This is based on the true story that happened in Palestinian on July 21, 2020.
What if I offer you a job? - A job in which you have to work 18 hours a day
without taking a break in the middle. It's a life time contract and so you
cannot quit if you took it. Yes, the conditions applied. Dare to take the
job?. Well, terms aren't finished. You have to work without expecting a
single buck to fall in your pocket. I can hear your shocking
What-the-hell vibes and stares from you right now but do know that there
are millions of people doing this job around the globe. Let me break the ice
already.
The job title is MOTHER.
Well, the god hired an angel for this job named as Rasma Suwaiti and
deputed me just to get comfort in her soothing arms and care.
I am Jihad Al Suwaiti, Palestinian man, lives in the town of Beit Awwa,
West Bank. I lost my dad 15 years ago and since then it has been my
mother always, in convivial as well as catastrophic times. I can remember all those
moments with my mom just like yesterday. When I was ill, she used to hug me when I am fast
asleep just to get my illness, even at my 13. She always lulled at my constant
I-am-not-8-anymore yelling.
I doubt the saying - 'Change is the
only permanent thing' as she's still the same. I guess somethings never
change. It may seem a bit childish but departing my mom to move into the
city for my job is the hardest thing I could ever do. Just wondering about
how she could live all alone without me at her lap wrecked my heart deep
through. Nevertheless, we should move on to learn the essence of life on our
own. So I did it anyway, hoping she would be okay. But she wasn't.
I used to visit her every weekends and her excitement whenever she sees my
face didn't get old. At festive seasons, her excitement grown even stronger as I
would be staying with her for quite long days. Everything was fine until I heard
she was diagnosed with leukemia. When I got my leave, I rushed to see her just to find out that it
isn't only leukemia. She was tested positive with corona and already in
critical isolation ward at Hebran state hospital. The doctor said that she
won't last long. I didn't think I could take this.
I chose not to give up though. The hospital can say no to my entry but
that never stopped me. I jumped off the compound wall of the hospital back
entrance at the night and sneaked at all the windows to know where she was
admitted. I got few scratches but that was worth when I saw her face at
the second storey. Her face was lit just like she's been, always. And from then on I
used to do the same thing every day. The sign talking, my tears, her smile
became our language which we articulated to convey our love for each other.
The unbridled emotions flooded my heart and I can't help it. She signaled me
I am okay, telling me not to cry and that made me whine even
more.
Thinking retrospectively, I wanted to hug her in the same way she did when
I was all ill but sadly I couldn't do. After all, whatever we do, we cannot
compete with mother's love. Just cannot. I did this drain-line climb
everyday, sat on the window and saw her. I didn't come down until the
doctors and securities convinces me that she's fast
asleep.
This went on for several weeks and I wished it would be even more longer.
Unfortunately, nothing ever lasts. Everything will stop one day and so did
my drain-line climb. Seeing her eyes slowly closing paralyzed me. I
groaned as her loving little child, screaming not to leave me all alone. I
couldn't leave that window until they forced me so. I don't think I can get
over this and I know I won't. It would be always my permanent incurable paining scar in my heart. But know what, life is always vicious
enough to move only forward and it is irrevocable. God, if there's a time
machine so that I could go back and increase my days count with her.
Bitterness of life is that we should move on and there's no way looking
back. I've got nothing left but to do it so.
Whatever the virus out there, it is real and it deserves our seriousness
to it's effect. So, please be safe and stay at home. Please be . . .
.
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