Writers Resist: Amsterdam

Op 15 januari heb ik, ter ere van Martin Luther King, een gedicht voorgedragen over mijn communicatie met mijn moeder. Wij hebben vaak ruzie via WhatsApp. Vaak krijg ik negatieve berichten van haar, omdat ze haar bezorgdheid niet op een ander manier kan uiten. Daarom heb ik besloten haar WhatsApp berichten door elkaar te halen en te laten zien dat haar intenties eigenlijk positief zijn.

Whatsapp messages sent around 10 pm Dec. 31st

So be it, this year also came to an end

I will never forget the things you have done

You have grown tired of us so quickly

These days will also pass, but the wounds

you have opened will always remain.

God is great.

I have read these messages so many times. Time and time again I wonder, does my mother really hate me this much? Are these words really meant for me? I stare at my screen, status online, marked read, no sign of regret. My mother and I haven’t been on good terms for a while. The terms and agreements of our relationship have been rearranged, removed and contaminated by the Western society. In a society of confrontation, she doesn’t know how to communicate. I imagine my mother picking up her phone like a knife and slicing in the darkness. Hoping to cut me, to know where I am, to create more open wounds that she can take care of, because that is her duty. Handed down from generation to generation are these chains of being a muslim women and not believing in a key, not for you and not for me, we will always be enslaved by honour, shame and duty.

Whatsapp messages sent around 1 AM Jan 5th

Who am I anyway

I have been writing you for days

You’re not giving in, you’re

Not writing back.

True, why accept someone you think

Is useless anyway.

Forget about it, live your life.

Sticks and stones can break my bones, but these words hurt me even more. I would go for a rock any day than to face another being called a stone-cold daughter. Yet I know that my mother will never be happy when I am. We move like a swing from polar opposites and conflicting thoughts in a parallel Universe, a universe filled with sin and an 

After Life where we will never meet again.

A friend once told me a story about a twin and their alcoholic father. The twin grew up together, said goodbye to their father to travel their own paths and one of these kids became a succesful bussinesman. The other became an alcoholic. They asked them both what made them the way they are now. Both of them answered “because my father is an alcoholic”.

So the only thing I can do is to take my mothers words and mold them into my own story, into my own narrative, my own world. In a parallel universe where I can resist and still be accepted.

Whatsapp messages received around 10pm Dec 31st

I have grown tired of opened wounds, but

I have never grown tired of you

This will have an end this year

Forget the things I have done,

You have been so great, you have grown.

This year will pass, but you will remain

God is us.

Whatsapp messages received around 1AM Jan 5th

Live your life, I have not.

I have not been who I think I am.

I have been giving up, but

You have been true.

You are not useless.

I accept you for who you are

You are not writing back, but

I am not giving up.

I accept you.

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