One year ago she came out from her mother’s womb, unaware, silent, blind, bloody, and crying. And I was disgusted.
She was so small. Her tiny hands formed tiny little fists, her eyelids quivered, her mouth opened and closed: she sighed. And I was wondering if she was having her first infantile pure dream.
Her father, her aunt and I were standing above her cradle, trying to think of a name. We whispered them to her to see if she’d react: Vera, Lara, Sara, Aisha, etc. Finally, she woke up when the wind whispered Ayah. And I wondered if she saw her surrounding as a prison.
She can walk now and she smiles and she has five teeth and she does many expressions with her face. And I wonder does she see filth when she sees me?
Her hair is fair and her skin is white. Her face is round and her eyes are brown. And in her eyes I am ashamed.
Does she know?
The world is a hideous maze. The highroad is bound to join the low road at some point. Good intentions will sometimes be cruel and cruelty sometimes will abound with good fortune. Hearts will always be broken; friends will always turn away; people will always die; we will always feel alone. Ambition, aptitude and skill are not enough, you have to be lucky. Passion accounts for only a marginal driving force. Love is disguised by favors and favors are disguised as love. It is not easy to care for someone without them accusing you of pity. It is not easy to be sorrowful without being called pathetic. It is not easy to be yourself without being marginalized. It is not easy to voice honest opinions without being called a racist or a sexist or a fanatic or rude. It is not acceptable to state apparent facts because sometimes they may be hurtful, other times they may hurt you.
She can speak now; she started with yelling out voices and then she stumbles upon the easy Mama and Baba phrases.
Guilt is waiting for her conscience to awaken. Repent is waiting for her to be in the wrong. Jealousy is waiting for her heart to skip a beat. Anger is waiting for her to be forced down a road and raped. Fear is waiting for her to be in love. Hate is waiting for her to be pricked by a rose.
She’s one year old. She does not know much. She’s a child without the complexities of our adult lives. And she is brought to this world without choice, like many other Ayahs like you. We create them for narcissistic purposes; we breed them so we can have small images of ourselves walking around, doing what we tell them. We play with them like puppets. We control our image in the water. You are not born out of love or into love. You are born out of narcissism into a medium abounding with the God complex.
And this is to you, Ayah. I apologize for all that you will go through. I apologize for all the tears that will drip from your eyes hurtfully and joyfully. I apologize for all the lost dreams and the dying ambitions. I apologize for all the helpless and hopeless moments you will go through. Do not believe anyone. Our only purpose in life is to die; there is no bigger meaning than death. And after death there is no life. After death you will cease to be aware. After death you will cease to be.
You’ve made it past your first year. You are smiling with little white teeth and full pink cheeks. You are walking bravely across the room. It’s your birthday today. And I am disgusted by humanity’s vile act of creation.