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Al-Ahram Weekly 17 - 23 February 2000 Issue No. 469 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 17 - 23 February 2000 Issue No. 469
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Features Focus Profile Travel Living Sports People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters Keeping it in the family
By Fayza Hassan
As I grow older, I realise that the only lasting influence in my life has been my mother's. Whatever she said or did, even though I pretended not to pay attention at the time, has left an indelible mark on my character. When we first married, I noticed that my husband used to become inordinately distraught at the mere mention of one of my mother's opinions, however mundane the occasion. At one point, unable to bear it any longer, he confided in his family doctor, whom I was later firmly invited to consult. Having prodded my feelings at length, my improvised counselor advised me to stop seeing my mother -- "just for a while," he added lightly, to give time to my own personality to blossom, since he could see it had failed to do so. A covert tug-of-war in which I was the prize developed between my mother and my husband following his recommendation and would have probably grown into a full-blown confrontation had we not rather abruptly been forced to emigrate to Australia.
During our years there, my mother's presence in my life became even more noticeable. Deprived of direct contact with her -- she seldom wrote and never telephoned -- I became intent on doing everything her way. I racked my brain to remember how she had reacted when confronted with similar situations. When my memory failed, I tried to guess. Whenever my children came down with minor illnesses, my first feelings were of guilt and apprehension. Surely she would say that I had not looked after them properly, I would tell myself before realising that she was not around to say anything. At this point, I would be overcome with panic. How could I make the right decisions if my mother was not there to tell me what to do? I had to deal with childhood afflictions and minor operations on my own. Contrary to the doctor's belief, her physical absence was far from advantageous to my development, and the fact that ultimately I committed no major blunders did not strengthen my confidence. Rather, it reinforced the thought that successful results had been due solely to my ability to follow her directions in absentia.
Infuriated, my husband often claimed that he was married to my mother and called me by her name whenever he meant to show me his displeasure. He used to observe me ironically as I bought clothes and never failed to point out that the items selected were in complete agreement with her taste. "I see your mother has chosen your clothes again," he would say sarcastically. It had become accepted that I was unable to think for myself and his only regret-- since I obviously needed a mentor -- was that I had not preferred him. He was convinced that my mother had achieved this result by crushing me at an early age. The truth was, as I often attempted to explain, experience had shown me that my mother had always spoken words of wisdom and that on the numerous occasions when I had rebelled, I had ended up being sorry. In fact, marrying him against her wish was a case in point, although with two children and thousands of miles away from home I did not think it opportune to share this particular thought with him.
We remained married, for better or worse, and eventually returned to Egypt. To his chagrin, years abroad had not changed anything in my relationship with my mother: we still argued, she won, I refused to concede victory, but in the end I always came around to her point of view. By this time our older daughter had grown into a teenager, who deliberately sided with her father. Their complicity did not last long enough to give him time to soothe his bruised ego, however. She married before her twentieth birthday and moved to the States. He missed her terribly and made bitter-sweet remarks about having been left alone to face my mother who, he claimed, had managed to win our younger daughter over to her side.
My husband died before he could notice that his American grandchildren were being brought up exactly according to my mother's principles, courtesy of his favourite child. Although she has never spent much time with my mother and does not know her well, she seems to have inherited many of her genes. Hearing her speak words that could just as well have come from my mother's mouth, I have wondered aloud on several occasions about the origins of her ideas. "I use my head," is her standard answer, one my mother often uses when confronted with the same question. Last year, as we were window-shopping, hotly discussing the merits of designer bed sheets as compared to their prohibitive prices, I thought she was jokingly aping my mother when she announced authoritatively: "I either buy the best, or nothing at all." She was dead serious and, as I was recovering from my surprise, I saw her grab her son, who was about to walk under a ladder, and hiss at him: "How many times do I have to tell you that walking under a ladder brings bad luck?" My mother could not have said it better herself.
