March 28th
2016
The Happy Life
I learned today that only on holidays
are we graced with the presence of ongoing electricity, and that is only of
course if you are living in the right neighborhood. This weekend was Easter so
every Christian neighborhood was honored with light and heat. Muslim
neighborhoods were back to on again off again power. Last weekend was Mother’s
Day and the entire city faced fewer shortages to celebrate.
In the Arab World, Mother’s Day falls
on the first day of Spring, March 21st. I braced myself for the
sudden resurgence of Arabian pride surely to appear on Facebook from a majority
of the Arabs I know. The part that irked me the most? When all these Arabs
began taking ownership of the day with their nationalities. Everyone began
labeling it their own country’s Mother’s Day: “Happy Syrian Mother’s Day!”
“It’s Mother’s Day in Egypt and I love my mama!”
Scrolling through Facebook while on
this trip has seriously given me a wake up call to the suffocating environment
over yonder; and it has been the best remedy to make me seriously consider
moving elsewhere.
Why are Arabs so obsessive and
possessive that they even have to place a stake and divide something that was
never theirs to divide in the first place? It is Arabian Mother’s
Day, as in the entire Arab World is celebrating (supposedly in unity) to honor
their mothers. Although, alongside my grandmother’s belief, I find it
ridiculous to suddenly outpour an exaggeration of a love that is supposed to be
ongoing. (And this is applicable to all these once a year personal
celebrations.)
I thought about and realized if we
cannot even unite or view ourselves as one nation on something as simple as
this, what will Arabs ever really unite about?
Another major reason my grandmother
expressed her dislike of this day is due to the ongoing crisis. She said in a
time where children were losing their mothers right and left for a great many
reasons, it is unfair to parade these theatrics of overstated love with photos,
flowers and gifts—which is the common practice worldwide and even more so
thanks to social media.
Her words resonated loudly as I recalled
my visit to the orphanage she developed with her team. If I timed my entire
trip, it was no longer than ten minutes total—as I was passing by from a trip
to another shelter—and I was only able to visit two dorms. Regardless, it left
a terribly deep scar that had me crying on the entire drive back into the city.
We arrived to a gated complex that led
to a driveway separating two large buildings. On one side was the girls’
apartment building and the other the boys’. Ahead was a larger building, a
designated recreational center that houses a library, nurse’s clinic, social
room, computer room, playroom and educational rooms. This was where the boys
and girls would gather to mingle, learn and develop a variety of extra
curricular skills to help them get ready for the world. Outside sat a variety
of courts for basketball and soccer that were filled with children whose
screams of joy was melodious.
The woman showing me the site took me
in to the girls’ apartment building. It literally looked like we were walking
into the lobby of a seven or eight story apartment complex. She rang the
doorbell and quickly informed me this was the flat for the older girls, high
school seniors and above. Each flat housed six to seven girls with one “den
mother” like guardian. The same for the boys.
An absolutely beautiful girl opened the
door and welcomed us in. The living room was spacious, with a television on in
the background, and sounds coming from the kitchen. A few other girls scurried
in behind her and we exchanged introductions one by one. One girl was living in
this house with her two much younger and disabled sisters. Another girl was
preparing to take a midterm exam. Another girl was busy with her college work.
They toured me through their modest
home, the aroma of coffee and soap filling the air. There were two bedrooms
with four beds each, a fully furnished kitchen, a laundry room and a study
space.
Our conversations were short but one of
them asked me, “You’re not from here are you, right?” I laughed. “Is it my
accent? Everyone says I have one when I speak Arabic.” She smiled, “No, not
really. Your style is different from typical Syrian.” It was no real surprise
for me, I have heard that too and I get stares because my scarf is wrapped and
draped differently than about 98% of the Syrian girls.
“Are you leaving?” she then asked. I
nodded and said, “But I really do want to come back and have a longer visit
with you girls.” Her grin was ear to ear as she said, “Yes, please. We will
make you a cup of coffee. We really liked you and hope you come again soon.”
As I walked out the door, I felt like I
was leaving dear friends from decades ago. I felt like family and it hit me:
They are each other’s family. They are all each other have.
I didn’t have too much time to digest
the thought because we headed to their neighbor’s door. A woman in her 20s/30s
opened the door and welcomed us in. “This is the apartment of infants,” I was
informed as we walked to a house with the exact same layout as the one before.
The difference in this flat was what
the rooms were used for. Aside from the kitchen and the laundry room, there was
only one bedroom for 12 infants, one large playroom, and a physical therapy
room. Most of these infants had either a physical or mental disability and I got
to meet every one of them.
