That's Not Your Mother That's a Man Baby
(Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery, in example you're wondering almost the championship.)
In our patriarchal, unfortunately chauvinistic, society, many of the words or phrases used to denote positive qualities have a distinctly male flavour: gada' or dakkar , for example.
The bright Cairokee, right at the end of their song Matloob Za'eem (Wanted: A leader), recorded earlier we elected our current poor excuse for a "leader", declared that the ideal za'eem needed for this country, post-Mubarak, should in fact exist a dakkar .
The word is hard to translate, but roughly it means: "Someone with balls".
Well, no single segment of this population has more "balls" than its mothers.
"In politics if you lot want anything said, ask a man," noted Margaret Thatcher. "If you want anything done, ask a woman."
Perhaps we really should have had a female president. Especially a mother.
Can't find something? Enquire your mother. She'll always discover it (how on earth do they practice this? Do they have radar or something? I retrieve the Usa's rather pointless mission to search-and-destroy Ozzy Bong Laden would have ended years agone if merely they'd sent a crack-unit of badass muthas).
Want to discover out something? Don't ask Google; give your mum a call. Somehow she'll always have the answer.
Desire to organise your finances? ("It's the economy, stupid.") Your mum will come up upwards with an ingenious plan to divide your monthly salary into envelopes for each week of the month, along with one for rent and another for bills, merely for you lot to forget the envelopes in Alexandria over the weekend and have to spend the entire week on a shoestring once more.
There'southward been much said in this paper already about women in this land more-or-less running this country, condign, in some families, the principal, sometimes even the sole, breadwinner, carrying their families on their heads like rural felaha women carrying those heavy bags of God-knows-what on theirs—and suffering for it in plough. So I won't dwell on it hither.
I will, however, reflect in one case again briefly on how the language nosotros use reflects some of these attitudes. Ane of the many Arabic words for "lion", asad, is sometimes used to denote a real "man's man"; a true "lion" (testosterone no dubiousness seeping profusely out of his every pore).
The Arabic give-and-take for "lioness", however, is used to denote something rather different: a—how shall I put it—"fallen woman".
(The reason for this baroque linguistic cribbing, I'm told, is that a lioness can mate with multiple males when she is in rut.)
I love felines (the big, the pocket-size, the Kirsten Dunst) so I merely want to explain why I call up this detail use of language is maybe as baroque as calling someone a "dog" (loyal, loving, cute animals), or a "donkey" (hard-working, diligent, besides beautiful animals, who assistance humans earn their daily bread), while illustrating a wonderful example of motherhood in nature.
Prides of lions are dominated by the lionesses. The majority of the pride is made up of genetically-related females (around vi or seven), with usually just one male (though sometimes two), plus all the cubs (both male and female).
At present, it's really the lionesses in the pride, non the "king of the jungle", who practise all the hunting. The lionesses will become out and hunt for the casualty while the male waits with the cubs. But despite this, they however won't get starting time dibs on anything they catch (sound familiar?). In fact, they, and the little cubs, have to wait their turn, until the male (or males) have had their make full. And if there's nothing left of the carcass, they may not eat at all. And, of course, the maternal instinct being what it is, the lionesses will always let the hungry cubs eat first.
No. "Lioness" should be a term of endearment.
"The Prophet said adult female dominates men of intellect and possessors of hearts, just ignorant men dominate women, for they are shackled by the ferocity of animals."
From Jalal Al-Din Rumi's Masnavi (Masnawi, Mesnavi; no-one seems to know what it's chosen).
A few lines later, Rumi says: "She [adult female] is the lite of God, she is not your [earthly] honey: she is creative, yous might say she is uncreated."
If God is the creator of the cosmos, what can be more divine in this world than the female, than maternity: "Heaven lies nether the anxiety of the mothers," as the Prophet also said.
For just like a tree, which gives unconditionally of its shade to anyone who rests under it, of its fruit to anyone who is hungry, no matter who they are, fauna or human, prince or pauper (to the good, the bad, and the Badie), maternity is overflowing with kindness and utterly selfless. Those endless videos of interspeciary adoption are testament to this.
