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Posts Tagged ‘family’

Autoimmune Nation

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 26, 2025| Leave a Comment »

After reading the opening pages of Gabor Maté’s When the Body Says No, I could not help but translate his metaphor into the living pathology of Afghanistan itself. The nation, once nourished by its own diversity of spirit, now suffers from a profound autoimmune disorder, its body turning violently against its own cells. Saadi Shirazi, with his timeless clairvoyance, once wrote:

“Human beings are limbs of one body,

Created from the same essence.

If one limb is afflicted with pain,

The others cannot remain at ease.”

But centuries later, that wisdom has become a diagnosis rather than a proverb. The men in power, swollen with self-righteous inflammation, have mistaken the women of their land for foreign invaders. They strike with decrees instead of antibodies, targeting classrooms, dreams, and the very idea of thought. What they call governance resembles nothing more than the immune system gone rogue, attacking its own tissue until paralysis sets in.

Education, once the lifeblood of progress, has become the site of infection. Half the nation’s brain, its women, has been chemically suppressed, sedated by superstition and sanctified oppression. The body politic convulses, mistaking disease for discipline, decay for devotion. They do not see that by disabling the feminine intelligence, they are amputating their own future, starving the organ that once nurtured them.

This is not piety; it is pathology. A fever disguised as faith. The Afghan male authority has become the immune system of ignorance, hyperactive, hypersensitive, attacking its own flesh with divine conviction. And yet, like every autoimmune illness, this self-destruction masquerades as protection. They believe they are defending purity, when in truth they are disfiguring the very body that sustains them.

Eventually, the disease consumes even its host. The hand that silences the girl also trembles when it tries to write. The mouth that forbids her speech forgets how to pray. The nation, caught in a state of spiritual sepsis, will not heal until it learns the simplest truth Saadi left behind: that no limb survives by devouring its own.

Until then, Afghanistan remains a tragic anatomy, half alive, half in denial, its soul gnawing on itself in the name of God….

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A Game of Guess Who?

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on April 8, 2025| Leave a Comment »

I recently listened to a group of psychologists discussing arranged marriages, specifically the notion that parents tend to select a partner for their child based on mirroring familiar family dynamics. Essentially, the logic is: “He reminds me of your uncle—quiet, responsible, and has his own cow.” This kind of psychological rationale attempts to normalize something that, in many cases, defies logic entirely. It struck me as peculiar—almost comically so—that professionals trained to understand the infinite complexity of human behavior would reduce romantic compatibility to a familiar pattern, as if trauma bonding is just another love language.

It becomes even more bizarre when you consider that two individuals—each born into vastly different environments, molded by distinct cultural, emotional, and educational experiences—are expected to fall into harmonious union merely because their parents say, “He’s from a good family.” Ah, yes, because nothing screams compatibility like matching last names or shared shame around public displays of affection.

Let’s be honest: arranged marriages are often a glorified game of Guess Who? except the stakes are lifelong and the winners rarely smile. “Does he have a stable income?” Yes. “Did his mother die of diabetes?” Also yes. “Can he communicate emotions without causing a scene at a wedding?” Sorry you lost. Try again.

Incompetency in arranged marriages can wear many disguises. There’s the brooding poet type who writes haiku’s about his loneliness but can’t boil an egg or ask how your day was. There’s the mama’s boy who needs written permission from his mother to buy new socks. And then there’s the classic—emotionally unavailable but financially present. A man who believes buying you a washing machine on your birthday is the height of romance. “Love language? Mine is appliances.”

Psychologists, with all due respect, often overlook the subtle tragedies embedded in these unions. They talk of compatibility as though it’s a software update—just click ‘agree to all terms’ and wait for love to download. But real life isn’t an algorithm. It’s messy, layered, and often deeply unfair—especially when choices are dictated by a committee of elders who still believe mental health is cured with turmeric milk.

Perhaps the darkest humor in this is that even when these marriages falter—when silence becomes the primary form of communication and resentment ages like fine wine—the families still hail them as “successful.” Why? Because they stayed together. Never mind the chronic anxiety, emotional starvation, or whispered midnight prayers asking for an early exit.

