My Mother, My Woman!

THERE is no stronger and more powerful being than a living soul who through her undefeatable might, strength, and agency – and out of sheer love and profound sense of responsibility, undertakes at will hours of otherwise unbearable pain just to bring into life another soul with a promise of a much better life than that of hers, even if it means sacrificing her own.

They are women we all dearly call mothers.

Mothers bear us inside them until we are out into the warmth of her first embrace, let us see the wonders and battle the cruelties of this world, cry with us in times of need and misery and cheer us on through follies and joy, and would without any wince of hesitation be the first to opt out of her life just to see us, their children, continue to live.

They deserve nothing less than a special recognition on this august occasion of the International Women’s Day.

Ibu, is one such model, unsurpassed in her own right and does not under any circumstances pale in comparison with whom I have come to have known throughout my breathing existence.

My mother, as are other women whose lives may not have been just as fortunate, is no stranger to hardship and turbulences in the early days of her life. Many offers of tertiary education had had to be turned down so that her other siblings would not be without equal opportunity to complete their deserved education.

Having completed high school, my mother’s only filial expectation was the gruesome quest for a financially gainful employment so that her parents would be eased to a satisfactory extent of the burden of family upkeep. Thereupon lay her adventurous odyssey through various job experiences at so young an age with only one thing in mind - keeping the family afloat.

My only motivation to persevere in this equally challenging practice of law has been largely moulded by my mother’s singular attitude in dealing with trials in life, present or forthcoming.

A problem, in her wise view, howsoever complicated needs neither mourning nor losing one’s sleep over. Face it head-on and solutions will present themselves in the clearest of forms.

My mother lost her father unexpectedly on the day her only daughter was getting betrothed to the love of her life and her beloved husband days before the coming of Eid.

Hurt she must have been, yet angry she never was at what would otherwise appear in the eyes of the weakling as a tragedy of incessant series of misfortunes.

One cannot think of a more biting pang of agony than those of my mother’s. Despite the pronounced sorrow constantly plastered all over her face, she realises nonetheless that such is only a foretaste of a much exacting demand for continued patience in life in the sorry form of disastrous events which she would be destined to accept with utmost humility and submission yet with her head held so mightily high.

Indeed, a woman who assumes the mantle of a formidable yet loveable mother of five impish souls with no formal university qualification and struggles daily to read any formal letters mostly authored in byzantine English is the most deserving recipient of such ultimate accolade worthy of a lifetime remembrance and a permanent seat on the highest moral pedestal ever.

Verily, that woman is none other than my mother, Ibu.

Ibu, none is us, your children, will ever find it easy even in the slightest of possibilities to repay whatever you have ever had to do in your life so that you could give us ours, beautifully and with neither let nor hindrance.

We are however most definitely certain that Ibu is evidence enough that a woman of substance is reflected not necessarily through the much coveted validation of her outward portrayal of intellect or bodily elegance but through a virtuous display of motherliness a child could find pleasure and delight in seeking protection from.

I am never without assurance of safety and tranquillity whenever my mother is by my side. That, to me, is the best refuge ever.

My life today would not be as beautiful were it not for the litany of ugly sacrifices my mother has made willingly in the past.

For everything I have achieved today, through cries and cheers, evidenced by sweats and blood, and alongside hurdles and difficulties lying ahead of my sojourn of undoubted drudgery, to no one else do I owe them all, but to you, Ibu, and only you.

Happy International Women’s Day, Ibu; for you always make my day.