Anyone who has watched a mother coo over her baby might become an inkling as to what Rumi was talking about here (I retrieve inklings are what nearly of us mere mortals can ever aspire to with Rumi; this man was on another planet—some other universe, even). Listen to this bit of verse written by an anonymous female Arab poet from the Umayyad period:
"My little boy'due south smell is all lavender / Is every little boy like him, or hasn't anyone given birth before me?"
I think most men discover women simultaneously spellbinding, perplexing, infuriating, and, ultimately, mysterious. I call up this whole thing with them carrying something in their bellies for nine months—continuously growing and sapping abroad at their forcefulness—makes them fundamentally weird to us.
"She carried me for nine months in her belly," yous always hear people say when they speak fondly of their mothers. But in my mum's case, I think it was the next three decades that truly sapped her forcefulness.
Both my poor parents suffered a lot to bring me up (we demand a Father's Day in add-on to Mother's Day in this land, for all the great Dads out in that location like mine).
I was a pretty stubborn, difficult child. I hated school with a violent passion. I'm still uneasy about the concept; to me, they however seem like some sort of kinderkonzentrationslager (I ask y'all: Is there anything more than fascist, more sadistic, than making teenage boys all the same pining for the warmth of their beds and their downy duvets, play rugby in the freezing cold on a dirty wet pitch at ten am?).
Anyway, I gave my parents untold problems in this regard. I would turn down to do work if it didn't suit my tastes; I'd sit at my desk-bound and doodle, pretending to do work when I wasn't, and so do this at dwelling with homework. This left my parents and teachers somewhat perplexed (parent-teacher evenings at school, which, depending on the school, I was sometimes required to go to, were always a bit of a weird, uncomfortable experience).
Past the time we'd hitting the terrible teens, I was cutting schoolhouse altogether, spending the whole day at the library or the cinema (where I still think my real education took place, to be honest).
And this is just the tip of the iceberg. But I don't want to embarrass myself with all the other stuff. Needless to say, I gave my parents, especially my mum, a really difficult time.
Mother's Mean solar day? "Information technology'south lightheaded, mum; every day is Female parent'southward Day; I don't need a day to show you how special you are, surely?" (That didn't go downwards likewise well.) The aforementioned went for birthdays and Eids and all the other celebrations and festivals this deliberate nonconformist deemed also "silly" to participate in, and would deliberately forget.
My mum's an economist by training, and possesses a precise, mathematical listen that would put any computer to shame, coupled with the kind of artistic flair and bravura that would make Señor Dali look like a square. I call up her spending hours using different multi-coloured bits of plasticine to make eerily lifelike copies of different kinds of flowers; she'd put them in pots, and everyone, including me, would have to approach and touch them only to check when told they weren't real.
However despite these talents, she chose to devote the majority of her life and time to my sister and me.
Trust me, my mum would accept been the greatest president this country has ever seen.
Anybody thinks their mum'due south cooking is better than anyone else'south, and I'chiliad no different. But in my case, I might exist correct. Even outside the family, her culinary masterpieces are well-known, and guests coming to our business firm for dinner parties would actually brand special requests.
However, for me, my mum's culinary meisterwerk remains her seemingly mundane, but in reality heavenly, omelettes with melted cheese. She seems to call up this is the reply to everything: sadness, tiredness, you name it (and, of course, she'due south right). She learnt from the best, here: my maternal grandma had a variant of this using French chips and sausages. Carnage. Needless to say, this sleepless kid would slumber similar a baby after having one of these bad boys.
This year, I also deliberately forgot Female parent's Day. They say the all-time kind of gift is 1 you make yourself, so I'1000 dedicating this column to my mum, for all the desperation she went through to bring me up, and all the desperation she still has to go through.
It's a poor excuse for a gift: no gift will be enough to repay her; merely God can do that.
Then, and without further ado, Happy (somewhat late) Mother's Twenty-four hours, mum.
Your loving son,
Ahmed.
Source: https://dailynewsegypt.com/2013/03/24/thats-not-your-mother-its-a-man-baby/
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