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Point of View with Barb
Sumner Burstyn October 13
2003
Twisted logic of mothers who abandon mothering
Today as I write, 19 people have died in Haifa at the hands of
yet another suicide terrorist. This time the terrorist was a woman.
The pride of her family, she was about to become a lawyer. But instead
of grief at the loss of such a promising person, her family is ecstatic.
"We are receiving congratulations from people," said her brother.
"Why should we cry? It is like her wedding today, the happiest day
for her."
A year ago, our media were filled with images of Naima el-Abed,
a Palestinian mother who sent her son to carry out a suicide terrorist
attack. In all the images she is beaming.
"I agreed that he become a suicide bomber to encourage other mothers,"
she said. On the Hamas website she proudly detailed the support
and encouragement she gave her son and described how, as a mother,
his act was a source of great pride.
There is much I don't understand about the Middle East conflict
or the seeds of religious intolerance that drive it. But I do know
about mothering. In that area I am an expert. A year ago as I tried
to understand her comments, I was filled with a mother's questions.
And now I want to ask them.
I want to know, Naima el-Abed, if you remember when your son was
born? Did you look at his perfection with a sense of wonder?
I remember that time, when even the exquisite design of my daughter's
soft pale fingernail was enough to bring me to tears.
But along with that, something else blossomed, as if it were an
integral part of the birth process. Fear. Fear that I might not
be up to this responsibility and the enormity of the task of protecting
her.
And, like all new parents, I knew at that moment the value of
human life, the fragility and vulnerably that is concealed beneath
new-born perfection. And I knew without a shadow of a doubt that
if it came to it, I would lay down my life for this life I had created.
How do you go from that to supporting your child's suicide? I
try to imagine the mental steps and I just can't do it. Instead,
I wonder at the belief that has wormed its way into your Palestinian
motherhood, a belief that seems to have destroyed the fierce and
ancient desire to protect your child.
I understand Naima, that the world I come from is cloistered,
secluded from the daily terrors of your war zone. From this perspective
I cannot hope to comprehend the complexities of your mothering in
the Middle East.
I know, from reading your interview, that you believe your son
is now in the company of virgins and that he is happy. I want to
believe that you believe this. But then I know how the will to live
is the most powerful force in the universe and I think about the
money you have been paid, for the life of your son, and I weep for
how twisted your mothering has become.
One thing I do know about parenting, Naima, one thing we both
know: children want to please their parents. Was your son forfeiting
his life to enrich his family and to please you?
Do you ever wonder if, deep down inside himself, he nurtured a
hope of life, perhaps buried beneath the hatred your society fanned
in him, but still a hope, of even a sliver of the years granted
to you?
So what is it, Naima, that drives the mothers of your country
to glorify the destruction of their children and of the nation they
oppose?
In my quest for understanding I have read many articles explaining
the conflict in the Middle East and specifically the cult of terrorist
suicide bombings.
Almost all rationalise it in terms of the desperation of the Palestinian
people. This I understand. Desperation is universal. I see it etched
on the faces of your people.
But this same condition also drove those who became the citizens
of Israel to find a place of safety from the atrocities committed
against them. It drove the grandmothers of my country to give up
their sons in World War II.
But after that war when the flower of an entire generation did
not come home, our grandmothers did not rejoice. They did not ululate
at the knowledge that their boys had died and possibly killed another
mother's son in the process. They wept with sadness, not joy at
the decimation of their children.
A year ago, I watched Naima el-Abed carefully, looking for some
sign of grief at the loss of her son. Instead I saw something far
more chilling. I saw her pleasure. As if the death of this boy was
a victory.
At the time, I wanted to reach out to her, across the expanse
of our differences and say to her that while we were strangers,
a Palestinian and a New Zealander, we had one thing in common. We
were both mothers.
But now I understand that this word, this act as natural as breathing,
is not a universal one.
In a world where even animals instinctively protect their young,
I know I will never understand the mother who encourages her child
to suicide, who views her son as a legitimate weapon of war.
As I write this, I am again in tears. For the children yes, but
also for the mothers who send them out to die, for the mothers who
have abandoned mothering.
© Barbara Sumner Burstyn, 2003
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Barbara Sumner
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