We are Killing our Mothers

By: Khushaan Shahad

Here are a few things I have learned since crossing the age of twenty- we are killing our mothers. No, we are not damaging them and no, this is not an exaggeration. We have been in the business of killing our mothers for over a century now- some will say it has been since the conception of the human race- but for most of us, at least for me, the conception of the human is an irrelevant, dreary and contested affair. Whereas the killing of our mothers is a real spectacle that is unraveling in front of us.

DISCLAIMER: Occasionally making a cup of tea or gifting them a coupon for a shop does not cut the endless bullshit we subject our mothers to. Sharing facebook posts about motherhood or writing articles in dry humor does not cut it. I understand there are absolutely shitty mothers out there. And absolutely wonderful, caring children out there. If you’re reading this article just to pat yourself on the back at the end to say- the author is off her rocker (of course she is) and this article is an exaggeration (of course it is) and I am not a complicit entitled person (yes you are), then stop right now. We are all in this together. The point is to do what my friends do for me: ignore all the exaggerations, jokes, offshoot comments and focus on the problem here: we, the children of underappreciated, overworked and (understandably) angry mothers, are killing them.

When I first identified myself as a feminist- a fourteen year old who found a couple of really cool girls on ask.fm- I would place myself as an insider in their circle: a girl who likes to read, finds romance uncomfortable, has an inexplicable rage for the way things around her are- and even more angry at how no one else seemed to be angry. My own family and community became alien to me- it felt like they were fine with the way things were- with what it meant to be a girl in this world- the consequences, the injustices, the shame, the crime of authenticity. My mother temporarily became someone who won’t ever understand what it means to be me, who didn’t care. I would dig up news of every honor killing, of every rape and acid attack. But she won’t. She would keep nagging me about how unclean my room is, how weird my obsession with neutral colored shirts is. She would get unbelievably get angry if I would leave laundry somewhere or if my bed wasn’t made (I still live like a hermit) and every time I would scream- why the fuck does it matter? I hate the world, every girl I know hates the world- and you care about the sheets?

But here’s the part of being a feminist that we all inevitably go through- we are all complicit and deliberate in being complete oppressors to our mothers. And it’s not just in the big things- it’s in the small things. And it feels so hypocritical- the rage I feel for the outside- when in the insides of my home there is this wonderful person that deserves better. And then being feminist doesn’t just mean defending and being in complete faith with the women that even my mother would frequently criticise- it meant to pick up after myself. Occasionally tell people that rely on her to fuck off- and other people that you can’t tell to fuck off- help with them as much as you can so she doesn’t feel so alone.

The feminist community is wonderful- and it is time to add our mothers to it. Even if its in a roundabout and camouflaged way.
The truth is- we have normalized the idea of mothers as superbeings to the point that it is even too super for super. If you think this is an exaggeration, imagine if your mother just leaves for a week. I don’t know about you, but my house will absolutely fall apart- flat out like a house of cards. If being super means to be the brick, mortar and fucking cement of a house- than its not a compliment anymore. It’s a burden. Motherhood is exhausting sure and it is incredible- but in southasian households, motherhood specifically becomes exhausting. To the point that our mothers are just rendered as mothers- their personality fashioned around the fact that they had us. There’s a reason that our generation is so disillusioned from having kids- apart from the fact that this world is Charlie Sheen two weeks before he blew up- we have realized we don’t want to give as much as our mothers did.

She has to say all the hard things. Fathers as a general rule, take the position of the head of the family- a head that must always be out of the door and whose nose must not poke into the inner business of child rearing. So all the hard talks about navigating in the world, about how B.O is not okay- these all come from our mothers. We think they are unbelievably harsh with the slightest mistakes we make and how relaxed and chill our fathers are- but the truth is that when you’re juggling the entire business of raising children, taking care of a fucking house and every being that lives in it, while being held in accusation for neglecting your children if you go to work or held in pity for not making a life of yourself if you’re a house wife- you realize that they are humans pushed to the absolute extreme and asked to behave with complete decorum to which us children must say: fuck that.

We don’t want to be well over sixty with children well over thirty that we still coddle. Coddling adults is an extreme problem in southasian households (or rich households throughout the world). We want our children to be provided with everything on a silver platter- for them to never have to learn the dirty, below their dignity work of cleaning and cooking, of caring and nurturing. We don’t like seeing them struggle unless it is for a high class job where they sit 9-2 p.m and then complain about the workload- fuck learning how to operate things on a basic level or own up to what we have become. The idea of leaving the nest is not just painful for the parents in our households, its especially daunting for us adults- without our mothers to take care of them, without our mothers to take care of our families- how will we ever progress in life?

Here is where my next realization came- the precise reason that all of the early 20 somethings are so beaten down by anxiety is precisely this- we do not want to be like that. Yes the economy is worse than ever, yes we are in the country that is worst for the youth and yes, it is a thousand times harder for us to start from scratch and make it big so we all will ride on the privilege our parents can give us- but despite all of that- my friends, we have the urge to be fucking alone. We have the urge to not be sheltered and cruel. To leave our mothers alone. And this is not the sad, baghbaan induced alone. This is the grow up and let your mother breathe alone. To accept that we are adults that should start eating salads and exercise- but not at the expense of our parents money and exercising because our mother is handling the work we would be doing and not taking of herself- but actually fucking off their lives for a while so they can breathe. And enjoy.

And of course, my mother will say- “mujhe pata tha humesha se k tum tou bas humein chorna chahti ho”.

To that I say- like every boy that says he won’t text me after I have said no countless times, we will always return. Just like mothers watched us play and have fun in the park as kids, it’s our time. Time to suffer the consequences of being adults. And time to push our mothers in the playground.