Posts Tagged ‘Mother’


Dawn is breaking here. Here where I still feel like an outsider. Hence I am never here. Where am I? Sometimes sitting right beside you watching you waking up next to someone else, loving your dreams in her, loving yourself in her, searching deeper meaning of life in your togetherness…but why is there still shadow of worry in the corner of your blue eyes, I whisper in your ears. You walk to bathroom and look into mirror.

“Everything is fine,” you say to the man in the mirror, trying to avoid his fears and invisible tears. You walk into the little cubicle to have a shower. Water cools you and I touch you softly with my deepest love.

“God, water is the best miracle,” you say as you walk out without seeing me there.

love letter

You feel nervous all of a sudden as you dry your body because you remember that you left your mobile in the bedroom. Do you cheat on her…yes you do…some part of you is still not satisfied…I wonder what can fill that void of yours because I know it is not who…no one can handle that task. You go out and take your phone without disturbing her. You wonder whether she checked your phone and you look at her with a subtle anger…you know it is not her it is you…you are angry with yourself but you never admit that. You dress up, wear your perfume…everything looks perfect on you until you push them all into the shadow of your pride.

She wakes up, you wear your manly smile that is broken with your pride. You don’t want her to know what power she has over you…you don’t want her to know that she has something you desperately need…you keep telling her “I love you darling,” but she knows how much you mean it and how much you don’t. She smiles and gets out of bed. And this invisible distance becomes apparent to her all of a sudden…you cause it to expand…she feels it but she lies to herself as it confuses her. Why do you still do that to women who come to you wholeheartedly…are you scared of being left alone again…don’t be…not everyone is a mad truth seeker like me…not everyone is in existential crisis like I was when I was with you…not everyone is crushed by dishonesty early in life like and developed some trust issue I had…yes I did not tell you about it, did I…because you assumed that I had never had a wound in my entire life…you never asked…you either could not stand to see me bleeding in words or maybe you really did not care…or maybe all you cared about was to have a beautiful and smart woman standing next to you…you were so excited to impregnate me…lock me in your house with your kids thinking that that was what I really wanted…but it was not…I did not come to this world to bear your kids and spend rest of my life bringing them up just to be rarely appreciated…I have learnt how to appreciate myself, thank you very much…no that was not the life I had in my mind but you never asked…your dream was supposed to be mine…and I was gone while still standing there, staring at you.

love letter

 

“Love you, too,” says she shallowly as you walk down on the stairs. She does not walk you to the door. You secretly resent but don’t tell a word…why would you…that would be too weak…you walk out leaving so many tests for her to reveal her real self…you did that for me , too…I mean what the heck was that for…why did you not talk…did you think everyone was a liar like you were…yes that was it, wasn’t it…but every test you left behind was a proof of who you actually were…don’t do that to her…she might walk away, too, one day.

You get in your car and drive…I am sitting next to you…you vaguely see a butterfly on your left side…you look for no apparent reason and see the empty seat in the middle of enjoying infinite freedom roads generate within you like they used to do…you cannot see anything but you hear a vague voice and look again…you feel drawn and you eventually touch the seat…

buuterfly

“Bloody weird,” you say to yourself and turn up the music. I can fuck your morning joy, making you feel even weirder but I don’t because I still love you…and my love does not dictate you to lead your life in my way…it has never done that to any man I liked…I say l liked because you were the only man who I loved and you still are…I send you love and hold on to my dreams not yours…I send you love and I will always do while pursuing my dreams…while you bringing up your kids…sorry I could not make you one because I could not be cruel enough to push a child into this world just to see how it feels to be a mother…I am working to save them all instead…I do not wish to be the mother of one but of all children on earth…I am working to show them the light…

 


She looked around as if she wanted make sure that they were all safe and accepted where they just entered and sat. I caught her mothering eyes that were maybe expectedly full of self sacrifice, endless hard work and worries. But she smiled just like a mother, I sent her some understanding and admiration in my smile. She stood up, looked around once again with confidence and countless responsibilities on her shoulders. Her children’s hunger and husband’s irresponsible manner took her to Italian waiter in the smell of strong coffee mixed with Vivaldi‘s notes.Her little daughter instinctively followed her.

When we have inner war...

He must have found it too much to smile at his own son. How could he incredibly manage to do that? The son’s eyes were childishly begging for attention maybe more for compassion of his father. How could he break this invisible barrier between him and his father which was as tall as the Berlin Wall? He tried a few jokes first. It didn’t work. He pushed his own chair back and nearly fell, that wasn’t good enough. Surely there was a way to make him feel his father once more…

Her suspicion made by tasteless experiences travelled from the queue ,where she was standing ,to their table, where her son was still struggling to play with his judge looking father, through her glasses hand in hand with her distrust to present that was wounded by the past.  She managed to bring food and drinks of four in one tray just like how she kept her family together for years. After all she was a mother.

She faded their hunger, she warmed their hearts with her stubborn smiles, now it was time to plant beautiful thoughts in kids’ minds. She took them upstairs to get some books but he didn’t bother to move. A man in his late 40s didn’t seem to love anything apart from his cruel self. But what was wrong with her poor self? Was it an irreversible mistake? Why did she have to be with
him? Or did they fail to preserve their love as they changed? Was it that crisis that they were struggling to cope with at their middle age?

He had a break from himself and started to look around in their absence .I so much wanted make him feel ignored, make him feel nothing, but surely time was going to take her revenge. I saw him watching women around him while I was breathing with Seneca. He caught my eyes, I sent him some insult and some shame, and that was my revenge.

They came back with colourful books in their hands and with a little noisy smiles on their faces. She looked at me a little differently this time. I felt her fears, but I know it wasn’t me who she feared ,it wasn’t my eyes that briskly escaped from Seneca’s vague  silhouette on the page and brought the darkest fears to  her face mirroring her inner war. Yes, that wasn’t my eyes that was her inner war. And I sadly knew that millions of other women were sent to the same war…


“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.