Silent Suffering... Boundless Love

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There must be a reason!

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The ancient ones have developed many methodologies to undo the bakchak. Many of these are very valuable, but the point is to bring about awareness of our mental habits. Always be mindful and vigilant. Those mental habits will not go away overnight. They will be with us for a very long time, even decades to come.

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But as long as we are aware of them they gradually lose their hold on us and we begin to experience a sense of expanding freedom within. For us, each cycle of a month is time to look deeply inside and see where we have been off or out of alignment with the path. And we do this reflection not as self-judgment but with honest acknowledgement in order to get back on track.

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Mail will not be published required. Currently you have JavaScript disabled. In order to post comments, please make sure JavaScript and Cookies are enabled, and reload the page. In fact, it was unlikely I would get better. People, including me, want to find order in chaos. Maybe the pain is my fault and I can fix it. God has made a purpose for my pain. But that does not mean He has inflicted this suffering upon me. In the book, Bowler detailed her experience: diagnosed with Stage IV cancer with little time left to live, she received well-meaning but destructive comments from friends and strangers alike.

Some names come with the privilege of individual agency, others with the penalty of collective guilt.

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There is a particular kind of obsession that sometimes takes hold among members of various minority and immigrant groups in the West. It manifests itself in different ways — a desire for excessive, ostentatious wealth; a degree from a prestigious university; the procurement of Western citizenship. In my case the armour has taken the form of culture.

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  6. From a young age I inhaled American movies, music, books, anything that could help render me fluent in the societal language of the West, the vast region with America at its centre that I took to be the pinnacle of the world. Fed a version of a white, dominant America since childhood, I strived for its acceptance. Today I sound American. I live in America. I read, write and speak the language better than most of the people who were born here.

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    I wear no skullcap or beard, no outward signs of my faith. I have developed quite the armour. But my name remains unarmoured.

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    I am and forever will be one of those men with first names like Mohamed, middle names like Mohamed, last names like Mohamed. It was that thought which prompted my relief the day I found out our child would be a girl.

    Silent Suffering... Boundless Love by Rosalina Mesias (Paperback / softback, 2013)

    Almost thirty years after I first met those schoolteachers and soldiers, thirty years after I fell in love with an illusory amalgam of myth and ideology masquerading as a country, I finally ended up in America. My wife was offered a professorship at a university in Portland, and so we moved to the Pacific northwest, bought a home, earned our Green Cards, started a family.

    Fittingly, I arrived here just as I arrived in Qatar all those years ago, the relative of an economic migrant. I still find this country as fascinating as I did when I was a child, but the awe in which I held it is entirely gone. The last of it disappeared during those years of unnecessary, illegal wars that killed so many hundreds of thousands in the first decade of this century — wars fought by the children of those soldiers to whom our teachers once told us to write thank-you notes. In truth, my attachment to this country now no longer runs through me, but through my daughter. I want her to know who she is and where she comes from and to feel ownership of wherever she calls home, to not waste energy trying to become something else.

    I want for my daughter to feel joy, to love and to know she is loved, to navigate the world unburdened and unvictimised. But I want her to know the underside of life exists, and that by virtue of her gender and her faith and her ethnicity and whatever else this country chooses as grounds to discriminate against her, she will have to fight harder and face more hurdles than many of those around her. And I want her to understand that there are others who will likely suffer more than her, and that she has an obligation to work against the imposition of such suffering, though it may be easier to ignore it.

    I want her to feel free to speak about every aspect of her identity, what she claims from me and what she claims from her white Canadian mother, but not feel as though her identity is all she is entitled to address. I want all of these things for my daughter but my every experience with America leads me to believe there exists here no such state of being — only the choice between varying degrees of happy obliviousness or honest rage. She joined us in the spring of She arrived early, a couple of weeks after my novel was published during what turned out to be the busiest April of our lives.

    She came into this world healthy and happy and stubborn and curious.

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