I don't know how to begin this post. All I can think of in this late hour is how my family never talked about the pains it suffered. I remember my grandmother once talk about my grandfather, how he would show his affection in public; when in a company friends and strangers, my grandfather supposedly did not shy away from kissing my grandmother. But when it came to the display of sorrow, my grandfather hid it all well. It all makes sense now as I think about my mother. Many of her friends who came to pay their respect told me how she always said, "Everything is alright" and never talk about her illness. To this day, there are still few individuals I work with who do not know that my mother passed away less than two weeks ago.
A good friend told me how when she lost someone close to her, she "had to recognize that people are monstrously uncomfortable in the face of someone else's loss". I could not have said it any better. Her words made me realize how, consciously or subconsciously, I suppress the subjects of pain and suffering during conversations, leaving them to some poorly rhymed poetry on some depressing night. While writing words of condolence, another friend wrote me, "I would encourage you to talk about your mom as this is part of the healing process."
Pour me a cup of tea (or pint of guinness) and I will tell you my favorite stories about Genghis Khan. But ask me to talk about my inner feelings, I will stutter and be at loss of words. I find myself staring into an empty space, thinking about what I could have done differently. Losing once mother makes you think about your life: mistakes you made, bad choice of words or tone of voice, the stubbornness. Only after she died do I realize how unconditional her love was.
One of the things my mother said to us, to my brother and I when we fought, is how there were only two of us in the world; we were the only once who could help each other. She did everything to keep us together, even when we strived to go our separate ways. In the end, it was my brother who helped me in the immediate hours of my mother's passing; my younger brother was the stronger of the two of us.
An incident from my childhood comes to my mind as I write this post. Back in Summer of 1995, when the war was ravaging the countryside and cities were under curfew, I used to open my shop in my neighborhood. We used to live on a street behind the teahouse "Saodat" the one that still stands in front of "Tojikmatlubot" in Dushanbe. There, every evening at 5 o'clock (or 17:00 by local standards), I would open the gates of our house and wheel out the table of my wares: gum and candy for kids, cigarettes and beer for adults. By middle of the summer, we were running a restaurant; my mother was the cook, my brother the shopkeeper (and first financier), and I was always running like a headless chicken, yelling with teary eyes that were calmed only at the end of the night when my fingers counted the stack of rubles and few dollar bills.
Once a car stopped by my shop and a bodyguard of some local big shot came out and walked to my table. He took out a single cigarette from the pack and as he was about to go back I asked him for money. In my country, you can often buy cigarettes one at a time, instead of the whole pack of twenty; if a pack is 10 rubles, you can sell it for 20 one cigarette at a time but at a slower pace. Anyway, this tough guy did not want to pay for a cigarette, and me, a stupid 13 year old got into a fight with him about it. I didn't really fight, I just stubbornly insisted that he pay. He in his turn pushed me aside, and why not, there was a war going on. But while I was arguing, someone called my mother who was at our neighbor's few houses away. As she came out of the door, she saw me being pushed by this tall square in a suit, and she bolted to my defense. She shamed him for being so cheap and picking on me, for this she was hit with a butt of a gun on her head. My mother fell on the ground, blood everywhere, cries, anger...the end of this story is irrelevant at this time. What matters is what my mother did afterward.
She brought us to America. That incident was the last straw. So she packed and left, leaving her own mother and siblings, her friends, or whatever left of them as many perished in war, and brought two of her sons to the safety of this country, to New York City. Last time she worked was in late 2011. Until then, since the first day of our arrival in Summer of 1997, she worked hard to support us; even when we were able to stand on our own, when we were all "grown up" and had jobs and families of our own, she still worked. There was not a single day that she did not think of us. My mother never talked about her pains, neither to her friends, nor to us. Of course we were always there, but she denied the fact that she was ill and progressively getting worse, and always kept optimistic appearance. Many of her friends were shocked to find out that she was diagnosed with cancer eight years ago; many of my own friends who met my mother never thought she was ill.
My mother was born on March 10, 1958 in Dushanbe. She was first daughter, but third child of five. Her father's name was Ziyojon and her mother's name is Sayora. She had two sons, and two grandchildren. Her name was Gulnar, which translates as "pomegranate's flower"--a symbol of life.
She died on October 22, 2013 in her sleep at home. Next day, she was laid to rest in Green-Wood Cemetery. Everything was very sudden, even though we expected this day to come. No matter how much you know, you can never be prepared for such a day.
I do not know what else to write. I just want to thank everyone for showing their support. For your kind words, for your moral and financial support; for doing so much, more than I expected. There are people who came to pay their respects even though they only met my mother once; and then there were those for whom my mother's passing was our first occasion to meet. Thank you for being there for me.
