into empty space. Her words sat like stones on my chest. I couldn’t move. I didn’t know why she shared her story with me when there was nothing I could do for her. A small crack opened in her chapped lips, but she went on. “Maman peeled me off and turned her back.”
Sweat covered my back. Suddenly, I understood her point. She could do the same to me. I closed the book.
My mother’s story still burns in my mind. The wound has become more stubborn and painful since I married and became the mother of three daughters myself.
For many years, I was jealous of my friends whose mothers didn’t burden them with the weight of the past, who went home from school to share their days with their mothers. What could I tell mine? That my geometry teacher was failing me because I didn’t take private lessons with him? That my calligraphy teacher called me a trouble-making Jew? That I argued with a classmate? That I needed winter shoes? I even left out my happier tales of accomplishments and friendships from our brief conversations. Would my mother care to know that I was the best essay writer inmy high school? My life was detached from hers. She took no joy in my happiness, and my problems paled in comparison with her trauma. There was nothing to say. I stayed silent in the hope that she would be too.
I learned to become self-sufficient, keeping away from her to save myself. I drowned myself in foreign books whose characters were strange and alien, whose problems were not mine. During the years I lived with her, my mother told her wedding story over and over. With each retelling, I distanced myself further, until I could scarcely bear to be in the same room with her alone. Finally, when I started to cover my ears and run out of the room, yelling, “I know, I know,” she gave up retelling her story.
When I was in my twenties, I could still hear her mumbling it to herself as she sat alone on a low stool plucking chickens, or rubbing the soap into the dirty clothes. She became quiet when I was in my thirties. Instead, she would stare at me. I took her to the theater once when she was visiting me in the States. I chose a musical with beautiful costumes so she wouldn’t need to understand the words. But I couldn’t concentrate on the stage. Her gaze burned my cheeks.
“Stop it,” I reprimanded her. “Don’t stare at me. Look at the stage.”
“What? I wasn’t looking at you,” she lied.
If my kids hadn’t been with me, I would have yelled at her; I would have left the show.
Now I want her to tell me more of her story, but she refuses to talk. For years she feared that I would forget. Now she is afraid that her writer-daughter will record her pain and bring the wrath of the family upon her. And I am torn apart by her words and by her silence.
Baba’s Story
I have always loved my father’s words. I could listen forever to his stories, always fascinating, adventurous.
At age seven, mesmerized by the sound of shopkeepers in the busy downtown, I lost my mother among hundreds of other women wrapped in their
chador
s, crowded among men hauling bundles of linen and carpets on their backs, young boys carrying trays of tea for their bosses, and tribal girls trailing their mothers, buying kitchenware for their dowries. Disoriented and timid, I didn’t ask for directions, fearing that I would be trickedand kidnapped if the strangers around me knew my mother had left me. A Jewish girl deep in a religious Moslem neighborhood invited misdeeds, my grandmother had always told me. I tried to reverse my steps. Remembering that we had walked toward the minaret of the mosque, I turned my back to it. Finally, I reached my father’s shop to learn that my mother had stopped by earlier to report that I was missing. I didn’t cry, but I wanted to. I bit my lower lip and threw myself in a metal chair, too exhausted to move. My father gave me a cup of tea with a yellow date and then held my hand and walked me home. On the way, he told me
Sweat covered my back. Suddenly, I understood her point. She could do the same to me. I closed the book.
My mother’s story still burns in my mind. The wound has become more stubborn and painful since I married and became the mother of three daughters myself.
For many years, I was jealous of my friends whose mothers didn’t burden them with the weight of the past, who went home from school to share their days with their mothers. What could I tell mine? That my geometry teacher was failing me because I didn’t take private lessons with him? That my calligraphy teacher called me a trouble-making Jew? That I argued with a classmate? That I needed winter shoes? I even left out my happier tales of accomplishments and friendships from our brief conversations. Would my mother care to know that I was the best essay writer inmy high school? My life was detached from hers. She took no joy in my happiness, and my problems paled in comparison with her trauma. There was nothing to say. I stayed silent in the hope that she would be too.
I learned to become self-sufficient, keeping away from her to save myself. I drowned myself in foreign books whose characters were strange and alien, whose problems were not mine. During the years I lived with her, my mother told her wedding story over and over. With each retelling, I distanced myself further, until I could scarcely bear to be in the same room with her alone. Finally, when I started to cover my ears and run out of the room, yelling, “I know, I know,” she gave up retelling her story.
When I was in my twenties, I could still hear her mumbling it to herself as she sat alone on a low stool plucking chickens, or rubbing the soap into the dirty clothes. She became quiet when I was in my thirties. Instead, she would stare at me. I took her to the theater once when she was visiting me in the States. I chose a musical with beautiful costumes so she wouldn’t need to understand the words. But I couldn’t concentrate on the stage. Her gaze burned my cheeks.
“Stop it,” I reprimanded her. “Don’t stare at me. Look at the stage.”
“What? I wasn’t looking at you,” she lied.
If my kids hadn’t been with me, I would have yelled at her; I would have left the show.
Now I want her to tell me more of her story, but she refuses to talk. For years she feared that I would forget. Now she is afraid that her writer-daughter will record her pain and bring the wrath of the family upon her. And I am torn apart by her words and by her silence.
Baba’s Story
I have always loved my father’s words. I could listen forever to his stories, always fascinating, adventurous.
At age seven, mesmerized by the sound of shopkeepers in the busy downtown, I lost my mother among hundreds of other women wrapped in their
chador
s, crowded among men hauling bundles of linen and carpets on their backs, young boys carrying trays of tea for their bosses, and tribal girls trailing their mothers, buying kitchenware for their dowries. Disoriented and timid, I didn’t ask for directions, fearing that I would be trickedand kidnapped if the strangers around me knew my mother had left me. A Jewish girl deep in a religious Moslem neighborhood invited misdeeds, my grandmother had always told me. I tried to reverse my steps. Remembering that we had walked toward the minaret of the mosque, I turned my back to it. Finally, I reached my father’s shop to learn that my mother had stopped by earlier to report that I was missing. I didn’t cry, but I wanted to. I bit my lower lip and threw myself in a metal chair, too exhausted to move. My father gave me a cup of tea with a yellow date and then held my hand and walked me home. On the way, he told me
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