Damaged

Bismillahir Rahmaanir Raheem

A reminder from Islamic teachings: Abdullah ibn Mas’ud reported: The Messenger of Allah, peace and blessings be upon him, said, “The believer does not insult others, he does not curse others, he is not vulgar, and he is not shameless.”

Source: Sunan al-Tirmidhī 1977

Hannah

I honestly think that there should be some sort of test that parents take before they are allowed to have a child. Something that gives them a permit to introduce little humans into this world. I don’t know about you, but from my experience, there are are few people in this world who can honestly say that they were never damaged. The fact is, we all leave the nest with a few dents and scratches. Some parents smudge, some parents crack, and then you get the ones who mess you up so badly, that it’s like you’ve been shattered into millions of tiny jagged pieces, that are beyond any sort of repair.

“Hannah!”

I jumped as I heard the sharpness of my mother’s voice, and then her usual cuss at me, breaking though my placid thoughts. I blinked in shock, almost terrified for what she may do to me. How long had she been standing there for?

I was already expecting the blow to come from either side, but my mother always found a way to surprise me, even when she was inflicting pain. All I could feel was her hand yanking my head back at my hair roots with such a force that I fell back, tumbling off the chair that I was standing on. Ouch.

“What the hell are you doing there?” She snarled, ignoring my whimper of pain as I  tried to get back on my feet. She stepped over me and pressed her own face close to the window, just as I had been looking out, as she peered out too.

I had been standing on the little oak stool upstairs that was stationed under the window, looking out enviously at the other kids who were playing outside.

“Ugh,” my mother said, shaking her head and scrunching up her perfectly made-up face. “What filthy children. And that boy. So rough and uncultured. I can’t deal with these rude little children anymore. Their father will hear about this.”

She was visibly disgusted. At what, I wasn’t too sure.

Why didn’t they ever ask me to come and play? Why couldn’t I have some outdoor fun once in a while? Maybe it was fun being rough and uncultured.

I stuck out my bottom lip she glared at me for even daring to envy them, and then she tossed her hair back and lifted me roughly off the ground.

“Real ladies,” she said sharply, wagging her finger at me as her eyes bored into mine. “Don’t play outside. We are refined. We buy nice things so we can look good and find men who will look after us. Real men don’t like girls who act like them.”

I frowned as my mother pointed outside for emphasis, straightened her dress, and then turned around to leave.

I was only eight. What did I really understand about real men? I mean, I had seen things on TV about men and women… and I did know more than other girls my age, but I wasn’t exactly sure what my mother expected of me. I was too young to even know what having a boyfriend really meant.

I went back to my room, finding a little comfort in counting my money and putting in back in my stowage. I supposed it was kind of an obsession. A form of security, that made feel that one day… maybe one day I would have enough money to leave my mother’s clutches and just get out of there. Money was what the made the world go round, of course. It would be my salvation.

Of course, if I had my own savings, then there’d be no more fights about Mum overspending. She always used me as an excuse. Thank Goodness, when I grew up, I would have my own money and all that wouldn’t matter any more. The only problem was that… since the last time, there definitely seemed to be less money that I had counted. I shook my head to myself, thinking that maybe I had counted wrong. Mum was the only one who knew where my money was. I knew that she sometimes ran short, even when uncle Nazir was giving her so much.

I shook my head, already annoyed at my mother. From depriving me of the simple things that a child looked forward to, my mother took the prize when it came to manipulating her own child.

And so the cycle went on. By nine years old, I already knew that everyone out there was jealous of me. Jealous because I was pretty. Jealous because we had money. Jealous because… well, people were just jealous. It was the explanation for anything that people said.

Mum had explained it to me it on different occasions, especially when I would face opposition from a kid who had values that were daringly opposed to mine. We had, of course, got everything of the best. Mum made sure that her new husband would give us over and above whatever he had promised.

She had basically drained most of his savings in under a year, with demands for a new house and her other luxury expenses. Catching my mother injecting herself or popping some random pill happened much too often to even think it was abnormal. There were times, at the end of the month, when she would exhaust Uncle Nazir’s savings, and then, in her desperation, she would basically take anything she could get hold of. The poor man would come to our new house less and less, and the look on his face would just give it all away. I only knew the half of it.

Secretly, I felt sorry for him. I liked him, in a completely unromantic way. It was surprising, because with Mum always either putting men down, or looking for the next one who she could get something out of, I didn’t expect it. But the truth was, he was a decent man. Different from the other two men who Mum had made me meet on previous occasions, who always had ulterior motives. He had a softer side to him that made me feel like I actually had a real father. And then my mother, as always, would turn the whole situation around to get me on her side once again. She couldn’t risk me finding comfort in anyone else but her.

