''Press this key; I want to sit"
''Press that one; I want to rest"
I don't seem to recall when I became so helpless. So dependent!
Shaikhah means the female leader of the tribe. It is an unusual name because
Arab tribes are very much dominated by men. Yet I was given this name, and the
goose pumps that run through me every time I hear it. It implies power and
initiatives. Things I am quite skillful at. Is it the name, is it not? I will never
know. I kind of pushed to have a granddaughter named after me though, just in
case you know!
Not long ago, well I guess not long ago, I no longer am sure
about much to be honest, I was as restless as a human could be. I OWNED the
biggest house in town. Seven floors. Nothing like that was ever seen before.
Those infinitely spacious room. The uncomfortably narrow long stairs. I would
run up and down those stairs countless times. All of that had to be cleaned of
course. And my walls are always clean.
I can't recall the last
time I glanced at any stairs. But we have a house here. I made sure Omer has
one. A man in incomplete until he has his first house. I know I made him
distressed and uncomfortable at times, life can tough, what can I do? But he
bought it. He surely did. He had it in him. He just needed my push. I am a
‘shaikhah’ after all.
I want to go back to MY house though. In the centre of Shebam.
Where I was born, married and wishfully buried besides my mother. Surrounded my
sons in low; all lucky to live on in big houses too. 'Lucky' may not be the
right expression. 'Well-off' is what I was trying to say. I was the happiest when
my two eldest daughters married to sons of the TWO wealthiest families in town.
No, I don't want their money. I just want them to feel secured. To have to all.
To be like the others. I don't wish for them to go through my suffering and
pretending. A huge house and empty pockets.
My youngest daughter, my Mariam, I worry about her so much. I
look at her, and I see how incomplete she feels. Ever since her baby girl died
in my own lap after days and days of severe high temperature, Mariam's body
refused to bring to the world another baby. Or her husband's. They have never
talked, and I've never asked. You don't want to ask questions you can’t handle
their answers. I worry about Mariam.
Three daughters are a burden I wish no body to go through. You
worry about them. You get them married. That's way too pricey. You sell your
own gold to buy them theirs. You worry people will notice their father doesn’t
have much to offer. You know they do.
I DID have a son immediately after Mariam. He passed away so
young and so beautiful. I never understood why. My father, the most successful merchant
came over to pay his condolences. He called of all his business back then and
spent sometime with me. I was crying uncontrollably. I always do. What's the
point of crying in silence? No one will notice. You cry to bring everyone
together not to suffer in silence. That IS pathetic. I am not pathetic. I am
proud.
He said to me, "don't cry my girl. You will have a superior
son. And you will name him after me."
At last and after long years and bitter tears, Omer came, the sun
to my world. I gave birth to the man that will take care of me. I am a blissful
woman. My daughters are all happily married. My grandchildren come over
everyday. All I ask from them is not to touch the walls. My walls must be
clean. And I have a son, Omer.
I got him a nanny. I was clear when I told her, ''Omer is always
right.''
He would tear his notebooks to pieces and through them on the
floor. When to do? Clean up and get him new ones. He would run away from
school, and I would cry loudly and gather all my neighbors around me. When I
see him safe and sound, I just huge him and ignore those blaming looks on the
neighbors’ eyes. He would drag others’ sheep and bother the girls on the
streets, and they all complain. Let them do so. What did I do? Nothing. He is a
prince. It doesn't take a fortune to bring up a prince. It takes unconditional
love.
When my prince turned nine, he was taken away from me.
My only brother, my pride and joy, honored me with a visit. He
lives in Eden where all successful traders are. He was my father's only son and
his partner. My father Omer married several women, but only my mother gave a
son. Not any son. A real man. The one you trust with your money and business
affairs.
My brother visited me and was displeased with what my Omer was
becoming. He said, '' pack his suit case now if you want this lad to become a
real man.''
He just took him. He did, and I let him. That was the last time I
had a little boy to bring up. He made a man out of him. So quickly! So
abruptly!
I don't know much about days and dates. Time passed by. Omer was
sent for work in Saudi Arabia. People say that's where the wealth is nowadays. The
money seems to exist further and further from home. I said good-bye to my young
man there.
We stayed in touch. I would record my voice to tell him all about
me. I am sure he wants to know. He is not your typical young man. He listens! And
he would send me letters, and the maid would read them to me. Several times!
His dad passed away. Not long after, I found him a girl. Omer visited shortly.
And I got my son married. I sold my rugs to pay for the wedding. Not long
after, a huge van arrived with marvelous handmade Iranian rugs. My son sent
them. I held my head up high and I was proud. I have a man to look after me.
''Mom, I want you to come for a visit” Said Omer.
''But I can't leave my house'' I immediately tried to put an end
to that.
''I want you, my wife and baby girl to stay with me for a while,''
he used the voice tone I don’t know how to say no to. I packed my life in a
suit case and followed him with all my trust. I glanced at my grand house, and
I knew.
Things got so small and so slow afterwards. My daughters seem to
be scattered across the planet. And I don't see enough of them. They visit;
they are good girls. But you don’t want your children to just VISIT! My son is
always working, and our apartment is tiny, yet my walls are very clean
For a while things seemed to evolve at last, we moved to a bigger
house-that we didn’t own, and Omer had more children, four daughters included.
He at last had a son, and I was all over the moon. His kids are my everything.
I can't be accurate here; within days, months or years my life
changed and I was no longer the same person. My life seemed to turn into series
of losses and painful goodbyes. My voiced changed and it became a great effort
to speak. Not that my words were intelligible anyways. I couldn't move one hand
at first. One leg. Then the rest followed this forceful decay. I couldn't walk
at some point. I was in bed all day everyday. To be honest I lost since of
time.
I couldn’t see well. For days but I thought it is just a part of
the process. Of aging. Of being hit hard with a stroke. I don't when I ended in
a hospital. The doctor uncovered my wrinkled eyes and I started weeping.
''Omer, my youngest son, when did you get so old?'' His hair was shining
like freshly cleaned silver.
I KNOW the familiar faces; Omer's kids, my angles. They spend
time around with books and phones and things I don't know names for. I wonder
when people got so much to keep their hands busy. They go to school. Even the
girls! I hope people outside aren't talking badly about them.
I had pain everywhere. I cried often. I cried the way I like to
cry. Uncontrollably! I didn't want to die nonetheless. I have a son, and he has
a son too. I want to see my grandson get
married, move in with him to help with his children. There is a lot for me to
look forward to. My love for life is my most precious asset.
I got sick and sicker until people stopped asking how I was doing.
All I could move was my two eyes. I remember Omer holding my right hand like a
child, his son holding my left with both hands and teary eyes. I glanced at them
both. My hearth raced. I felt my children, my grandchildren and the children
around. I am fulfilled. I closed my eyes and found piece.