The room was warm and filled with a
variety of sounds: Crying babies, heavy breathing babies, babbling babies, cooing
babies and more. I wanted to just set up camp and sit with these cuties for
hours and play. The first two infants started smiling at me, both with severe
head deformities. The next seven infants were either sleeping or on the verge,
drinking milk from their bottles. Another set were just staring at the ceiling,
looking a little lonely. Then there was this last baby girl, approximately a
year and a half to two years old with down syndrome. Her eyes were gorgeous,
embellished with the longest, thickest and curliest brown silky eyelashes I
have ever seen.
She kept her eyes on me with great
curiosity and I came closer to her. I have this tendency to resort to English
when greeting babies and puppies. I don’t know why, I just do. “Hi beautiful,”
I said loud enough for only her to hear me. The other den mothers were in
discussion behind me over another baby.
I switched back to Arabic when she
reached for my hand. As I extended mine I said (in Arabic), “Want to hold
hands, yeah?” When my hand was within reach, she grabbed it with her tiny
smooth one and held it extremely tightly and bowed her head to the floor.
For approximately 45 seconds she kept
her grip, her eyes shut as tight, head still bowing. As unbelievable as it
sounds, I felt like she was praying, with me, and so I followed suit and
prayed. I prayed for her, all her sisters in the same room and every room in
the building. I prayed for each of their brothers in the opposite building and
every other child abandoned or separated or lost from his/her parents.
The tears started to well up in my eyes
and she suddenly let go. “Khalas?” I asked her (meaning “That’s it?” in Arabic).
She resumed bouncing in her bed and waving her arms. “Ready to go?” the woman
asked. I nodded and thanked the others for welcoming us.
I got in the car and opened the
waterworks. It does not matter how old you are, living without your parents is
a difficulty for most, and especially so for all of these young men and women,
and children. Regardless of how or when they lost their parents, it’s
unthinkable. All I did was reiterate my love to my mom, as I do on a daily
basis, and thanked the Lord for my blessings.
Part of our family tradition is
treating every single day with value, and that includes recognizing and
acknowledging it. Hence, the lack of sparkles and glitter on Mother’s Day or
Father’s Day or such.
Actually the Arab World does not
identify a Father’s Day, and that’s another reason my grandmother isn’t too
fond of Mother’s Day. However, as tough as it is to say this, the reality is
many (not all) Arab fathers are simply biological fathers, not parents. Case
and point: On Mother’s Day, I was watching television with my mother when an
odd commercial came on. It started with a man from a gulf country, walking into
a corporate office carrying a diaper bag and a baby, looking utterly miserable.
All eyes were on him awkwardly. The next scene is of a man chasing after a
toddler running across a large conference table, knocking over phones and drinks,
while the rest of the group in the meeting had agitated looks. The scene
switching continued and it was clear that it was glimpses of fathers with their
children at work, but the purpose behind it remained unclear, until the very
end. The screen went black and across came an Arabic message in soft red
colors: Happy Mother’s Day. Enjoy your day off!
I let out a loud chuckle in irony. Apparently
here, Mother’s Day is a literal manifestation of fathers’ day, as in the day Arab men who have reproduced are essentially
taking on this nifty little thing called being fathers and parenting. I wasn’t
sure whether the message was meant to be bitter, like, “Jeez woman! You better
enjoy this one day we’re sacrificing to babysit these brats because tomorrow
you’re back on mother duty,” or if they genuinely were recognizing how much
effort and energy mothers put into the childrearing that they will start to
share the responsibility?
I informed my grandmother that in
America, we do have Father’s Day, but that may be because in America, dads are (possibly)
more father-like? I hope the Arab world soon follows suit because a familial
revolution needs to happen to abolish the oppression placed upon mothers. All I
hear is criticism about mothers who request a night out to themselves or ask
for a break. They’re hated on for not being robotic enough to handle it all, on
top of the housework, (mandated) religious studies and much more, without a
moment to breathe. Listen, boys, if you can’t raise them too, please don’t have
them. It’s as simple as that.
And the door swings both ways: Women
who don’t want to make the shift to motherhood really need to set their
priorities straight. It’s ridiculously unfair to continuously have children who
are made to feel like burdens or that are deserted. Though many of the children
at these orphanages lost their parents to death, I have learned of many others in
Syria being abandoned or even sold to help families get out of poverty.
Children deserve to live the happy life
and that doesn’t necessarily mean financial or materialistic means. It means
parents who chose to take on this precious responsibility and value it as best
as can be. When a relationship includes this much investment, everyday will be
Parent’s Day. And this is worldwide!