So yes, I find it odd—alarming, even—when psychologists lend their professional weight to justify or sanitize a process that often prioritizes tradition over emotional intelligence, and social appearances over authentic connection. At the very least, can we agree that choosing a life partner shouldn’t feel like selecting a durable carpet?

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The Burden of Being the Eldest

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on March 28, 2025| Leave a Comment »

I am the eldest of ten children, born to a father who was 65 and a mother barely 18 or 20. A most remarkable arrangement, really — one that should inspire poets and playwrights alike. After all, what is a family without a bit of comedic tragedy? Among the first six of us, there was hardly a year separating one from the next. My parents must have fancied themselves industrious breeders, churning out offspring as if to meet a wartime quota.

Speaking of war, my childhood unfolded under the rather generous hospitality of the Russian occupation. People in small towns learned the art of the disappearing act, vanishing from one village to the next, always outrunning bombs, rockets, and the ever-diligent gaze of inspectors. We traveled by foot, a caravan of the unwanted. My mother, predictably cradling yet another newborn, moved forward with the stoic grace of a woman who had no choice. My aunt and grandmother, both sworn custodians of chaos, wrangled the younger ones. And I, the eldest, was the forgotten mule, bearing both the burden of existence and the curse of invisibility.

Hunger was a constant companion, but so was exhaustion, and between the two, they made a fine pair. If I grew tired, I kept it to myself. If I felt sick, I simply wasn’t. Pain was a luxury for those with fewer siblings and more attentive mothers. My most enduring memory is of a swollen fingernail, pulsating with infection. A tiny rebellion of flesh, daring to demand acknowledgment. It happened on one of our grand excursions for survival. The pain throbbed with each step, as if my finger were marching alongside me in protest. But in a world consumed by the shrill cries of babies and the panicked whispers of adults, my suffering was an inconvenient footnote.

When we finally reached a shelter that night, the pain had grown unbearable. A monstrous thing, red and angry, it mocked me in silence. Yet I dared not mention it. My mother, you see, had produced a son this time. Her first, a golden boy. And unlike the weary births of her daughters, this particular achievement rendered her something of a saint. She was swaddled in reverence, showered with praise, and shielded from all trivial concerns — like her daughter’s festering finger.

But despair has a curious sense of humor. Clutching my hand like a cursed relic, I found my way to my grandmother. A woman wise with age, wrinkled and weary, possessing all the sagacity one might expect from surviving a lifetime of absurdity. I presented my grotesque finger to her, hoping for a shred of mercy. She peered at it with a look of indifference, as though I had offered her a particularly unremarkable potato.

“Go press it to a red cow’s ass,” she declared, her voice as casual as if recommending a fine herbal remedy. Yes, a cow’s backside — nature’s cure-all. Forget the salves and poultices of the privileged; the crimson hindquarters of a farm animal were evidently the pinnacle of medical science in our parts.

I did not argue. I did not cry. Tears were a futile extravagance. I merely nodded, swallowed the bitter laughter that bubbled in my throat, and retreated to my corner. The lesson that night was clear, etched into the marrow of my bones. Pain was mine to bear. No declarations of agony, no cries for comfort. If my flesh rotted, it would do so quietly.

I learned then, with a clarity that defied my years, that I was my own caretaker. Because in a world of swollen bellies and scarred earth, what could be more absurd than the hope that someone might care?

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Aunt Ameno’s Fury

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on March 27, 2025| 1 Comment »

The sun hung high in the sky, relentless and unforgiving, baking the earth beneath its scorching midday glare. It cast sharp shadows across the yard, but Aunt Ameno didn’t notice them. Her mind was elsewhere, tangled in a storm of nerves and frustration.

Back in the kitchen, the heat was just as oppressive, the air thick and unmoving. Aunt Ameno’s hands shook as she picked up a cup to pour water, the liquid sloshing over the rim and pooling onto the counter. Her heart pounded loudly in her chest, each beat like a hammer striking stone.

She muttered under her breath, her words a jumble of frustration and dread. “Always me. Always Ameno. Running, fetching, fixing… as if I’m not a person, just a pair of hands to solve their messes.” Her voice wavered, quiet but sharp, as though she were arguing with herself—or perhaps with the unseen forces of fate that seemed determined to test her at every turn.

Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the edge of the counter, her gaze fixed on the cracked wall in front of her. The memory of her sister’s anguished cries echoed in her ears, a sound that rattled her nerves and churned her stomach. Six… it would be the sixth girl if nothing changes, she thought bitterly.

The weight of it all pressed on her, making her breath come in shallow, uneven gasps. She reached up to smooth the front of her scarf, a gesture meant to steady herself, but even her fingers betrayed her, trembling as if they had their own rebellion to stage.

She looked out the small kitchen window, her eyes narrowing at the sight of the unyielding sun. It seemed to mock her—its blazing heat a reminder of the harshness of life, its blinding light exposing everything she wished to hide.

“What difference does it make?” she muttered again, her voice breaking slightly. “Girl or boy, nothing changes. Nothing ever changes.”

She paused, her hands now gripping the rim of the water jug as if to keep herself grounded. Her heart ached—not just for her sister but for the unborn child and the life that awaited it, filled with expectations and disappointments it had no power to escape.

The door creaked open behind her, and she stiffened, swallowing hard to regain her composure. She wasn’t one to let others see her shaken, even if her heart was pounding like a drum and her thoughts were a maelstrom of anger and despair.

“Bring the water,” a voice called from the other room, breaking her moment of solitude.

Aunt Ameno exhaled sharply, grabbed the jug with trembling hands, and turned toward the door. “I’m coming!” she snapped, her voice laced with anger—but not at the person who called. No, her anger was at the world itself, a world that seemed determined to bend her but never entirely break her.

She squared her shoulders, set her jaw, and stepped back into the fray, her presence as commanding and unyielding as the sun overhead. God forbid anyone dared to venture too close to Auntie Ameno when she was in one of those moods. She was a volcano in human form—an emotional tempest wrapped in an apron, a lioness protecting her pride, only her pride wasn’t so much the cubs as the swirling frustration inside her chest. When she was upset, it wasn’t just a storm—it was the storm. The kind of storm that sent the girls scattering like roaches in the presence of light. They knew the signs. Her sharp breath, the tightness in her jaw, the low muttering that reverberated through the walls.

And the moment she promised herself—again—that if this child turned out to be another girl, she was packing up and heading straight back to her mother’s house, you could practically hear the collective sighs from the backyard as the girls ran for cover. “Back to my mother’s house I go,” she’d mutter, her words more like a curse than a promise, laced with years of unfulfilled hopes. “Enough is enough!” The mantra came out with the same force as a prayer of desperation, as if somehow this time—this very time—the universe would take pity and grant her the son she’d been dreaming of.

But Auntie Ameno’s words were more like vows to a deity she no longer believed in. The universe had long since abandoned her wishful thinking.

Her sister’s five daughters knew better than to stick around when Auntie Ameno was in one of her moods. They had mastered the fine art of emotional survival. The second they heard that growl, the second the room grew too heavy with the tension of a thousand unspoken complaints, they bolted. They didn’t care about playing in the garden; they cared about surviving the garden. The backyard, with its peace and flowers, was as far from the lioness as they could get. It wasn’t about being good little girls; it was about self-preservation.

Because Auntie Ameno wasn’t just angry—she was volcanic. And her fists? Well, her fists were the lightning that followed the thunder. Back and chest, she’d strike with no hesitation, and the girls knew better than to make eye contact when that storm broke. It wasn’t just physical pain they feared—it was the sheer absurdity of it. The sense that they hadn’t done anything to deserve this anger, yet here they were, running for their lives like it was some sort of bizarre, painful game.

But Auntie Ameno wasn’t blind to their tactics. She knew the second they fled, the second they all retreated to their makeshift sanctuary in the garden. And yet, despite the rage seething inside her, there was an odd, deep sense of loneliness. After all, wasn’t she the one who was supposed to be helping them? She, the woman who’d raised them alongside her own suffering, now was reduced to the source of their terror.