“All men are the same,” she would mutter, her face purposely distorted to show her disapproval. “It’s just you and me, Hannah. You and me. I know that no matter what, you’ll look after me, just like I’m taking care of you.”

I looked at her blankly. I didn’t want to make any promises, at that impressionable age. I still had my dwindling savings. I had found another place for it, just to make sure no-one got hold of them.

“See what I’ve done for you?” She gestured around her. “Just look. All this is for you, baby. This house. This life. These clothes. All this, I did for you.”

She was waiting for praise. For a ‘thank you’, maybe. The luxuries she had attained for us were all attributed to her own doings. For a moment, all I could think was that it was the biggest load of hogwash that I had ever heard.

It was a brief moment of realization that suddenly dawned on me. I had heard Khawlah talking once to her friend. Khawlah. I didn’t understand her, and neither did I like her… but it didn’t stop me from spying on her. They had these intriguing ideas about life that Khalid’s father had told him. It seemed like they lived in a different realm to us, with so much of gratitude and emphasis on thanking Allah.

My mum, on the other hand, never prayed nor showed any gratitude. She was relentless in her pursuit for the finer things in life. All along, as I had been watching the little girl from afar, I had learnt a thing or two. I just wanted some close up views. I wanted a glimpse into her life. I wanted to see a bit of the other side.

And of course, as expected, I watched her and her friend chatter incessantly about something so profound that I wished I could hear. I wished I could be there. And of course, I wished I was her. It was as if she had no worry in the world. At that time, I wanted to be just like her.

But it was only a fleeting moment of checking into her reality, and then it was gone. Because one moment can’t erase the past. One drop of purity in a toxic solution can never remove the poison. It doesn’t take a moment to eradicate the venom of the past.

And as I fixated on what Khawlah had, I forgot about being grateful, and the jealousy made a show. Of course, it was bound to come. And even as Mum told me all the things that I knew were probably the hugest lies a mother could tell her child, somehow, I couldn’t say what I knew was the truth.  I wanted it to be us against the horrible world. I wanted to believe that she had really done all this for me, and not to satisfy her own extravagant desires.

I smiled at her as she squeezed my shoulder, almost to assure me that she was for real. That was the moment that it all changed. A moment that transformed the innocent little girl into a manipulating young girl. The moment where I chose wrong over right. Darkness over light. The moment when I ignored what was so evidently pure and true, and opted for the skewed version that would haunt me for the rest of my life.

I was her daughter, after all, right? Her own blood. She never would do anything to hurt me.

Even when she left me alone with a man who she knew, just so she could get out to have her fix, she had still convinced me of too. It would make me stronger, she argued. It would build my confidence. She said it would get me to realize how unreliable men really were, when all I achieved in those torturous moments were more damage. More damage and more destruction.

Afterwards, she cried. When she finally came down, she cried and cried. She apologized. She said she would never do it again, as she clung onto me for dear life, begging me to forgive her. But it was too late. I was already broken inside. I stared back at her with an empty hopelessness, because we both already knew that the damage was done.

The years kind of passed by in a blur, and arguments, whispers and strained conversations had become a part of my life. I barely saw my father. Mama had convinced me that he hated me too.  I pretended not to care. Again, when Uncle Nazir divorced my mother, the bitterness I felt was indescribable.

There we were, once again, rejected and literally out on the street, because some man had decided that we weren’t good enough for him. My mother had, once again, proven to me that there was no-one else I could trust but her. It was never her fault. In her own torrent of drugs and rage, she made it clear that we would never depend on a man again. Talk was cheap.

And that was the precise time when ‘boys’ became interesting to me. Looking for the comfort I never got, I sought it. For some reason, she didn’t care about the guys I would meet. She didn’t ask where I had met them either. They were merely experiments for me. Learning from my mother, I had learnt to push a man to the limits, to get what I wanted. I didn’t hold back of myself, but my emotions, on the other hand, were always in check. I would never love a man, I convinced myself. To say I had trust issues was an understatement. I would never put myself through that.

And then, of course, in the most unexpected way, I was taken by surprise.

Seeing Khawlah again after so many years brought back so many memories. Some of them were good and some were just… dark. Really dark. Life hadn’t improved much since then. Numerous boyfriends had promised me the world, but I would bail on all of them at some point, never convinced of their empty promises. As usual, Khawlah had the best of friends and always got long with everyone perfectly. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had the perfect boyfriend too. Life was just unfair like that.

