Letter 6: To you, my mother
Letters From The Ground 6: To you, my mother
From: "Anbara No. 12"(Translated by Yara Al Khoury)To you, my mother
To you, my mother.
I must admit, I struggled deeply before I yielded to my paper and pen, and before that I struggled with my desire to unburden myself of this weight. I struggled with facing the truth, much like I find myself struggling with you almost every day. I am not surprised by my struggle with whether to share this burden, because you taught me—just as you were taught—women carry burdens in their wombs and on their shoulders, yet remain upright and silent, never even moaning in pain. God forbid anyone should moan; it is a disgraceful act, sometimes associated with pleasure. And pleasure?! God forbid you experience that as well, for it is an ugly, lowly act, only it is highly revered in the context of contracts that are sanctioned in secrecy or openly.
I do not wish to prolong this text.
I may bore you with all the trivial matters that occupy my mind, matters you are already tired of. I met desire with disobedience. Or rather, I replaced my yearning for comfort with disobedience, for desires are often accompanied by pleasure, and pleasure, God forbid...You can finish the rest of this sentence. But disobedience—which occupied a significant portion of my thoughts when I was a child—was always tied to the concept of power. And power, as far as I know, is a duty I must uphold, as a woman, for as long as I live.
Disobedience occupied a significant portion of my thoughts to the point where it led me under the tattooist's needle to engrave a symbol of rebellion on my skin, hoping it would serve as an ally to my body for as long as it remains alive.
Sin is your language, mother, and rebellion is mine .
I didn’t truly understand that disobedience was a sin until you confronted me with the reproachful question: 'Why?
In that moment, I realized that the power which makes my voice heard is condemned as well, for in our world, it is the condition of women to comply.
Here I am now, answering your question. Because for me, disobedience is the key to liberation. The key to freedom that was denied to you, and which you, in turn—whether knowingly or unknowingly—denied me. But I am an instinctive person. My sense of self is shaped by an inherent drive towards freedom. I was the most stubborn id among the superegos formed by system regulations, restrictions, taboos, and crimes—each of which I have spent my life searching for a reason behind their prohibition and criminalization. Yet, I found no explanation beyond the mere desire for control.
I am the id, and you are the superego, mother.
Since rebellion—disobedience—was and still is the key to the love I know, which is synonymous with freedom, and is understood, by you as well, to be synonymous with possession. Possession belongs to control. I’m not denying that love, which is synonymous with freedom, can be frightening at times. But love, synonymous with possession, is far more terrifying, at least to me.
Perhaps you assume that possession is protection. I’m not surprised by that either, for we women are all daughters of prevailing systems that revere possession and strive to possess everything, including our bodies. Possession in the name of love. Perhaps they perceive me as something to be owned, but I do not see myself as a "thing", mother. Ownership is attributed to inanimate objects, and my living breathing body is the antithesis of stagnation. I fear possession, mother. Possession is a prison, and I fear the darkness of confinement. Imprisonment calls for surveillance, surveillance leads to snitching, all under the name of protection. Surveillance and snitching, as Ibn Hazm says, are two afflictions of love, mother.
You always say that love is intertwined with compromise. One may compromise their right to an inheritance, or the ownership of an apartment, for example, but one should never concede a part of themselves. The system that sought to make you and me submit also aimed to make us relinquish ourselves.
I say: He who loves detaches, renouncing his desires in the presence of the beloved—and for the sake of detachment, rebellion is essential—hoping that detachment reveals the hidden truths of his spirit, which relentlessly seeks to encounter its counterpart. Perhaps, through detachment, one might truly find a kindred spirit, instead of merely pretending one exists.
Imagine, mother, if everyone were able to detach and, in doing so, find someone truly akin to them. Imagine!
Perhaps we have different philosophies of life, mother. You are the modernist Westerner and I am the passionate Easterner. We live the ongoing struggle of civilizations, and perhaps this struggle is no longer just a difference in viewpoints, but has become an existential struggle.
Please do not misunderstand me; I do not deny your right to stand for your belief in this struggle. However, I have asked repeatedly, both plainly and implicitly, that you do not deny me my right to it simply because I differ from you.
I still believe that differences are a source of richness and unilaterality is lethal.
In the face of my difference, you insisted on the singularity of your existence and did not lend me a willing ear. You are a dutiful student in the system, mother, and I am the rebellious one.
To you, my mother, I say: I live here, on the other side of life—your orderly life—the side that is wrapped in disobedience. Here, I live my love and my freedom in every way available to me. And when they grow scarce, I will continue practicing them as long as I live, until my body becomes a grain of sand in this earth and my spirit soars in the vastness of this universe.
For nothing, and for everything. For nothing, because life is a farce. And for everything, because there are those who wish to steal our right to play out this farce.
This is how I live, and how I will continue to live, on this path. My steps are certain, the road is clear. If you wish, you may follow me and embrace me.