And then there was Baba—the father of the girls, the husband of Auntie Ameno’s sister, who lived in his own little world of “patience.” Baba had mastered the art of watching Auntie Ameno go off, giving her enough space to rage but never intervening, until the moment came when his quiet endurance cracked. He was the silent authority in this family drama, the only one who could restore any kind of order. When his patience finally wore thin, Baba would come out of his room—slowly, carefully, like a man walking through a minefield—and give Auntie Ameno that look. The look that said, “Enough.”

That was the signal. No more screaming, no more fists. The storm would quiet, at least for a while. And Auntie Ameno, for all her promises of departure, would retreat, her rage still simmering beneath the surface, but for the moment, contained. Her sister, exhausted and silent in the background, would take a deep breath, already mentally preparing herself for the cycle to begin again.

As for the girls? They’d creep back into the house slowly, their bruises well hidden under layers of summer clothes, their minds already bracing for the next storm. They were experts in the art of emotional camouflage, the art of surviving Aunt Ameno’s moods. And all the while, Aunt Ameno would sit, muttering to herself in the quiet, still holding onto those promises. Maybe next time, she thought. Maybe next time…To be continued

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Balancing Education and Motherliness: A Personal Psychological Journey

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on December 3, 2024| Leave a Comment »

Abstract

This paper explores the emotional and psychological challenges of pursuing higher education as a mother of three. It reflects on key life events, including moments of self-blame, guilt, and resilience, as well as the ongoing tension between fulfilling personal ambitions and meeting the needs of a growing family. Through reflection, this journey highlights the importance of perseverance, balance, and personal growth in overcoming life’s adversities.

Introduction

Pursuing higher education is a transformative experience, but it is particularly challenging for mothers who must balance their aspirations with the demands of family life. My six-year journey as a mother of three navigating academia was defined by moments of guilt, self-doubt, and resilience. I faced critical life events, such as leaving my eldest daughter for post-secondary education and managing medical emergencies with my younger children, which tested my ability to balance motherhood and personal growth. Despite these challenges, I persevered, believing that achieving my educational goals would create a better future for my family. This paper examines my experiences, focusing on the psychological dilemmas, sacrifices, and personal growth that defined my journey.

Motherhood and the Struggles of Returning to School

When I decided to return to school, I was already deeply entrenched in the responsibilities of raising three children: two teenagers and a preteen. My days were consumed by their needs and the complexities of parenting. However, I felt an urgent desire to improve myself through education—not only to enhance my own opportunities but also to provide a better life for my children. While motivated by love, this decision came with significant challenges, particularly feelings of guilt.

Each time my children faced difficulties, I questioned whether my pursuit of education was causing them harm. For example, when one of my daughters misbehaved, I blamed myself, believing my absence had contributed to her actions. This guilt often made me overcompensate, such as excusing their behaviors or shielding them from consequences. Leaving my eldest daughter for post-secondary education in Kelowna was particularly painful. I feared that her decision to leave home reflected my shortcomings as a mother, and I grappled with whether my choices had alienated her.

Navigating Key Life Events and Psychological Dilemmas

The emotional toll of balancing education and motherhood intensified during significant life events. One such instance occurred during my younger daughter’s pre-surgical examination. Due to conflicting responsibilities, I left my 16-year-old to take the bus home alone. When complications arose from a steroid injection, I was overwhelmed with guilt, feeling I had failed to prioritize her well-being.

Another pivotal moment came during my second semester when my eldest daughter was hospitalized due to severe anemia. She required a blood transfusion, and I withdrew from school to care for her. Although the decision to pause my education was difficult, it allowed me to be present for my family during a critical time. Once her health stabilized, I resumed my studies, determined to move forward despite the setbacks.

Reflection and Personal Growth

The six years I spent pursuing higher education were marked by significant emotional and psychological challenges. As a mother in my 30s, I often felt isolated from peers who were free to pursue opportunities and experiences that I could not. However, the presence of my children grounded me, reminding me of my purpose and the long-term goals that drove me to persevere.

Looking back, I recognize the immense personal growth that emerged from these struggles. My journey illustrates the power of resilience and the importance of pursuing one’s ambitions, even in the face of adversity. By overcoming these challenges, I not only achieved my educational goals but also set an example for my children of what is possible through determination and perseverance.

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