Being put in a school where most people were pretty normal, however, was good for me. I strove to fit in. I needed extra money too, and when I heard through a friend’s friend that someone wanted help looking after their kids, I thought it would be easy money. All I had to do was entertain kids for a few hours and I would get paid. It didn’t get much easier than that.

But there’s always a catch. I found out pretty soon that Khawlah had worked there too. That news broke my confidence as I witnessed her effect. That carefree happiness that she had… I could see it in those kids. They would not stop talking about her, and the amazing things she did with them. Here she was again, stealing what supposed to be my show. I was honestly sick of hearing about her, but I gritted my teeth and stuck it out, because I needed the money.

As for the lady I worked for, she was just freaking annoying. She acted like the entire world was about her stupid schedule. Obviously, I never showed her how stupid I thought she was. I was an expert at putting on a facade by then. I smiled and encouraged her to get herself on top of things, because I knew that more time would mean more pay.  I offered to look after her kids till late at night, if she had an extra class or a date night with her friends. I told her she needed to look good. I told her that everything would be all right when she got home, because I was there. I was good at convincing people. I was just as good at playing the good girl role, that I knew Rubeena wanted. It was just that matter how much I tried, she made it obvious that Khawlah was her favorite. And that was the moment that I finally cracked.

I didn’t anticipate it happening, until it actually did.

“Hello.”

I blinked as I snapped out of my thoughts, a little annoyed that I had been disturbed. The kids were busy with their evening shows and I was catching up with social media feeds as I kept an eye on them. Well, kind of. The two bigger ones were jumping on the couch, but they didn’t listen to me when I told them not to anyway. I had just started working on the evenings two weeks ago, so the evening behaviour was a little strange to me.

I looked at the stranger who had walked in,  and I tossed my hair back and smiled. It was what I always did when there was a male in vicinity, and if I wasn’t mistaken, this particular one wore a Rolex. That definitely meant something to me.

At that stage, I wasn’t sure who he was exactly. Maybe the boy’s father. Maybe another relative. He smiled back at me, as he watched the kids jumping around.

“Looks like they tired,” he said, raising his eyebrows and stuffing his hands in his pockets.

I shrugged, indifferently.

“Their mother makes them sleep,” I said, not prepared to go down that road. It definitely wasn’t in my job description. There were limits to how far I would go to make money. Or were there?

He nodded, and for the first time, looked at me with something a little unrecognisable in his eye.

Was it interest?

Of course. I knew that look.

“I didn’t get your name, sorry,” he said, still looking at me intently. “Which one are you again?”

I blinked, somewhat taken aback by his question. Which one?

That probably meant that he hadn’t met Khawlah as yet. Khawlah, who the kids wouldn’t cease to bore me with details about their exquisite adventures. Khawlah, who had reached such an amazing height of recognition for them, that even after she had gone, they didn’t forget her. Khawlah, who I had lived for so many years trying to chase her shadow, and discover, by some miracle, the things that made her so unique.

There was no need to be subtle about it. After all, the damage was already done.

“I’m sure you’ve heard all about me,” I said, with the most innocent smile I could muster. “I’m Khawlah.”

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Dearest Readers,

A bit of a darker side to achancetochange. I sincerely hope that I have not been explicit in any detail in striving to bring in a few lessons before we end of these chapters that are also a part of Khawlah’s story. Please make Maaf for any shortcomings. I am always open to criticism. I will be highlighting the harms of free intermingling, and we can very evidently see them above. As parents too, we have so many responsibilities to bring our kids up with a good balance of confidence and modesty as well.

May Allah save us all from the fitan that has gripped our community. May Allah grant us sublime contentment.

In preparation for Ramadhaan, this week, Insha Allah, let’s try and bring in a little about the Sunnah of eating, as touched on in the previous posts. I will try to keep it short, simple and effective🌸

Eat in Three Parts

Nabi SAW taught his Ummah something to protect them from diseases caused by eating and drinking. He said, “The son of Aadam does not fill any vessel worse than his stomach. It is sufficient for the son of Aadam to eat a few mouthfuls, to keep him going. If he must do that (fill his stomach), then let him fill one third with food, one third with drink and one third with air.” [15]

How easy to practise!

 

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#revivetheSunnahofeating

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• Abuse
• Betrayal
• Damage
• Dark
• Darkness
• Destruction
• Drugs
• Fitnah
• Hope
• Islam
• Light
• Lost
• Love
• Marriage
• Men
• Parents
• Relationships
• Test
• Torture
• Trials
• Trust
• Youth