A TRIBUTE TO MY MOTHER

On Mother’s Day May 10^th, 2020, my beloved mother died after a short battle with ovarian cancer. She was 77 years old. She had 38 children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren; and she’s survived by 36. She died at home surrounded by most of her children, grand-children, and daughters-in-law. The room was so packed with her loving family. It was her wish to die, quickly, at home surrounded by her children and lots of prayers. And for that we are grateful. She was graceful and died with peace and love in her heart. Our hearts are full of sadness and our tears are still wet, but we are joyful that she didn’t suffer for too long. Her final hours on this earth were graced with calm, love, and prayer that sealed her well-lived and eventful life. This is part of her story.

Amina Khelah, my sweet mother, was born in Yafa, Palestine in 1943. She was five years old when she and her family were displaced as a result of the 1948 Israeli-Arab war. She became an internal refugee and settled with the Khelah clan in Gaza. She married my father when she was sixteen years old and my father was twenty-one. My mother was so beautiful on the inside and outside.

Her warm, loving womb gave life to ten children: she raised nine who survived her and buried one when he was a baby. She did not dwell on his death but accepted it with her big heart and unshakable faith. The few times she talked about him if you heard her, you would think it was her only child; her eyes would moisten and she would say God gave me so much more than he took from me, and I am so grateful, Alhamdullilah (praise be to God). Such was her love to all her children and her God.

Her unwavering faith and love for her children defined her existence. She was so dedicated to two things that mattered the most to her being and purpose in life: motherhood and faith. Her generosity and compassion went beyond her immediate, big, demanding family. My mother did not talk too much about giving and being kind to the poor, she practiced it and lived it. Both my parents were extremely generous people. We were fortunate that we always had more than enough.

When I was in grade school, my mother would fill a basket of soap, detergent, and other cleaning supplies and she would send us to give to the Bedouins who lived around the town, in the desert of Arabia, in their black-wool tents. She would say they need these things; they are poor, and their kids are not clean and dressed like you and your siblings. She was very proud of that: she always made sure we were nicely dressed, well-fed, and cared for. Sometimes she would send us with flour and sugar and tea. She also adopted two Bedouin families. Two poor, old, ragged-looking women would come once a month to our house. They were not easy on the eyes or the nose. They would sit in the yard and socialize with my mother. I was intrigued by their presence. They talked non-stop and complained about their miserable lives, and my mother just listened. My mother never shunned them or spoke ill of them, she just loaded them with as much clothes and food as they could carry on their backs and sent them on their way with a smile and a prayer. And she always gave them some money. They came to our house for years until they didn’t. My mother said they both died.

My happiest childhood memories are the smells of my mother’s cooking. She cooked all the time, good, nutritious, and delicious meals for us. The aroma and spices from our house always warmed my heart and filled my stomach with mother’s cooking and love. My mother prayed a lot and enjoyed reading the Qur’an. She baked often and made wool sweaters for us every winter. She was a very giving and resourceful woman.

My mother had only four years of formal education when she was a child. She couldn’t read the Qur’an very well and that always bothered her. There was also another motivation, dad was a better reader, and she didn’t like that. She went back to adult school when I was in seventh grade. She was accepted to fifth grade. Before she left to school for the day, she made sure we were well-fed and had started our homework. She was an excellent student and took school very seriously. I remember asking her if she needed help, but I don’t remember helping her. She completed sixth grade, and oh she was so proud. Now she could read the Qur’an so much better, maybe even better than dad. And that made her happy. She was disappointed that she couldn’t continue past sixth grade as adult evening school was not available for her age.

I have been thinking a lot about my mother’s legacy and how she lived her life. Her legacy is her children. The twins were her last blessings and God’s generosity my mother would say. My beloved siblings are kind, generous, and loyal. They would give you the shirt on their backs if you asked for it. They are solid people. I am so proud of who they are! They have mom’s goodness and dad’s generosity. And I love them so much. They are my mother and father who I can still hug and hear - for her young and beautiful voice I can no longer hear. My mother's voice was always soft and young, even when she was very old. It never changed. If you heard her voice over the phone, you would think she was a very young woman. I told mom before her final hours with us, that if she only had one child and raised that one, just one of my siblings, anyone one of them, the heavens will be delighted to receive her soul. She blinked with joy, but could not talk. She was a believer.

When my mother was diagnosed with advanced ovarian cancer, she received the news with acceptance and grace. I was not surprised. No one was surprised. This was the symphony of her life: accepting whatever came along with grit and patience. Her faith was unshaken and her commitment to her God was real and profound. She was not angry or disappointed. She said I raised you all to be good people. I am so fortunate. I don’t have anything else left to do. And I never had to bury more than one child. She told my brother Mohammed, “I used to cry often at night when you were all small. I prayed that I live long enough to raise all of you.” I think her mother died when she was young. Her prayers were answered: The babies of the family, the twins, are now thirty-nine years old. She was blessed and she’ll always be a blessing.

The warm, loving womb that gave so much life, was the one that took her life - overwhelmed with toil and cancer in a final celebration of her love and the ultimate sacrifice of her life on Mother's Day. I love you mom!

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Waves

By Zach Khelah (grandson)

At first heavy waves roll in

They’re so close it feels like I’m drownin’

I saw her when the last breath left

            “There’s nothing”

Simultaneously, all hearts in two were cleft

Another wave crashes down

The pressure is crushingly unbound

We prayed over her body

“Inshallah she has moved on”

We took turns piling dirt gravely

Eventually, a little bit of light in the darkness

But it is quickly snuffed by the cold hardness

“We do this for reward, not for show.”

With heavy hearts and heads I ask: “Who was she?”

They chime in all at once in a cacophonous swirl

A girl forced from her home

A mother of 9

A matriarch of the poor

A widower

A refugee

A lover

A person who wept in the middle of the night because she feared of what would happen if her husband died prematurely

A traveler

A Muslim

A chef

A pilgrim

A mother who loves so generously that each child was thought to be her only one because each exuded enough love for her to cleanse the deepest wells of grief

As the waves settle

More light shines through

I wish I could have better known you

But I do know you were as tough as metal

And so, we kiss your soul goodbye

May we see you another day when spirits are high

And the Angels fly

As they bring us all home again