Wher­ever we go, she’s still a mother

Kuwait Times - - FROM THE ARABIC PRESS - By Dr Ner­min Al-Houti

Cities may dif­fer and coun­tries may change - each race has its own be­liefs and tra­di­tions, and our so­ci­eties may be dif­fer­ent, but we per­haps agree on one thing: a mother’s love re­mains the same. Each of us has a cer­tain date, which even if the mind for­gets, the soul will al­ways re­mem­ber - the birthday of our mother who made us come to life in this world.

To­day is her birthday. I was look­ing for­ward to write a col­umn in the mem­ory of my late mother, and while I was writ­ing, I scrolled through In­sta­gram and found a cap­tion writ­ten by my cousin to her mother, de­scrib­ing her­self and how she be­came sim­i­lar to her mother, my aunt Mu­fida. Al­though I have read this in the past, I did not get the mean­ing un­til I grew older. The ma­jor­ity of daugh­ters in our coun­try grow up look­ing more and more like their moth­ers.

The fol­low­ing are the words:

I grew up; my mother, I am be­com­ing like you more and more... now I wake up early.

I sleep be­fore them, con­ges­tions ir­ri­tate me, and talk­ing ex­hausts me. I grew older, my mother, and I taste tea much bet­ter. I like herbs and the smell of amber. I grew older, my mother and I read ev­ery­thing alone. I cry silently all alone, and I miss my old self. I grew older, my mother, and ev­ery­one is leav­ing. I have less friends, I have started to like the si­lence and get tired of noises.

I grew up, my mother, and I don’t care about stay­ing up late - now the sea gives me com­fort like you.

I am no longer that girl who sleeps to dream of that dress - the world has be­come very com­pli­cated, my mother.

Ev­ery­one has be­come like toys, and I no longer know how to play.

Life no longer looks like what you said, and it is barely col­or­ful - the streets have be­come con­gested, and ev­ery­one, my mother, is wor­ried.

—Trans­lated by Kuwait Times

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