one of my biggest motivation to learn endlessly maybe even  compulsively. Because I knew I wasn’t only going to be learning I was also going to be healing my mother’s wounds, I was going to be wiping the blood of her teacher who was killed ferociously by  terrorists in front of little kids.

However was it only her teacher who had got killed?Unfortunately not. The news told us  about killings of many other teachers, soldiers and innocent passengers not only in my mother’s village but in the whole east part of the country. We were going to find out that it was the same imperialist powers, that destroyed the peace in every country they aimed to divide and colonise throughout the history , destroyed my mother’s childhood. Neither terrorism nor those who thought they could play the same  game on us  were going to manage to divide the country. And my mother just like my country was going to be stubborn enough not to be beaten by her past.

The strength of my mother.

“She is not my child, she is your child when she is at school. Teach her the best.”, she said to my teacher on my first school day with  pride and  hope in her  compassionate eyes. However it was hard to miss the first fake smile of my teacher that she gave my mother. My mother wasn’t  even literate and had an accent as her native language was different. It was easy for an immature teacher to look down on her but it was definitely not easy even to listen to what she had to go thorough in life.

It was the life which dragged her into a marriage at the age of 14 soon after she had escaped from her village and moved to the city where I went to school. However she was the most beautiful fighter I had ever seen. She never complained or lost her determination in everything she tried in life as if she was also trying to prove that she was stronger than life.

She bought me many colourful pens that her hands were supposed to hold when she was only six years old. She never learnt how to draw but she drew the picture of happiness for us. She was a fighter outside but a slave in our house. Slave of her love. I still don’t understand how she managed to love us that much while life was tiring her so much. I still don’t understand how she didn’t let a hatret enter her heart .How did she manage to be a good mother when she didn’t even have a mother of her own?

Now, every time I think about being a mother, I fear that I might fail to be as good as my mother. But I will never fail to love my mother and I know I will never fail to be a good fighter like my mother. And my mother is the most beautiful fighter just like a flower which survives in every kind of weather.

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